"A little," She purses her lips. "But not in a bad way. It's reasonable anger; a society putting their all into export and receiving so little in return. The labor must have been..." The image makes her wince a little. She exhales. "Unimaginable. It's not easy work. And rarely is it worth it when you aren't given anything in return."
Rage boils to a nuclear heat in Ripley's stomach, one she may or may not fail to mask. It's reprehensible. Abhorrent. To demand so much from a population. To step on the backs of people already toiling away at the scorched earth, hands bloodied, knees bruised, lungs caked in ore-dust, to then wrench their resources from them. To give them nothing. No help, no aid, no opportunities to thrive. Just violence and crippling labor. Destitution.
Sharp teeth sink into the soft flesh of another orange slice. Anger looks good on her, maybe.
The more technical subject of their conversation, however, loosens her up a little. "Slipspace," Ripley repeats, as if fascinated by the very idea; a taste of a future she's yet to experience. "What does it mean?"
no subject
Rage boils to a nuclear heat in Ripley's stomach, one she may or may not fail to mask. It's reprehensible. Abhorrent. To demand so much from a population. To step on the backs of people already toiling away at the scorched earth, hands bloodied, knees bruised, lungs caked in ore-dust, to then wrench their resources from them. To give them nothing. No help, no aid, no opportunities to thrive. Just violence and crippling labor. Destitution.
Sharp teeth sink into the soft flesh of another orange slice. Anger looks good on her, maybe.
The more technical subject of their conversation, however, loosens her up a little. "Slipspace," Ripley repeats, as if fascinated by the very idea; a taste of a future she's yet to experience. "What does it mean?"