His mouth twists at that first admission and then his expression smooths over. He scans her face, gaze keen and impassive. He doesn't think of Rags as a kid—where they'd just come from there hadn't been time for childhood, and on the Barge he can't allow himself to. Can't think of what it would mean for the sum of some dead boy's life to have already been deemed unworthy.

But still. “Pathetic,” he says quietly, meaning her. Picturing Rags' bloody face and feeling pathetic himself, whether through kinship or complicity. Briefly he lowers his eyes. “Did you get something out of it?”