Don’t I know it. [He knows it. More than anyone he knows how overwhelming skewed senses can be. Remembers the time he lost his sight, Jesus’ words on his ears almost echoing in the middle of the forest the same way as his gunshot. He could swear he could hear his sweat and blood dripping into the pond lapping at his knees.

He is pretty sure that if his consciousness hadn’t joined his sight into the void at the moment the adrenaline subsided, he would have gotten to his knees in a very undignified manner with the nausea that was threatening to overtake him.

The years adapting had been hard, but Mamoru wasn’t expecting anything but.

Interesting, really, how Mamoru’s head picks the memory of a walking aide landing on the floor last. The reverb of its weight and its owner’s hitting his knees, the taste of bile in the back of his throat, the dryness and ache in his eyes as he adapted to the prototypes Igawa had stuttered to him about.

The kid had been so terrified of him, he remembers.]

That’s a pain. You never know when that kinda thing can be useful.
[ He moves to lean back against the wall.] What was it you did before you got here, then?