Discoveries | TMR | Three

3:1

As she opens the door to his room; the exceptionally luxurious and private apartment in which he was gifted upon giving up the location of the Right Arm, the first thing to hit Ava's nostrils is the lingering scent of cigar smoke and whisky that wafts graciously through the air.

She sees him immediately; sat out on the balcony, smoking that cigar, watching the sun slowly set. She never has understood why he smokes. Why, after surviving through a disease ridden world for so many years and battling so vehemently to secure a place in this fortress of a city, he would choose to blacken his lungs with tar and heighten his chances of fatal illness.

But she supposes that it is nothing but a mere speck of doubt to him now. That the risk of death is nothing but a dead bug on the windscreen when it is on his own terms.

She makes her way slowly through his apartment, taking in the modern interior it is adorned with before reaching the bay doors and stepping out into the vacating sunlight on the balcony, where he sits by a circled table, cigar in one hand and icy glass of whisky in the other.

"Those things will kill you, you know," she comments the moment she walks out.

Jorge does not look at her; only at the glass in his hand, and he twirls the base of it gently trailing across the table, listening to the sound of the ice clinking inside it. "After all the sacrifices I've made, I think I deserve a little indulgence now and then."

Ava's brows raise. "The sacrifices that caused your family to be torn apart, you mean?"

His eyes dart to hers, and he sits up, extending his arm out and motioning for her to take a seat across from him. "Sacrifices are nothing when it comes to security."

Before taking him up on his offer, she walks back into his apartment; picking up his crystal whiskey decanter and a spare glass. She strolls back to the balcony. "Is that what you seek, Jorge? Security?"

"From the Flare? Yes."

Ava stands by the side of the table for a moment. "And what of your family? Your nephew?" She chuckles lightly and tilts her head to the side after asking that, her eyes focused on the drink she pours for herself. "I hear he causes quite the commotion in his wing."

"He does," the man agrees, watching her place the decanter on the table and sitting down. "But there is only so much I can do for him." He takes a sip of his own whiskey, feeling the burn cascade down his throat. "Your guards are vicious."

"Janson's guards," she corrects.

Jorge's expression furrows and, he too, tilts his head. "You do not agree with their methods then?"

Ava ponders the question for a moment as she gazes over the balcony and out across one of her last remaining cities. "I believe that a little brute force here and there keeps the Subjects' immunity alive in between testing. Since we lost the Maze Trials, it has been difficult to keep their minds active," she starts, looking back at him, "though I will admit that, given the choice, I would see that they pull back on their punishments and overall treatment of them."

Jorge laughs. "And here I thought you were the woman in charge, hermana."

"I am," she states. She bows her chin down an inch, though it soon lifts - along with her arm - as she leans back and holds her glass to the right of her head. "But the guards belong to Janson, and he cannot be easily swayed when it comes to their commands. That's why he's still rather dubious of you, in fact."

"You can blame Barklay for that."

"Oh, I do," Ava confirms swiftly, her head turning again. "That man was a buffoon with a one-track mind and a lack of comprehending the bigger picture."