Emotions, as Kazuhira Miller reaffirms, are difficult. Venom spends the majority of the hour post-disembarking in fielding his second's swinging moods, starting first at acerbic, then emphatic, to adoring contempt. He doesn't understand how to allay Miller's devotion, how to reconcile his companion's willingness to sacrifice life and limb for their cause, only to spit poison at him for it later— more and more he finds that the language they share is far from a common tongue, and the tenuous time they spend in each other's company, licking and reopening wounds, clings like ashen fog.

What is affection, anyway? Kaz says he has it, as does Ocelot: and now, Eli. They come to him in different packages, frantic and scripted and...

...and. The last one, he can't describe. It sounds to him like a malaise, like violins in the rain.

Silent feet fall over metal grating, traveling through the labyrinth of walkways before they stop in front of the room he now knows to be Eli's. He knows what some people would call this— 'a fucking mess'— but he has reassurances for the girl in the form of important documentation left snug in the suitcase they'd retrieved from their mission. Their pains and trials, not entirely in vain.

"...Eli."

If she doesn't answer, that's fine; he'll disturb her when the sun sets tomorrow, to take her to the roof of their Medical Platform where they can hunt for nocturnal seabirds.