He doesn't know what's good for me. It's death all the same, is it not? Losing him equals losing my own identity.

He wasn't a talker. Never had been one, and never will be. His thighs were pressed together knees brought to his chestplate, sitting in the corner as he pressed his ching atop his knee plate.

He didn't even realize it, but he had been memorizing all of the sensations, the little privileges, the pleasantries of being alive, even if being alive wasn't all that good. What was the purpose of being alive if he could not live freely to his heart content?

"... They should be here any moment now." He whispered to himself.

He rubbed his fingertips against the ground, memorizing the texture even if it was just tactile.

He heard a hum. Right. He had a hostage. He brought his helm up slightly, looking at the individual tied up.

He wasn't mean. He was just— Well, he needed to he acknowledged.

He wasn't a talker, again.