Finding the Line

July 26, 2018:

Kinsey Sheridan confronts Jessica Jones about her recent forays as a Brotherhood sympathizer.

Danny Rand's Place

It's so big!


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Matt Murdock, Danny Rand, Luke Cage, Tony Stark, Quicksilver, Scarlet Witch, Frenzy

Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

When she's not out working, Jessica Jones gravitates to the 'public' areas of the house Danny Rand has made available to so many homeless and displaced Defenders. The truth is she's been lonely for a really long time, and the same instinct that had her circulating between friend's couches last year has her being more social than anyone might give her credit for at Danny's this year.

Of course, in such a giant estate, with everyone busy, this can still mean being functionally alone.

She sits in the living room, sprawled on the floor at the coffee table with a big can of Red Bull beside her. Half a dozen photos are lined up there, printed digital photos, and she's typing away on a holographic keyboard courtesy of her Stark phone, on a holographic large monitor word processing program, courtesy of the same. The gift definitely revolutionized her ability to do business anywhere. A glance might show that this is all dirt gathered on some dozen dirty cops around the city…now she's just organizing it all into a case, something somebody can do anything with.

They all have their methods. Hers is to just keep right on being a detective, and since Jess, on the whole, hates the police with a fiery passion, the opportunity to take down a few dirty assholes was just too good to miss.

For the last week or two Kinsey has been an occasional presence at Danny Rand's property at Gramercy Park, swinging through at the end of her shift at Stark Tower and sometimes electing to stay the night. By now it's probably not a secret that she and Matt were on the rocks for months after his breakdown. Things with the two of them have been, whenever they're in front of anyone else, as normal as can be expected — but perhaps unusually she's tended to prefer privacy, and just as often sticks to the room that Murdock has claimed for his own.

It's for more complicated reasons than merely the weirdness of her relationship's on-again, off-again status. She still hasn't quite figured out how or when to tell Danny and Luke that she's also Six. Hell's Kitchen has been a heavy thing for each of them to contend with. Juggling the weight of that, and the strained interpersonal dynamic of her situation with Matt, has left her with little emotional endurance for other things — and as much as she might like and trust Danny and Luke, the thought of that confession, of that exposure, still makes her palms sweat just to think about.

So: it's a little unusual for her in the context of her recent behavior, when she comes down the stairs, sans Matthew, and wanders into the living room where Jess is. Just outside of the broad entryway she floats for an indecisive moment, regarding the detective's silhouette against the holographic glow of her work, and then she pulls a breath and heads in.

"Hey, Jess."

Jess had been happy to catch the info that Kinsey had been going to Matt's guest room every now and then. She might have spent almost a year last year harboring deep, unrequited feelings for the blind lawyer, but once she gave up she just found she really was rooting for two people she cared about very deeply to find some happiness together.

Thus solid advice, duly ignored, like 'bring lots of cake.' She can say she loves them both without much reservation, but she now also knows it for philia. And of course, given where she sleeps every night right now, she has definitely moved on.

"Hey," Jess says, looking up from her work at the sound of Kinsey's voice. She shuts down all the holograms, shoves her phone away, and looks up at her friend. "It's good to see you. You know, one on one, not in a throng of other people. How are you doing?"

There's nothing pointed there, it's just an easygoing statement of fact, coupled with a half-grin. Half has been about all she's been able to summon, for the most part, since the bombing.

Rather than take a seat on the sofa, Kinsey crosses all the way over to the nearest clear spot in the maelstrom of work surrounding the PI and sinks down to sit on the floor with her, glancing over what's visible in printed media with detached curiosity. "Oh, you know. Busy. Same as all of us, I guess."

She cross-folds her legs in front of herself, then leans back into her palms, flat on the floor just slightly behind her, and gives Jess a rueful look not entirely without its own kind of black, gallows humor. "I'm not sure at what point that question is going to start getting a different answer." She slants her eyes gesturally at the work, then lifts them again. "Same for you?"

"Same for me," Jessica says wryly.

The printed media shows a detective taking a brown paper bag from a man. The same man's photo is on a printed out rap sheet. There are photographs of other police officers, some engaged in what is not conclusive but is somewhat questionable behavior. There's a print out of several credit reports and a thorough report on the assets of a guy named Carl Hoffman, versus copies of his pay stubs. He sure owns a lot for someone making his salary.

"But that question never had a different answer for me," is her addition to the statement. "If only because I'm a workaholic."

That 'work' mostly replaced 'booze' in Jessica's world is, at this point, so far from being a secret it's not even funny. Nor is she even anything but matter-of-fact about that, either. At least one is more productive and useful than the other.

"As distractions go, there are worse things than work."

Silent for long moments, Kinsey's eyes contain more weight than they need to for light conversation. Her face is too open, her expressions too untutored in subterfuge, even if she wanted to conceal it — and she doesn't. Or at least, she doesn't want to hide that there's something on her mind, though she seems to be putting some effort into the steadiness of her expression, and the measured quality of her tone of voice.

"So…speaking of stuff you're working on…" She bites the inside of her cheek in the brief pause. "Matt tells me you're getting involved in this Trask stuff I've heard Tony talking about."

Jessica looks up at Kinsey. She studies her face, the effort. Whatever conclusions she draws from that causes her to lean all the way back, focus on Kinsey entirely.

Finally she takes out her phone and draws up another photograph. She blows it up, holographically. A collar, attached to the end of a firing device.

"That," she says, "is a Trask Industries slave collar. And a firing device to let them collar metahumans from a distance. It's not the only prototype. It's just one of the more frightening ones. It shuts down powers at the very least, and could, just like the ones in Genosha, allow for a whole range of coercive functions. Pain delivery, or maybe just being rigged up to explode. They're being funded by business interests and private hate groups, and are supported by some lawmakers that would like to see them distributed and used on a massive scale."

She narrows her eyes, twisting the hologram about with an idle finger. The anger is unmistakable in her tone. "Someone throws down on the side of enslaving someone else? I get involved. Someone throws down on the side of enslaving thousands? I definitely get involved."

Kinsey's glance down at the collar is followed with a very slight headtilt, but an image isn't a blueprint, so it can't keep her attention for very long. "Yeah. It's scary stuff. Most of what I've heard about it, I picked up from Tony. The rest is just…" She leans into one of her palms long enough to lift the other, waving it in a gesture that means nothing specific. "You know. Trawling information sources. I should be doing more of that, but after my run-in with doctor Foster's demonic quantum script and everything else, I've been pretty lax." She watches Jess prod the hologram, gaze inscrutable. "I'd offer to help you, but you've got Tony. There are things I can do that he can't, but I don't think any of them are going to be useful for what this is."

In spite of herself, her heart knocks once, heavily, inside of her chest as she shores up her own resolution to press forward. "But, Jess. I'm…" Pause. "I need to ask you about something. I need to ask you about what you're doing with the Maximoff twins."

Jessica doesn't balk at talk of working with Tony. She nods, indicating she's working with him on it too. But then, no surprise; Tony still accounts for a huge part of Jessica's income, in addition to being her friend.

But she sighs at the final question. And lets out a cynical breath of a half-laugh. "I wish to God I knew," she says, grim, quiet.

She exhales and thumps the hologram to send it shattering into a thousand pieces and away.

"They approached me. That day I was just scared shitless of them. But they dropped this thing onto my desk and told me what it was. After that…"

After that…

Kinsey is silent long enough that it's clear she was waiting for the follow-up, and when it doesn't come she sits up off of her hands, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, head tipped and manicured brows rising. "After that…?" It's not a rhetorical question, but it becomes one when one of her hands, hanging loose at a wrist, angles upward, a stalling gesture. "Actually, we'll get to that. How about before that? Did you know before they came to see you that they were responsible for you getting beaten half to death, Jess?"

Surely not, says her skeptical expression, brows knit and skewed.

"Yeah. I knew the woman was Brotherhood. She said as much. Spent half the beatdown spouting rhetoric at me." A ghost of a smile. "That's why I was scared shitless of them when they showed up."

She leans her head all the way back on the couch.

She can see the skeptical expression for herself. "I know. Crazy, right? There's an after that, and they had me shitkicked. Thing is, Kinsey…that's not really the worst thing that's ever happened to me. It's not even close. It doesn't even make the top 10. It's not really the first time I've been shitkicked to the point of near death, either. I think it's just the first you guys— "

She waves her hand around to indicate the whole of Danny's houseguests, plus Danny, " —ever saw."

The skepticism in Kinsey's expression remains, but it pivots on some difficult-to-define point, turns in a new direction in some subtle but visible way. She nods, but slowly, and paired with the look on her face — deepening by the moment — it's anything but a nod of understanding.

"Ah," she says, when Jess finishes speaking. She shifts her gaze away, across the cavernous space of the living room as her expression clears, brows arching. "Right. I guess that makes it okay. And the gala they blew up where all of those people died, and I had to mentally take a physically sabotaged Stark suit up into the high atmosphere to keep it from obliterating Manhattan…I mean. Way less than eight thousand people died, so I guess we have to let that one go, too."

She gives that a three second beat of silence and then shoots Jess a sidelong look that is, if it's anything, uneasy. "Really? Is this how we're doing things, now? It sure seems like it is, since Matt cut his own deal with them, even though we know now that they might have been partially responsible for Hell's Kitchen. Their whole mission was to distract us. Mission accomplished, right? But they're useful, so even though they're terrorists who sold out someone I care a lot about in exchange for something they wanted, we're apparently business partners now…?"

Jessica winces at the Gala, and she scrubs her fingers through her hair. "I didn't know that about the suit," she says. "I guess it doesn't matter. They did blow the Gala, and people did die. The Gala's been a sticking point for me for awhile. It keeps poking at me. As it…probably should."

Their whole mission was to distract us. Mission accomplished.

"They helped in people Hell's Kitchen, day of the bombing, after, were pretty horrified by it," Jess says slowly, "But…you're also right. I don't know what Matt's done with them, we didn't really talk about it. For me it's all been about Trask."

She drops her head and sighs. "They're just kids you know. Kids who have been hurt really badly. I look at them and that's all I see. A pair of hurting kids. And one…alcoholic bruiser who has been equally hurt. But they also killed people at the gala. Also distracted us. And what Trask is doing is also going to make the worst thing that's ever happened to me happen to a lot more than 8,000 people. Truth is, Kinsey, I don't know whether to wind my ass or scratch my watch on this one. Sometimes…"

Kinsey listens. She listens, but there's commentary in the dipping down of her brows when Jess says that's all I see. It puts impatience into her, though she manages to hold her silence — barely. "You know who else is hurting? Fisk. I heard all about his abusive father and his abusive father's 'unexplained' death, and how Fisk planted more explosives on the building he grew up in than anywhere else. I'd bet you a whole lot of money that Fisk's childhood was a living hell. Is that all you see when you look at him?" And then, less pointed, more quietly, and with something of the compassion the prior words lacked, "How about us, Jess? Can you point to a single person in this building who isn't hurting in some way? But we find ways not to do what they're doing. Being hurt doesn't mean you have to hurt other people. It just- it doesn't."

Some of the tension in her shoulders lets go when she forces a slow exhale, releasing them from where they'd tightened inward. "I just don't understand. What kind of group are we supposed to be? Are we going to be 'ends justify the means' people? Once you get help from them, how are you supposed to hold them accountable for the things they did…? Matt, too. The first night we stayed here he said, 'if I have to commit a few wrongs to right a bigger wrong, maybe I'm fine with that.' Is that us?"

That last question is definitely not rhetorical. The look on her face is rooted in uncertainty, actually seeking an answer.

Jessica sighs. Kinsey makes good points. She looks down at her hands, and nods to show she not only hears them, but understands them and even agrees with them.

"I…don't think anyone should set their own moral compass or group morality by me, Kinsey," she says quietly. "I know where my lines are. I can list you my entire code. It's pretty dark, pretty grim, pretty shades of grey, but I can do it. Will, if you care to hear it. What you're saying, how you're saying it, tells me that I've crossed my own lines here with the twins thing, and I'll figure out what to do about that. I'll stop working with them. Tony's got me chasing an adjacent rabbit anyway, one I can chase without feeling like I'm aiding and abetting."

She gives a grim, tired smile. "I'd always said everyone who got into this business had to draw the line for themselves. If we're going to come up with some group morality? That had better be set by anyone else but me. I mean. Look at how we met. I showed up on your doorstep so I could ask you to break the law so I could stop someone way worse. And to return your purse, but mostly the former."

She'll stop working with them.

That's what Jessica says. Given the obvious objections Kinsey has to the thought of anyone doing that, it would be reasonable to expect her to look relieved. She doesn't. Maybe that surprises even Kinsey: her brows knit, consternation unresolved in her expression.

"That's…great, but…"

But it's more complicated than that.

It takes a moment, but the pressure of the thing pushing her to take issue with these choices eventually has her sinking backward, spine to the expensive, pristine floor, eyes turned upward. At the high ceiling. At nothing. At things that aren't up, but instead down, inside of her own skull. "But I'm not sure…" Pause. Long pause.

"Jess, I break the law all the time. I manipulate systems I'm not supposed to be able to access, much less influence. But I'd like to think that there are no individual victims in what I do. Just…institutions. And most of the time, those institutions are not good. Does that make it better? I don't know. Objectively, I don't think it does. Subjectively, we're all fallible as hell and it's so easy to start justifying the things that we do. Ever since I had this argument with Matt I've been asking myself, 'If the Maximoff twins manage to do what we haven't been able to, and they take down Fisk's empire top to bottom, will that justify overlooking what they did to Jess? Will it make up for the other people they killed?' And I go around and around and around with myself because, to be honest, I don't know. I really don't know. It scares me that I don't know."

"It should scare you. It scares me sometimes," Jessica says, exhaling sharply. "Except for the part about what they did to me. I don't think that should factor in. It was painful and scary but I lived and got healed and whatever. But what they did to whomever got killed at the Gala— what was that number? I never got a straight answer. Tony asked me to take a look but of course there were so many feds crawling all over the whole thing. I couldn't get a straight answer on what happened, looking at the footage didn't enlighten me and I wasn't even sure anyone did die."

Jessica draws up her knee and rests an elbow over it, looking over at Kinsey and sighs. Then she drops her head. Shakes it.

"I reconciled it a while back by admitting to myself that I'm really no better than Fisk. The ways I differ are in intent, in motivation, in why I do what I do and who I do it for. I'll never do anything for power, or money, or personal gain. I do it to protect decent people who just want to live their lives. I will never harm or enslave innocent people, because my goal, my motivation, my entire end is to protect them from those things. But it's the goal that makes that the case, not because I'm inherently better in the least. When I kill or help someone else kill, it's as a last resort, either in defense of my own life or someone else's, or because some wolf has gotten so bad, so powerful, so intensely untouchable that the regular justice system can't touch them, won't ever touch them. A wolf becomes a monster. Like immortal Nazi sorcerers, as one example. If you guys hadn't turned Kilgrave over to SHIELD? He'd have been in that category eventually too, I'm sure of it. In my world, it's all monsters, wolves, sheep dogs, and sheep, Kinsey. Wolves eat sheep and sheep dogs protect sheep. But they're both still canines."

Her hand rises and falls. "So if the twins did? It probably wouldn't justify it. It'll be wolves taking down a monster. It won't be about justice. It'll just be about the fact that there's one less monster on the board."

She grimaces. She spoke longer than she meant to, but these are tough topics, complicated topics. Intense ones. Nothing in her tone indicates much desire to argue; she sounds world-weary at best. She's not trying to convince. She's just telling it like she sees it.

It's for the best that Kinsey isn't looking at Jess, because that first aside from her puts such a dark look on the mechanic's face that it might have derailed the conversation entirely.

"I don't disagree with most of that," she says, after a moment of silence long enough to signal her probing of it in her thoughts. "But you're telling me you're no better than he is because…because your reasons are different, and your aims are different. I don't understand your rationale, Jess. Those aren't small things. Those are everything."

She wants to put her eyes on Jess again, but rather than sit up, she chooses to roll onto her side, brace her head in one hand, elbow to the floor. "They're everything, and they do make you better than him. By definition, they do." Her other arm, draped over her ribs, hinges up from the elbow, hand splayed. "I need you to not talk about how what they did to you shouldn't factor in. And not even just because we're friends and I care about that for personal reasons. You're telling me I shouldn't weigh the fact that these people traded the health and well-being of someone they didn't even know to a monster like Fisk, just because he offered them something they want. If you think they won't do that again in a heartbeat, you are — you aren't the Jessica Jones I know. You know they would. And next time, it could be anyone. It could be me. Not factoring that in is insane."

"Fair," Jessica says. "Factoring it as someone else makes it clearer. I hadn't."

She rubs a hand over her face and adds, "I'm ashamed to say that I just went, well, it was my beat down, I can respond how I want. And ultimately Kinsey, what happens to me barely ranks. But you're right. What could happen to others does."

She contemplates the rest, watching Kinsey roll over. She moves to the couch proper, stretching across it. She lays a hand over her forehead and looks up at the ceiling. "Reasons and aims talk is ends justify the means talk," she says slowly. "And they clearly don't. That's what we've all been struggling with, what's scaring all of us, I guess. And yet reasons and aims do guide it all for me. I know what I'll let happen and what I won't, and there's a lot I'll do if I feel like I have to. If any of us thought coloring inside the lines worked we wouldn't be involved at all. We'd just live our lives. But as for better or worse…well. You guys are all better than Fisk for sure."

She turns her head, lays her hand on her belly, and gives a rueful smile. And tells Kinsey something she's never told anyone else in her life. "I'm an ex-petty criminal you know. An ex-wolf. I didn't get too far down that path. Something woke my ass up fast, before I'd committed more than theft. I was young, a little desperate, a lot stupid, already a raging alcoholic. Like I said, nobody needs to be setting their compass by my needle."

There's silence after Jessica's confession. It's not a heavy silence, like the ones before it; it unwinds in an unhurried way, Kinsey's expression open, her eyes answering that rue with some of her own, and a little bit of knowing humor, even if it's tired. "Guilt is useful when it gives us a reason to try to be better. But I think there's a point after which it maybe keeps us from being able to do that. We figure there's a ceiling on how good we can be, because we've been bad enough that we're never going to shake that off. Doesn't that just make us willing to get dirty again, because we already did, so what's the point of resisting…?" With the shoulder that isn't involved in bracing her up, she hoists a half-shrug. "I have my days of feeling that way. More than most people think, probably."

Hazel eyes slide down from where Jessica's stretched prone on the sofa, sliding across the floor. "We're imperfect creatures. We've all done things we wish we hadn't. There are worse examples to look to than someone who found their way back from something like that. Some people never do."

"You're awfully insightful tonight," Jessica says with a ghost of a smile. "I mean just. Batting 1000, everything you say hitting home. I've been giving out Come to Jesus talks left and right lately, and I guess it's my turn, and you're pretty damn good at it."

She is quiet for a time, and finally says, "But I think you answered your own question. There at the end. What kind of group are we? We're a group of imperfect people trying to stop some downright shitty people, and we're all making our own mistakes while we do it, but the reasons we make those mistakes, the intent, the driving force, are all so diametrically opposed to the things we're trying to stop as to make the contrast easy to see. We're not white hats facing black hats. We're light-grey hats facing black hats. And since white hats mostly don't exist, maybe that's as good as it gets."

She is aware, of course, of their street name. She'd rolled her eyes to find they had one, but she murmurs, "I wonder if the people who named us see it clearer than we do, you know. They didn't name us their heroes. They named us their defenders."

With a low, quiet groan, Kinsey rolls back onto her back, lifting both hands so that she can press them over her eyes and gently rub: this in answer to 'insightful' and 'come to Jesus talks.' The breath she exhales passes through her teeth: tss. "This is not a role I want to inhabit for any length of time. Actually, I don't even want to inhabit it right now."

But the rest of what the PI fields deserves more from her. Silence, and thought. Her hands fall away from her face, arms falling open on the floor to either side of her, and eyes rubbed bleary point ceilingward again, seeing none of it. There's no resolution in her expression at all. Lingering unease, troubled uncertainty, enough to leave her looking uncomfortable, as though she has a pebble in her shoe just small enough to almost ignore.

"It's easier to see things when you're not inside of them," she agrees, though the words are full of the sound of thoughts about other things. Eventually, those find their way to the surface, too.

"Everyone always seems so sure they'll know the line before they cross it. Maybe it's just me that thinks she won't."

"Well, it's like I told Luke," Jessica says with a shrug. "I mean. I know I'm going to cross it. I've crossed it and recrossed it. All you can really do is back the hell off when you realize you've fucked up. Because everyone has to set their lines, but that doesn't mean the cross won't happen. You get angry or you get scared or someone drops something on your desk that happens to sit right in your personal blind spots. You'll feel a burst of empathy for someone you shouldn't feel empathy for and a burst of rage to someone else. You generally don't realize you've crossed until you do. The real question isn't 'will you cross the line.' It's 'will you stick to the line, or will you redraw it?' The people who keep redrawing it are the ones who take the inevitable slide back down the line to the monster end of the spectrum. The thing is, not everyone knows yet what their lines even, actually, are."

She sits up, rests her elbows on both her knees, lets her hands dangle between them. Sitting, largely, like a guy, the way she so often does. She looks at Kinsey, furrowing her brow. "I can sit there and tell you my exact code because I decided I needed one. Just a straight up code. So I could measure what I did against it and say, okay, yes, or okay, no. Not perfectly. Sometimes we all have to keep each other on track, get perspective, but…without that, I could come up with justifications all day long to keep doing whatever seemed right to do. Without that code. If this shit does anything I guess it will give us all our measuring sticks. They may land in different places, and that can be okay too. There are things some of my friends will do that I just won't do, and there are some friends of mine who won't cross lines I cross with abandon daily. But it doesn't always matter."

The people who keep redrawing it are the ones who take the inevitable slide back down the line to the monster end of the spectrum. The thing is, not everyone knows yet what their lines even, actually, are.

Kinsey's nod is so small, but her understanding — the resonance that statement has for her — is so vast. It adds a strain of weariness to the uneasy look she has, visible only for a moment before Jessica's shift of position draws her eyes, and her expression clears, supplanted by focus.

Somewhere along the way she curls to sit up, herself, knees a bend and one arm looped around them, the other bent into a rake of splayed fingers back into loose drifts of dark hair, tousled by all of her subdued rolling around. "When it's people, it's easier. For me. How to handle people, what is or isn't cruelty — you know. Most of what I do isn't people, though. It's…it's systems. Structures. Things we put in place to give our society boundaries and create order." After only a brief silence she sucks a breath in, sweeps one hand through the air, and begins to gather herself up to her feet. "No, nevermind. I don't want to get into any of that and it's not why I came to talk to you. Truth is, Jess, sometimes I think I might be the kind of person who would keep redrawing those lines. When I worry about what the people around me are doing, it's partly because I'm not always sure about myself. And even after this talk, I still can't tell you if working with the twins is right or wrong. The twins are probably not good people, with what they were willing to do. I still don't know how to value that against what they could do right, though."

Now it's her turn for a rueful smile, eyes lidding. "I…appreciate you talking it out with me, though."

Jesscia looks curious enough; if Kinsey had chosen to get into it she looks like she would have listened and talked about it with ease. But Kinsey says she doesn't want to, and for once the detective reins in her impulse to ask 1,000 questions.

"In the grand scheme of things," Jessica says dryly, "I'm not sure, if you're out stabbing at our government, corrupt as it is, or I dunno, Bank of America or Goldman-Sachs or whatever, that your poke at systems is a problem. But if I think you're slip sliding, I'll come talk it out with you. Just like you talked it out with me. I'll always talk to you, Kinsey. You're one of the most important people in my life. I consider you to be one of my very best friends. So. You know. If you've got concerns about shit I'm doing, I should hear them. Seriously. I'm glad you trust me enough to say something."

And really, hasn't that been their relationship all along? A lot of caring about each other, coupled with some awkwardness born from honesty that is often painful and at times messy, but still present, straight up. It seems that way to one Jessica Jones, at least.

Jess says she's not sure that poking at those grand institutions is necessarily problematic, and Kinsey draws a thin smile for Jess alongside a hands-out-to-her-sides, palms-up stance that says, without words: case in point.

Because she isn't either. She never is.

It would be so easy.

None of which elaborations matter as much as everything that follows. A pledge to return the favor. That Jessica can even think of this in that context arrives as an unanticipated salve for a young woman whose last conversation along these lines involved a great deal more in the way of indignant stubbornness on both sides. Her shoulders let go as she exhales, and two steps are enough to get her close enough to the couch to twist and sit, and lean, and wrap her arms around the detective's shoulders, somehow managing to squeeze her with perfectly even pressure in spite of the artificiality of one of those arms.

"Thanks, Jess. I think of you the same way. And I'm glad things with Matt are on the mend, because I'm really not sure how I'd explain to him that I was gonna throw him out and keep you instead." That last is a little wry. It's probably just a joke.


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