[ There isn't enough time (nor does he have the focus) for Booker to school his thoughts into the more mundane, the more accessible — and so with touch of her hand over his wrist, she might feel the maelstrom of deep-seeded loathing, grief, and sadness that seems to be all there is to this beat up man. He has been broken, and he allowed the shattering of his spirit to be the thing that guided him throughout his very long, very miserable life. He is not a happy man, he hasn't been for some years — but at the very end of it all, at the very edges of the darkness that shrouds him, is a thin line of light — of hope. He is very much a man who hates himself but is capable of the kind of unconditional love that could make someone feel whole and safe.

Unfortunately, it's not very obvious in the bruised and bloodied sad sack Wanda has in her grasp, and when Booker finds his footing, he jerks out of her touch. He doesn't need her to feel all of that, it isn't right. ] — merci, mademoiselle. I think I am all right.

[ He coughs, still tasting the sharp tang of iron on his tongue.

And she isn't wrong, of course. They would sooner sweep his body out with the leftover bottles of emptied booze and cartons of half-eaten deep-fried foods than get him to a medic. So the distant way he'd held himself softens slightly when he finally has a moment to study his rescuer. ] Most people who come to watch aren't concerned with what happens to the fighters after. Why are you here?