[hr][hr][color=#cc66ff][center][h1]Tryke Lockley[/h1][/center][/color][hr][center]Location: The Commissary[/center][hr][hr]Despite all of the kindness of Marx's offer, to Tryke, it was as if asked her if she wanted to go put screws in her eyes and see how long it took for them to cause an incurable infection. Grimacing a bit, she weighed her options meticulously. She [i]could[/i] go back to fix the thousandth problem of the tower. However, from how the day was going, she'd likely be asked to fix another wall that Tristan trashed. 

But then again, she loathed newcomers and sitting around. Both were her own special version of hell. The question, then, became which was worst -- the devil or hell? Huffing a bit, Tryke eyed Marx again. 

Hell it is.

[color=cc66ff]"Sure,"[/color] she said curtly, holding back her tongue. She joined him in the commissary, refusing to take his elbow. She didn't need anyone's help with just [i]walking.[/i] While other girls, perhaps forensic techs thousands of years ago, might have been giddy over receiving the arm of a man, it only irritated Tryke. 

[color=cc66ff]"What did you want to [i]gab[/i] about?"[/color] Tryke asked, a bit stiffly. She couldn't deny that she herself was hungry, and Marx didn't seem to be an entirely awful person. Her wariness of him ebbed slowly, the longer she interacted with him without having to stop him from blowing something up. That was always a plus.