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"Pretty sure we all are," said Taym flatly, with a mute nod of thanks. "Paying for it, I mean, even if we aren't all getting shot yet. And there's that about Caelius," he added, quiet. "And about this entire ******** division. s**t comes in, nothing gets out. Pretty sure it's just a question of finding the right people to ask, but ******** if I know who those people are, yet. Gonna be you, one day?" he added, and somehow Taym did faintly mocking without any malice behind it. Maybe it was the vodka.

The good humor drained out of him, and it was replaced, not with antagonism, but with a sort of resigned exhaustion. If he was feeling the alcohol at all, it wasn't showing. He seemed much the same as he ever did, not that Kostya had an extensive experience with him.

"Just because I have my complaints doesn't mean I want out. Pretty sure they stuck me here for a reason. Anyway," he added, sarcastic and biting, "be the change you want to see in the world, or something. I'm working on it," he said, half a lie, half a truth. He wasn't even sure what "working on it" meant. "Just--commiserating with you. Not like they could put me anywhere else," he pointed out, a trace of bitterness in it.

The idea of Taym in Sun on the frontlines didn't hold up to even cursory examination; he lacked the flexibility and had too much obsessive focus for Mist. His hands would have had him chased out of the labs within seconds even if he had the temperament for it, and Moon--well. Even putting aside the same issues that made him an ill fit for Sun, the word "altruistic" didn't exactly fit around Taym's personality snugly. Or so he felt, and was sure others did. He often suspected he'd ended up in Death by process of elimination, even if a certain instinct for trouble and a slippery talent for stealth and a long, thorough resume of convincingly packaging falsehoods into watertight and believable alibis--talents he would deny having--suggested it was more of an active decision.

He waved his hand dismissively, as if Kostya's apology were a fly to be shooed away. "Nothing to ********' say sorry for," he said. "And yeah, I don't ******** know. The sorting process seems horribly ******** arbitrary. They stick Bertrand in Moon, god knows why--and is he seriously in Life? Potato, I mean." He had not known this. Somehow the thought that Robert was in Life and Taym wasn't was deeply painful, even though Taym had spent most of his time inventing reasons to look down his nose at that particular division anyway.

He shifted uncomfortably, abruptly aware that perhaps he was not being the best possible representative to assure Kostya that his decision had been made wisely.

"We do important ******** work I'm sure," he decided, sounding like he was convincing himself. "We just got someone batshit at the helm. Everyone at the helm here is batshit, so that's OK. What kind of s**t do you read, Bashmet?" The question was abrupt, lacking in segue, graceless. He didn't seem to notice.