Then I'll just have to work broken. Like I was planning on.

[He can say that calmly enough -- or fake calmness, anyway. Idly, he picks a coaster up off the coffee table and fiddles with it. It gives him something to stare at while he tries to overcome his fear enough to talk. It's increasingly halting and shaky as he goes, but at least he's getting it out, even if it sounds pushed through a filter.]

...Actually, he gave me an advantage he didn't expect, that way. He taught me how to keep doing something, no matter how fucked up my mind or body was. Have you ever tried to remember six coffee orders and make them all while drugged? A-And carry the tray w-with broken fingers... I had to-- t-to not flinch, or f-fuck up, or... or it was someone else who got hurt. So I think... I could shoot him, no matter what. Even if I broke so much I could never come back.