Marco's first interaction with York was seeing her in heavy armor, running off a whole pack of batarian thugs with not much more than a dirty look, so he's pretty aware that she's got more than enough bite to match her bark. He's taking that into consideration as he continues to stare her down. Sizing her up. Seeing how much she means what she says---all of it, probably---and what it means for him.
If Marco had a chance to decide his entire future for himself, this certainly wasn't anywhere near a part of it. He'd have picked lots of things like the best cable TV subscription god had saw fit to bestow upon man, every video game magically appearing in his possession the moment it's released, the removal of all invasive alien species from his planet, and the nice happy cozy family life of his increasingly distant childhood. Someday, someone would notice how witty and good-looking he is and offer him a slot next to Letterman, and he'd roll around in piles of money and Hollywood babes until he died a happy old man in his mansion.
As much as he dreams and whines about how the world refuses to meet his expecations, though, he's a realist at the end of the day. A realist who doesn't know how to make the call for right versus wrong, but at least knows how to decide which path gives him the best chance to survive.
These days, it's basically all down to survival.
"Alright, I'm game. But I'm not sure where you're gonna get a steady supply of dead bodies to show me so I can learn how to cull the gag reflex." He cracks a smirk at her, a darker one than he usually does, but a good-natured one all the same. "But hey, you don't ask me too many questions about my line of work, and I won't ask you about yours, capisce?"
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If Marco had a chance to decide his entire future for himself, this certainly wasn't anywhere near a part of it. He'd have picked lots of things like the best cable TV subscription god had saw fit to bestow upon man, every video game magically appearing in his possession the moment it's released, the removal of all invasive alien species from his planet, and the nice happy cozy family life of his increasingly distant childhood. Someday, someone would notice how witty and good-looking he is and offer him a slot next to Letterman, and he'd roll around in piles of money and Hollywood babes until he died a happy old man in his mansion.
As much as he dreams and whines about how the world refuses to meet his expecations, though, he's a realist at the end of the day. A realist who doesn't know how to make the call for right versus wrong, but at least knows how to decide which path gives him the best chance to survive.
These days, it's basically all down to survival.
"Alright, I'm game. But I'm not sure where you're gonna get a steady supply of dead bodies to show me so I can learn how to cull the gag reflex." He cracks a smirk at her, a darker one than he usually does, but a good-natured one all the same. "But hey, you don't ask me too many questions about my line of work, and I won't ask you about yours, capisce?"