Well, of course. But I said I'd help you. What else do you want to do here? I said I would help you with the maps, so tell me how I can help you with the maps.
[The annoyance spikes when the rolled up map hits him on the head. Curiously, it dissipates halfway after that as if to power the frown that creases his face.]
How many times do I have to say it? . . . The maps aren't the problem.
[And a laugh. There's a spark of joy, almost childlike, that comes from Hansa, like a kid who just discovered a gold coin shining at the bottom of a deep dark hole.]
I kid, I kid. I mean, I know what you do, and what you're like. But stuff like...what you like to do outside of your job, or your favorite color, or if you think mustard is better than ketchup. Simple stuff like that tells a lot about a person.
[Like a snake, hot fury snaps forward and cracks the surface of calm. Impressively, Rufus doesn't let it show on his face. The kettle is past the boiling point, but he forces the lid taut over it.]
[This is more than he's gotten out of Rufus over the past two weeks, so he knows this isn't something to just shake the man over to give up all his secrets.]
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Then we just fill in the blanks for some, decipher the others, and figure it out. Like a puzzle, right?
[he's a jock taking on something nerdy don't listen to him]
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Weren't you the one who said that the maps might be false? Moreover, I don't need one to know the area.
[He can explore and memorize the port town's layout for himself.]
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Well, of course. But I said I'd help you. What else do you want to do here? I said I would help you with the maps, so tell me how I can help you with the maps.
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I don't need help with the maps . . .
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[Just going to pluck a map to look over it, casually.]
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[Finally, a spike of mischieviousness comes ahead, and he suddenly rolls up the map to bonk Rufus in the head with it.]
You have a mouth, man. Explain yourself. Why are you feeling this way? Come on.
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How many times do I have to say it? . . . The maps aren't the problem.
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Is something else on your mind, then?
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What you said last time . . .
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[Wait. Last time?]
When I said I wanted to get to know you and not use you as a vending machine?
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There's a brief moment of silence before something clamps down on his reluctance and he brushes aside the looming frustration to ask:]
What do you want to know?
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[And a laugh. There's a spark of joy, almost childlike, that comes from Hansa, like a kid who just discovered a gold coin shining at the bottom of a deep dark hole.]
I kid, I kid. I mean, I know what you do, and what you're like. But stuff like...what you like to do outside of your job, or your favorite color, or if you think mustard is better than ketchup. Simple stuff like that tells a lot about a person.
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Unease creeps in, but something else—something colder—hardens around it as he answers:]
The last time I was between jobs . . . I went to my house and sat in the dark.
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[Did he just...not think of things to do?]
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Lighting the house also costs money.
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[Something more serious settles over Hansa's face, like a curtain.]
Rufus...how much debt are you in?
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. . . Pretty soon, it won't matter.
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What does that mean? Are you going to pay it off?
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[Perhaps Hansa's calm is what's keeping the lid that much more secure. Normally, it would've blown over by now. Or . . .
It's hot, but frigid at once.]
I saw what my collector did behind my back, and I intend to collect.
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[Centuries? A bit of simmering confusion, but he lets it subside, only to be replaced by something more cold. Like a wolf, grinning.]
So he misused your trust? Ha. What a foolish thing to do. What did he do, exactly?
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I don't want to talk about it.
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[This is more than he's gotten out of Rufus over the past two weeks, so he knows this isn't something to just shake the man over to give up all his secrets.]
Anyways, are you going to kill him?
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