The phone conversation's muffled, but he doesn't rush it. Every once in a while his voice gets louder than before and maybe, just friggin' maybe, someone could hear phrases like fuck yeah, at Gold Saucer and Costa del Sol before that and pretty? Yeah, you know how I feel about pretty and HEY, I don't wanna hear about work. I'm the one who's smart enough to be on vacation. But then there's a resigned sigh, a not gettin' better, huh? and a shake of his head. Nah, I'll be back in a couple days, we can take care of it then. There's a little more comfortable and maybe impersonal chatter before he folds the phone away, slides it back into his chest pocket.

There's no rush; he's got plenty of time. Yeah, Rude's his partner but they're also friends. You can't be partners with a guy that long and not learn to appreciate one another and he didn't tell him where he was goin' or why or any of that shit. And now Rude knows where he is, if not who he's with -- and the only place he checked in at the beach was with HQ, on the status of the helicopter and making sure the airport fees on it were prepaid by special arrangement -- he's definitely off the friggin' clock.

And now that shit's done and he's got a couple hours and then some to kill before meeting Lara again and sure, he could go to the arcade and fuck around, but there's a perfectly good bar right here and he's way too sober. Yeah, he knows how he'll be spendin' his solo time.