"...not a game?" Balthier asks. The hand that holds his slender cigar also cups his shot of whiskey. He looks as Tseng through the amber and grins. "What do you call this then?"

Tseng turns at Balthier's gesture and surveys the terrain that waved whiskey glass encompasses, this small booth of purple velvet and sofas, the laptop that sits between them all despite the dancers not five feet away. Rufus still sits straight and forward with his knees apart, but Balthier has returned to his usual sprawl, ankle on knee, elbow on the back of the chair, head tilted wryly.

"I call this," Tseng says, "a minefield."

Rufus leans forward, rests his elbows on the table and pushes aside his vodka and soda. He speaks flatly over the heavy beat of the music. "Put that stinking shit out, Bunansa. You're too young to die."

In response Balthier tongues the cigar. "Old vices," he says, and grins. "Like old habits. They do die so very hard."