[b]November:[/b]

It’s a broken laugh. It’s that or cry. “I poison every database since 2030, I put backdoors in every piece of surveillance software ever made, I destroy BlackSun after they drag me out of my own mission control," this he hisses through clenched teeth, like he's about to spit blood, "I make my home in the belly of the monster and make myself indigestible, and you brag to [i]me[/i] about your plan to be the Count of Monte Cristo." He cups his face in his hands. You can't tell if he's laughing or sobbing. "And her wicked stepmother taught her how to play the game, but didn't teach her [i]target acquisition[/i].”

He's quiet and still again. His voice is low. “You think yourself a super spy because you’re angry, because you were betrayed, because you’re [i]clever[/i]? Do you think your mistrust makes you [i]safe[/i]? There would be no Monte Cristo without Faria.” It takes him three pockets to find a hunting knife. Wood and ivory handled, antique but in immaculate condition. The Park’s emblem is laser-burned into the hinges. “I’m going to cut myself out, now. You keep pointing that gun at me as long as you need, but I want to show you something. I would like it if one of you were to give me a hand down. I can’t take a fall like I used to.”

He's not mad. He's just very, very disappointed.