"Found that out the hard way, did you?" she murmurs, catching the gesture. But it's fine by her not to sit on a roof. They'd be targets up there, easy to see, and she's not much for that. She's already ran into one person with a monster in his stomach, who would have liked to eat her if she'd shown the feathers of the kind of bird he was after.

(He was a crap liar. Jesus, Nitou, learn how to deceive.)

But there's no real answer yet, clear now as he steps off. She follows a step later.

It's a lot to think about still, even in this small snatch between standing and making their way into the shack. Cameras on them constantly - she heard that clearly, the inflection too, and it sits heavy and solid in her mind. She never thought to be a TV star, but this isn't even that, and the 1984 meets Battle Royale comparison sits all the more aptly than it already did.

She can't shake the feeling, too, that he's stalling. She can't figure whether to be annoyed or relieved for the brief respite from the bomb sure to come, and ends up settling into a wary middle as she steps inside after him. It's about as decrepit as she expected. Watching the floor for rats and refusing any furniture that might be about, she steps around so she can face him again, and sets her arms into an uneasy fold.

Here she says nothing. Her look is silent, expectant, but patient enough to let him start on his own.