She has a lot of knowledge? Is that why she thinks she knows better than that black stuff that killed us?

[ The opinion that Yuca holds for her is — heedless of what she can offer, really. He hates her, automatically and without hesitation. How dare she pull him ( anyone ) from Oblivion and force them to carry on for some goal she embodies. A future? A new world? There's no reason for it. There's not even a scrap of respect for her in him, just loathing. Bitter and exhausted.

Outwardly, he wraps himself around the image of a lost child. A precocious eleven-year-old with skinny limbs and a well-tailored outfit that marks him as, perhaps to someone like Silco, of an upper echelon. He's dirty all the same, bloodied around the knees and shins, and hasn't complained even once about being in pain. Not like he really feels much, with his nerves gone dead and useless over time.

More importantly, he perks up a little at a particular set of words. Curious and eager, as he leans forward a little in his seat, hands still holding the cup. ]

"Work"? What kind of work do you mean?

[ The man with the cigar is skeevy enough, and has cruel eyes. Silco reminds him of Dora, in a way. Hungry for something. ]