you know the first rule of combat?

"Some Friday it is," Eames says, grin turning just the slightest bit amused at her explanation for having chosen that particular day of the week. It isn't as if it makes any difference to him, one serving just as well as another; if Friday's what she wants, though, Friday's what she gets. Even the jukebox seems to be in accordance, playing quietly enough that he can just barely make out the lyrics: it's Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friday. He pulls a face, and jabs a thumb in its direction. It beats Edith Piaf, but relevance aside, sounds fairly awful. "I think this thing agrees, though I wish it would get some bloody taste."