There is, huddled in the shadow of faceless metal, unfeeling in its visage, wryness. He moves to pick through the spies’ forgotten paperwork, but it’s gone rotten with fetid muck now— too waterlogged to be salvaged.

“You have the benefit of suffering no exhaustion from it, but yes.”

A pause lingers there, thoughtful in the way that he asks, “Did you imagine it differently?”