He scratches his claws across the flesh of his wrists, where the red tattoo markings encircle his arm. He wants to severe them sometimes, but can never get that far. The marking have been there since he was brought back and though he doesn't know where they came from, he has the instinctive sense that they were important.

He hears her talking, his ear flicking back to listen as he words become more pained. His own breath quickens, as if in panic, but the sensation doesn't quiet reach his head. He doesn't care about the wounds, really. Some part of him just wants to hurt badly enough that he can die again.

He crawls across the floor so he's no longer in front of the door. He stares at the blank plain of wood for some time before he finally flicks the lock open with a small psionic trick.

He averts his eyes immediately. He's pushes his suit down to his waist, and he's been crying, even if his expression has once again become hazy.