at him, sees he's serious, "Not much."
"Ever had breakfast with one?"
Oddly, Karl isn't made uncomfortable by the question. "Not when I had a choice."
"Well, we're making progress, then, aren't we? Maybe racial harmony is within our grasp after all, huh?" Villar taps with nervous fingers on the counter. "I didn't think much of you either."
Thinking of the reception he got a week ago, Karl smiles, "No kidding."
Villar grimaces, tugs at the neck of his vest to work it down from where it's ridden up, something he does all the time without realizing it, Karl notices. He raises his cup to drink, "You know you're dead."
Karl tastes his coffee, mug feeling good in his hand after the ersatz crap he's swilled out of foam for a week. Bitter, hot, the way he brews it at home. "I didn't plant it."
Villar looks tired in torn tunic, blood and a slash of black grime over one eye. "Didn't say you did. They don't care about the bomb. By the time they get done they'll make money on it. It's the organs. Those i