“Mmhm.” Passive agreement with that ultimatum sounds a lot like condescension in the drizzle; the man in black sniffs, left hand at his hip.

“Jism,” is the answer, of course, deadpan delivery at Teddy’s expense. There’s no venom in it -- no heat; he could be pointing out something stuck in his perfect robot teeth for all the difference it makes to his engagement. His smile is barely there, crooked, self-satisfaction sodden with resignation. He’s the only one liable to see the real humor.

“It’s a metaphor, Theodore. Don’t worry yourself.”

He drops his right hand back down to his side, unguarded. Apathetic, even.

“Keep inviting people on the street to stop you breathing and you’ll figure it out soon enough.”