[i]Well, this was new.[/i] Whenever Ezra brought up the subject of his family name, there was usually a spark of recognition; a turning of gears as they came to realise just who he was. The Pinkertons were often said to be up there with the Waltons and the Kochs, having dominated the US shipping industry since the early 20s, and to put it gently - you had to be living under a rock to not have heard of them. Today, however, it seemed as if he had finally encountered an exception to the rule. Whether or not he was pleased by the peculiar turn of events, Ezra couldn’t tell, but it was certainly a refreshing deviation from the norm.

“[i]Was[/i] rich, and none taken. They’re all a bunch of douchebags, anyway.” Ezra wasn’t so petty as to take an offhanded comment like that to heart. Growing up, he’d always been taught to have thick skin, and to take things with a grain of salt. Sticks and stones, right? Not like it was much help to him when he was in one of his “moods”, but right now, for lack of a better term, he was too out of it to get into it. The drugs they gave him in Remmington’s were good for one thing, he supposed - keeping those nasty, raging emotions at bay. “Eight months, huh? I’ve been here a little longer. …[i]I think[/i].” 

And then, there was the downside. With the chemical cocktail of pills and injections given to him, Ezra could barely remember what he had for breakfast, let alone how much time he’d spent at Remmington’s. But if he had to decide on a certain timeframe, it’d be somewhere close to a year, give or take. Though with his addled mind, he couldn’t be sure. Those trips to the [i]‘shock shop’[/i] in the beginning of January must’ve taken more out of him than he’d thought.

Tentatively, Ezra’s gaze flickered upwards, towards the spiky, purple mess sitting atop Alytra’s head. As he spoke, his fingers finally found purchase, tearing away the flaking piece of skin from his lip. “They let you keep your hair like that?”