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Kitchens were like quiet streets and parks after dark; they were like run-down apartments that smelled like pot smoke and the moldy decay of the power having been turned off long ago. All places of intense familiarity, of a small level of nerve-soothing comfort. On the occasions Taym cleaned himself up and attempted to chip through the weeks, holding down work, it was nearly always by drifting from restaurant to restaurant. The restaurant industry was full of people like him, and he spoke the language. Spoke it too well, usually--ended up in places swankier than he was worth working at, or else in dives where his sneering disregard for the menu wore nerves thin almost as fast as his bad habits and unreliability.

The Deus kitchens weren't swanky at the best of times, and with the power out this was doubly true. No one was going to witness Taym's impressive knife skills or somewhat stomach-turning ability to break down a chicken into component parts in a couple of tense and busy minutes. Everyone was eating out of packets and, if they were lucky, the occasional can--but dishes piled up.

This was the sort of duty roster that came down to groups, and, dreading the inevitable expectation of polite socialization, he'd showed up early. He'd rather do it by himself and alone and give some lucky stranger an extra hour off than subject himself to another stupid round of "hey, you're new" small talk. In consequence, by the time he was supposed to be joined in the drudgery, he'd mowed through most of the prior shift's dishes. There was plenty left to do: surfaces to wipe down, plates to stack, garbage (an endless succession of brown MRE wrappers) to be gathered up and disposed of. But as he paused, breathing in the small comfort of familiar surroundings and stepping aside to lean against the wall and check his message-less phone, he hoped that whatever a*****e was supposed to show up to help would be at least somewhat grateful for the minimized to-do list.

He jumped, phone returned almost instantly to his pocket with the guilty instinct of old habit, before he remembered where he was and that he wasn't sneaking texts to girls between rounds at the sink, and that the person interrupting him wasn't the shift leader.

No. Worse. He realized who'd just addressed him and instantly cooled, fixing him with a detached, faintly-disgusted stare before moving to resume his work, coughing into his shoulder.

"I can finish it too," he said. "Enjoy your day off. You can spend--" he didn't finish, biting down on the comment. Every subsequent encounter with Rep had the effect of causing him further associative disgust with Jordan.

He wondered if he would ever stop finding it deeply unsettling when Hunters casually discussed their weapons as anything other than running commentary--as voices contributing to the conversation. He'd known an old woman who carried a doll, and had occasionally and alarmingly and casually referred to what "she" thought about something. The memory made him sick in the way that only intensely sad thoughts do, and it cropped up every time this situation arose, even though he knew the comparison was irrational. It also had the effect of making him uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was sharing headspace with someone who was on some level perceptive of her surroundings.

Does it bother you? he demanded.

Characteristically, he received only silence, and the silence had the last-straw effect of destroying his calm. He leaned one hand on the edge of the sink, brought the other up to cradle his forehead, a sudden movement of exhaustion.

"I'm glad someone ******** appreciates it," he said without moving. And then: "Belated thanks for stepping in on your girlfriend's murderous rampage, by the way."

With a sudden, meaningless movement of his hands, Taym went back to work. "If he doesn't want people hitting sore spots, maybe he shouldn't get invade their space and offer up a string of crass insults," he suggested, his voice as tense as the rigid line of his shoulders under his threadbare shirt. "Leash your ******** dogs or they're liable to bark at the wrong person." It wasn't a threat--what threat could Taym possibly be to Rep or to Jordan?--and didn't try to be. It was a snipey, bitchy lashing out, a vent for his irritation.

"He's just bored and stressed," he repeated mockingly, with a humorless little bark of a laugh, "so he picks fights and threatens murder and destroys private property. What a charmer. I can definitely see why he swept you off your ********' feet. Between that and the smell." He hesitated, obviously on the brink of something else, but it never arrived. He was attacking the dishes like they owed him money. Instead, he said: "I'm damn sure not expecting an apology from him. Or you."

There it was again: the wave of tiredness rising up under his voice. It made him sound less like the Taym Jordan had met in the labs, more like the exhausted Amity. Rep might have thrived on conflict and found it invigorating, but the constant tension and aggression and posturing were wearing Taym thin. Or, well. Thinner. It was not a state he was used to sustaining outside of short bursts.

"Is there ever a good time?" A pause: "Honest question. Is there ever a good time?" Thick with sarcasm, the question landed, nonetheless, with sincerity. That much was obvious because it was clear that it was a struggle to ask it. His voice strained around it because it was an indicator of vulnerability, but Jordan was refusing to rise to the bait of stray-dog circling that Rep was so eager to jump on, so he asked it anyway.

It was a stupid question, in a way. Taym surely had known what he was signing up for when he did it.

The thought of sharing a bunker with these people made Taym's skin crawl. Given the impressions he'd already informed of the Island inhabitants, he imagined it would be equal parts people attempting to sneak into one another's beds, aggressive stand-offs over floor space, and Jerry's manic serenading to undercut everything with an appropriately insane soundtrack.

"Must have been hell on everyone's domestic bliss," he said, but the snap had no enthusiasm in it. He was snarling out of habit. Sink emptied, he yanked the plug with the violence of garotting someone and raked his wet hands through his hair, shoving it back. One day someone--a girl, preferably--really needed to tell him not to do that. It only made the skeletal outlines of his forehead the more prominent.

He moved on to drying and his hands were deft and quick and experienced and, today, not shaking. He still refused to even look in Jordan's direction. After the constant staring contests he felt obligated to have with Rep, this was a relief.

Jordan wasn't privy to the train of thought that led from bunkers to the next statement, and so it seemed a bit sudden: "Everyone here's got too much free time. You and me and everyone else." Not that they had much free time, especially now, but clearly Taym had stricter standards than most people. Any free time was too much time for him. He'd forgotten how to fill it up, without his usual vices to fall back on. Forgotten how to form actual relationships with people, forgotten how to be idle, forgotten how to navigate a social hierarchy. All he remembered was how to work.

It was--compelling, was the word he wanted to use; it was appealing, having a conversation. Even with someone like Jordan. Rep knew his secrets and maybe he'd told Jordan and maybe he hadn't, and maybe Jordan just assumed like Rep had, but coming here free of the labels he'd been carrying for years had made him taste what it was to be treated as something approaching human again. Someone worth having small talk with. But Jordan was Jordan: Taym had plenty of reasons to hate him. Just as many to hate him as he did to appreciate the fact that he was friendly, and calm, and neutral. So Taym ended up chasing every sentence with low-level aggression, tempering every foray into social interaction with sarcasm. No wonder he was tired.

And Jordan was right. So he dressed up the conversation, if you could call it that, as more ranting.

"Seventy ******** days, give or take, and not even a whisper of when I can stretch my ********' legs. Everything's in finite ********' supply here, patience included. Shrewd ********' business plan your girlfriend's got. Surprised it hasn't occurred to more people. I'm afraid to ask what else is being used as currency." He punctuated that with a twist of his lip.