[ There are two options here. The first is to lie to a member of the Slaughterhouse Nine, knowing full well that she will find out he was lying eventually and come up with whatever response she thinks is proportionate to that impoliteness on top of whatever she might want to do with him otherwise. The second is to be marginally honest, revealing himself as one of the people who contributed to severely fucking up their citywide frolic, and dealing with what comes of that here and now.

He wants a cigarette with a sudden wistfulness, regardless of how advisable that might be on a spaceship. It'd be nice to have one while his lungs are still inside of his stupid fucking body. ]

I know Amy Dallon.

[ A soft pedal, to start with. He keeps smiling, aiming for the bland friendliness reserved for erratic strangers on the bus. ]

From back in Brockton Bay. But we don't really bring it up much around other people. Cape life, and all.

We met once. You probably don't remember. It wasn't for long, and that was a while ago, anyway.

[ So maybe bygones can be bygones. He contributed, but not that much. ]