[ Discount the rather obviously alien creatures and the high vaulted ceilings, darkened with oil or age or something else entirely, and Eames can almost say this feels normal. A lazy stroll through an open space, making it impossible to be overheard, affording a multitude of escape routes if ambushed; each man catching the other up on the pertinent events that could affect their current situation. For all the imagination Arthur lacks, it can never be said that he doesn't take the proverbial curveball in a flawless stride.

He quirks a brow at the information about York. ] Were you the only one to end up here?

[ Yes, Eames ran into her earlier, but it may not be worth telling Arthur if she's just shown up, like himself, or if she's been flying under his radar for some reason. ( You don't get to Eames' place in the scheme of things by running your mouth unnecessarily. )

Amusement, bright and familiar, bubbles up in Eames at the exasperated look Arthur sends to the soot-stained ceiling. He can't take any credit for Arthur's ire, but he shares in it in the most tangential of ways. ] How delightfully unlike you. Why merc work? Couldn't find something corporate to line your pretty pockets with? At far as I am aware, mercenary work doesn't usually meet your preferred paygrade.

[ Which is closer to the real question, why are there men like Arthur for hire on an asteroid to begin with? ]