He flinches, too, at the question, the vitriol, the clear pain, all of it. "I failed my mission," he says uncertainly. "Going back was. Ill advised." Then he might be made to try and complete the mission again. He doesn't want that. That want is firm, not wavering. He does not want to hit that target again.

It's still uncomfortable, but it is not something he will give up on either. So here he is, orderless, not entirely sure how to get by in a world he doesn't really remember much about.

"Are you injured," he finally asks. Because they fell out of a window and that looks like pain.