They're frozen, the pair of them, as though waiting for the other to react the way any sane person might. To judge, to fight, to flee, except that the gravity of their shared life experience instead allows the moment to falter and eventually tick by, leaving them behind. His eyes drop, duck, flicker toward the pile of broken branches and dead limbs they've accumulated silently between the two of them. Other volunteers spread out yards away, out of earshot and paying them no mind.

He lets the bundle fall from his arms and clatter atop the pile; really just an excuse to try and wrap his head around his loss of brain to mouth filter. He doesn't know why he answered, and her question drives a spike into his brain. Short circuits his train of thought until only the truth swims through him, a pounding drum of urgency to share it.

So he looks up, brow knit, distant and uncertain.

"Because that's what I am." A soldier, then a weapon. A tool. It's the shortest and truest answer, the most concise and the most accurate.

And if he's laying it out there, he figures it's only fair to ask, "You?"