Kris paused mid wire-twist and craned his neck to peer at the girl who was talking to him once again. "I'm not sure what's more worthy of concern," he started. "The fact that you know what piss tastes like, the fact that you seem to think you know how I should feel about the flavor or the fact that you're incessantly pestering a guy who's working with live wires," he finished, craning his head back around to get back to work. This was more important than verbally sparring with some argumentative chick who had no clue what he was doing anyway.
Except she wasn't finished yet. Kris probably could have answered the question in long-form without batting an eyelash, but frankly, he was intrigued to see how much longer she was willing to keep bothering him. Why? He didn't know. Especially considering, like he'd been thinking before, he was messing with live wires here. "Twisting wires. Why, what are you doing, other than sitting here and trying to make me electrocute myself?" It wasn't the most mature route he could have taken, no. But he was running on three or so days without sleep and nothing but expired Red Bull (and the occasional Powerbar) sustaining him. In his own mind, he was certainly entitled a little crankiness.