"Shit, salroka, I don't know," comes Kit's response, a little quick to be deeply considered, and he brings up the cigarette for another drag off of it. He breathes out the smoke and looks away from Devin, squinting beyond the bounds of the park as though he expects to find the answers to his problems there. He won't.

He taps off the excess ash; when in doubt, resort to gallows humour. It's worked in the past. "Who knows, maybe my friends just haven't figured out what to do with my corpse yet, and I'll be on my way once they do. This isn't bad, far as detours go. Nice beaches." A flash of a grin, lopsided and unavoidably pained, but he can't say anything more. Nothing about the words that had been drilled into him since birth--that he's nothing without a caste, and the Stone wouldn't take him back anyway.