[Coward or foolish or reformed or whatever it is that Byerly Rutyer is now (she would be hard pressed to name exactly what that is if pressed to), she still can't help but think of the thing he'd once told her a long, long time ago now. That eventually the war will be over, and that what happens to Rifters after it will be wholly determined by the friends they make today and how useful they've become.

Not that there seems to be any imminent risk of peace, of course. But still—in hours like this one, the irritating specter of that thread lingers in the room as palpably as the smoke from Mister Dickerson's veritable elfroot cheroot does.]

Because this seems like exactly the sort of thing you wished to avoid when I suggested we make a conversation of our work. I know you to be selective when it comes to having your— interests known.