Eggsy follows the movement of the crop down Quentin’s throat. Right, that...whole thing. He hates the whole classist divide, though in the end it doesn’t really seem to matter in the shit he keeps somehow getting himself into. He’s surprised at the shift from “this is a good VR” to...this. It could be fun, probably, if he lets it. That seems better than being a dick about it, because like he himself had said, they probably aren’t going anywhere until they put on some kind of show.

Did it have to be this kind, though?

Gooseflesh crawls along Eggsy’s neck and down his arms when Quentin comes closer, touches him with the business end of the crop, talks in his ear. He takes a step back, away,but his own expectations work against him. Like the dreams he's shared with others recently, the VR picks up on what he thinks — and his first thought about not having anywhere to go works literally. So when he steps back, there’s just the hardness of the wall behind him.

He tenses reflexively, surprise evident for a damning second before he school’s it away and turns a smile back to Quentin.

“Hope you’re better with that thing than you are with manners,” he says. He’s nothing if not mouthy.