The boy clicked his tongue when she brought up his own involvement. It wasn’t a happy thing to think about, and the more he dwelled on it, the more it did seem cowardly. He tried to justify it to himself, but the closest he could come to softening the self-inflicted blow was recalling what Tachibana had said about them having no chance. There was a chance she was wrong, but there’d be just as big of one that she was right.
He sighed and tapped on the countertop, a wordless signal for a drink. He liked the bar. It was swanky and earthy, all glossy dark rosewood and even tones, a place where you could imagine serious people with serious problems downing serious drinks and nursing their serious drinking problems. Kiriko could belong there, in one of those classically sexy evening dresses, but her robe and the fact that the bar took up only a sixth of a room dominated mostly by a massive television and other such things really hurt the atmosphere.
“Half the stupid team was with us,” he said, the confidence that had been in his voice moments earlier evaporated, “and it wasn’t a cowardly thing to do. We had no chance, and when you look at it that way, no choice. When you’re the one staring down the barrel of a gun in the hands of someone who you know will use it, you can either be a brave dipshit who throws his life away, or you can give in to their demands and live with it, or at least live with it until a chance to fuck the stupid bastard sideways presents itself to you.”