"It's not wrapped up," Mark says immediately, his eyes skirting somewhere around the ceiling of the bar, running along the molding that presses into the corners, his fingers drumming on the side of the cool bottle in his hand. Before explaining, he takes another drink, his cheeks already feeling pleasantly warm, and the back of his neck already uncomfortably so. He's always been a lightweight. Doesn't binge, has never really done the whole beer pong thing, enjoys watching other people go at shots rather than himself. It strikes him then that his relative state might be amusing to anyone else on this strange island, and his eyes dart back and forth, almost paranoid, if it weren't for the languid note on top of it all. No one seems to be watching. He's forgotten what that's like. Everyone in Palo Alto recognizes his face anymore.

"It's not wrapped up," he says again with a shrug, a half shrug, kind of broken like everything else about the situation seems to be. "Settling in court doesn't really mean anything. The Winklevii will never stop being butthurt. They'll never stop looking at facebook with green, envious eyes because the concept just required them to get their heads out their asses a little more and think about the greater social network, how all college students interact, instead of getting laid. Plus, I haven't. Hadn't. Talked to you after."

His hand grips the bottle a little tighter before he knocks back another few gulps, feeling his vision waver slightly at the edges.