“All permutations tested and ready to go. You know, you’re not the boss around here.”
“I know it,” he said. “Partners.” He clapped Kurt on the shoulder, ignoring the damp gray grimy feeling of the clammy T-shirt under his palm.
The shoulder under his palm sagged. “Right,” Kurt said. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Alan said. “You’ve been hard at it. I’ll get loaded while you wash up.
Kurt sniffed at his armpit. “Whew,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”
When Kurt emerged from the front door of his storefront ten minutes later, he looked like he’d at least made an effort. His mohawk and its fins were slicked back and tucked under a baseball hat, his black jeans were unripped and had only one conservative chain joining the wallet in his back pocket to his belt loop. Throw in a clean t-shirt advertising an old technology conference instead of the customary old hardcore band and you had an approximation of the kind of geek that everyone knew was in possession of secret knowledge and hence must be treated with attention, if not respect.
“I feel like such a dilbert,” he said.
“You look totally disreputable,” Alan said, hefting the tub of their access points into the bed of his truck and pulling the bungees tight around it. “Punk as fuck.”
Kurt grinned and ducked his head. “Stop it,” he said. “Flatterer.”
“Get in the truck,” Alan said.