Hm.

[ He scoops him close, Silco doesn't fight it — how damning — as if being closer will soothe the open festering wounds their worlds left on them. He reached around him, his arm curling around his back to puff at his cigar, but he reached around his shoulders all the same.

He thinks the statement is right, at least in part, but there is a part of him, as always, that rages against it. Wants to change it. Always, Silco tries, he makes it worse, because that is what he does, but he still persists. Unending. Inexorable.

Gripping so hard he breaks it in between his fingers, so that he can remake it as he wishes. ]

There is no escaping it, even here. [ Though it is better here, than where he was before — easier than the City or Zaun. He isn't strained to the end of his rope, he is not maddened and feral, gripping too tight onto the one tether he has to himself, watching himself spool outward into pieces as he flays himself bit by bit. He is different here, but he is also the same. The sum of the parts, his mistakes on his skin and worming through his brain. ]

Neither of us can. [ But is that not fine? They Understand this truth better than most. ] But at least that is something we are both used to.