it's not your fault that you're always wrong
”You’re really sellin’ the place to me, love,” Jack murmured around his cigarette, smirking across at her. Grey and broken and bland - the Hollowed Ground sounded like the place to be - not. Still, home was home and he could understand that much at least. ”Might be a shit hole, but its yours, no?” he guessed, straightening up from the railing and turning to gaze back out at the specks of flame along the beach, the parties in the dark.
He laughed, too, at her description. ”A vacation? You ain’t seen the best bits of Torchline then, clearly,” he said. ”Place has got a pretty dirty underbelly. I’ll show you some time after the sun rises, if you like.” Probably not an offer she’d want to take up, but then Jack didn’t know if he was even serious about it. ”Unless you’ll be skipping off through the portal right away.”
He laughed, too, at her description. ”A vacation? You ain’t seen the best bits of Torchline then, clearly,” he said. ”Place has got a pretty dirty underbelly. I’ll show you some time after the sun rises, if you like.” Probably not an offer she’d want to take up, but then Jack didn’t know if he was even serious about it. ”Unless you’ll be skipping off through the portal right away.”
