Ryker wasn’t here for the fascinating conversation. If he wanted to talk his brains out, he’d seek out the one fucktard famous for running his mouth. Not that he’d call Marcus that to his face, but the guy loved the sound of his own voice. So much so, Ryker might have recommended he run his mouth next time he wanted to torture prisoners for information. It’d be far more efficient than the waterboarding.
He came to Kallisti to enjoy being pawed at, and Ryker expected they send their best. As he looked around, he anticipated the girls would be classier. He watched some bimbo in pink prance around a couple at a nearby table about as enthusiastic as a pcp-crazed puppy. In contrast, a fiery redhead rounded his shoulders, her feathers tickling the back of his neck as she did. The drink was met with barely an examination before he put it to his lips. He wasn’t a snob when it came to his vodka, so long as it got him drunk, but when it came to his women, he was particularly choosy.
Which was why he studied the girl that joined him with as much scrutiny as selecting his favorite sidearm. In the end, they all served the same purpose, but he did have his preferences. She’d do, he decided and watched her sit.
The opening question took him off guard, but he responded almost immediately. His accent was Eastern Ukrainian, though he spoke English like a native. Hell, he masqueraded successfully as an American for half a dozen missions abroad. Between the skill and his charmingly blonde hair and blue eyes, he was a perfect choice for those assignments. “I am Basil the Great. I am above that bullshit. But you asked, so tell me which sin is your favorite, and I’ll think of an appropriate penance to absolve you.” Ryker’s expression was deadly serious. There was no smirk tugging his lips; no gleam buried in the scarred webbing of his eyes.
He came to Kallisti to enjoy being pawed at, and Ryker expected they send their best. As he looked around, he anticipated the girls would be classier. He watched some bimbo in pink prance around a couple at a nearby table about as enthusiastic as a pcp-crazed puppy. In contrast, a fiery redhead rounded his shoulders, her feathers tickling the back of his neck as she did. The drink was met with barely an examination before he put it to his lips. He wasn’t a snob when it came to his vodka, so long as it got him drunk, but when it came to his women, he was particularly choosy.
Which was why he studied the girl that joined him with as much scrutiny as selecting his favorite sidearm. In the end, they all served the same purpose, but he did have his preferences. She’d do, he decided and watched her sit.
The opening question took him off guard, but he responded almost immediately. His accent was Eastern Ukrainian, though he spoke English like a native. Hell, he masqueraded successfully as an American for half a dozen missions abroad. Between the skill and his charmingly blonde hair and blue eyes, he was a perfect choice for those assignments. “I am Basil the Great. I am above that bullshit. But you asked, so tell me which sin is your favorite, and I’ll think of an appropriate penance to absolve you.” Ryker’s expression was deadly serious. There was no smirk tugging his lips; no gleam buried in the scarred webbing of his eyes.