[He scrubs at his face, dried blood coming away in flakes and clumps, attention paid to it once again bringing the scent to the fore, sending a small sharp shudder through him that he suppresses, ignores. He leans forward over the basin then, cups water in his pale palms, tips it over his hair in an effort to rinse it of the worst of the viscera that still clings.

He goes on like this, the water fast turning red, attention seemingly focused on his task even as he listens to what Kanda says, feels a strange twinge of something - surprise? Incredulity? - behind his ribs as the words sink down into his bones. It's a hard thing to believe, that the RAC agent might be keeping him here for his own good as much as for the good of the citizens of Westerley, and abruptly he brushes it away.]

Oh, I'm well aware of what they're likely to do to me. I'm under no illusions of how the Company works. But conscious or unconscious, then or now, the end results are likely to be the same.

[Again, the cool calm voice, almost soft, but there's an ominous undertone to it despite all that, the implications of what he's saying vibrating dully in the air between them. They'll punish him, all right. Perhaps - and it seems likely, in this moment - even put him down.

And it won't be the quick and merciful ending Kanda had offered the day before.]

I don't need to be incapacitated for them to do whatever they want to me.