"Fuck that and fuck you, dude," she snaps. "That's a terrible idea. Sit your ass dow- no, wait, don't do that, just. Lean against the wall or something."

And then she flounders, because - she fucking sucks at pacifying. She's better than she used to be, at least: how many sweeps has it been since she marked up his face in one of her snitfits? But as far as bars go, 'no longer a risk of physical maiming' is a pretty low, shitty one for diamonds.

But she can't succeed if she doesn't try, and he does need to cool it with the lightshow. Sparky psionics are the ones that end up in kids bootlegged ships, or dead because some dumb finface thinks eating a psionic brain will get them powers.

"Midbloods parties suck, anyway." She leans forward on the nutrition mesa, raps her claws against the edges. "They're always so fucking cold. Iunno why you're constantly shilling for them, anyway."

"You're the one that told me -" How did he phrase it? Oh, right. Their pitches aren't too different, when it comes down to it, but she exaggerates her words, stretches the vowels until it matches his fakey-fake highblood cadence. "Midbloods are acceptable, not good. And most of them are barely that. Why, and heavens strike me if I am wrong, once I saw a teal wearing surplus goods--"