"Lurking," Dominic responded, not a hint of a smile on his face. "But I could ask you the same question." He crossed his arms, feeling the fabric of his shirt tug gently across his shoulders. He missed his suits.
He'd considered raiding the vast wardrobes, back when he'd first been ... released. The clothes he'd been wearing (Armani, hand-tailored, cost him half a year's salary. A bit of vanity was expected in the Dollhouse) had been destroyed, thrown away in favor of the more economic jersey knit and sweatpants all Actives wore. But somehow raiding the closets had felt like robbing clothes from a dead man, and so he stuck with the sweats. The soft, stretchy fabric of the Active-wear seemed somehow inappropriate: too relaxed, to blank, for the reality of the Dollhouse, and the juxtaposition sent a shiver up his spine. At least he had his gun back.
He gave Kilo the once over. She looked more startled than nervous, entering the room with the awkward presence of someone recently woken from sleep. Maybe he'd give her the benefit of the doubt; perhaps she'd been sleep walking. Or maybe not. He noticed that she'd abandoned the object she'd been holding, though whether she'd dropped it or tucked it in her pocket, he couldn't tell. Oh well. He didn't like her that much.