This in combination with the sharp look Desi shoots the boy is sufficient to squash any hopes of additional semi-fairly gotten gains Fuck Off might have been entertaining. With a sniff and a wrinkle of his small nose—he really is quite young, possessing that paper bird in a sack look of children who have spent slightly too many of their youngest years being slightly too hungry and subsequently will never be quite as tall as they should—, the bot disappears the cigarillo somewhere into his person and then skedaddles into the crowd. In an instant, he has disappeared entirely. Presumably, he'll find other less well defended pockets on the way out of the huddle of rubber neckers.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch scaffolding and occupied window ledge—

"'Probably,'" Desi repeats back, extracting a second cigarillo and snapping the silver plated case shut. It's a very nice case. There's loopy scrollwork and a bouquet of flowers engraved on it. "Is not very encouraging, you must admit."