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As
Rita
stood
,
the
man
beside
her
staggered
to
his
feet
.
He
wasn
’
t
particularly
tall
for
a
Jacket
jockey
.
He
was
young
,
but
he
wore
his
fatigues
as
though
he
’
d
been
born
in
them
.
His
clothes
looked
as
though
they
’
d
just
come
from
the
factory
,
so
there
was
something
strangely
jarring
about
his
appearance
.
His
lips
were
twisted
in
a
Mona
Lisa
smile
that
did
a
good
job
of
concealing
his
age
.
The
number
157
was
scrawled
in
Arabic
numerals
on
the
back
of
his
hand
.
Rita
didn
’
t
know
what
it
meant
,
but
it
was
an
odd
thing
to
do
.
Odd
enough
that
Rita
didn
’
t
think
she
’
d
be
forgetting
him
anytime
soon
.
She
had
heard
of
soldiers
taping
their
blood
type
to
the
soles
of
their
feet
in
the
days
before
Jackets
were
standard
-
issue
,
but
she
’
d
never
heard
of
a
soldier
who
kept
notes
in
ballpoint
pen
on
the
back
of
his
hand
.
"
So
you
wanted
to
talk
.
What
is
it
?
"
"
Ah
,
right
,
"
he
said
.
"
Well
?
Get
on
with
it
,
soldier
.
I
’
m
a
patient
girl
,
but
there
’
s
a
battle
tomorrow
,
and
I
have
things
to
do
.
"
"
I
,
uh
,
have
an
answer
to
your
question
.
"
He
hesitated
like
a
high
school
drama
student
reading
from
a
bad
script
"
Japanese
restaurants
don
’
t
charge
for
green
tea
.
"
Rita
Vrataski
,
the
savior
of
humanity
,
the
Valkyrie
,
the
nineteen
-
year
-
old
girl
,
let
her
mask
slip
.
The
Full
Metal
Bitch
began
to
cry
.
"
Shit
,
it
’
s
started
!
Don
’
t
get
your
balls
blown
off
,
gents
!
"
