Sawyer heard the words Drake said, when he gave his orders for the wine, and when he demanded Sawyer tell him what happened to him, where he had gone, what he'd seen in Amoridia. But they did not register with Sawyer. There was a vacuum in his ears, one that muffled and drowned out the noise around him, only leaving him to the blissful silence of his own shattered mind. Instead of meeting Drake's gaze, he looked to his environs; the long and beautiful wood walls, the marble floor, the silverware before him. Plates embroiled with gold, knives and forks laced with ivory... it would pay well, and his first thought was how he would case the place, how much he would get, any how much booze and drugs and cigars it would buy him. He heard the two men laugh, jovially and full of hysteria and he assumed he was the subject of their mockery, though he wasn't. But it did not phase Sawyer. The first one who looked to him and laughed as he emerged from under a bridge, soaked and dirty and sad, he took and slammed their head against a brick wall until the skull broke open and his head caved in. He then threw the body of the man in an incinerator, watching through the grating as he was vaporized by roaring flames. Eventually, though, Sawyer was used to it. Ostracism. Noses turned upwards. Disdain. Treated like a pariah, condemned to only dwelling in the grime and pestilence of the earth. It became commonplace. He saw Sykes dissolve away further into the grand mansion, and looked out his outfit. A beautiful tuxedo, black and white, unlike his world. There were markets for formal wear. They were needed on wedding barges, for social events, galas and balls and brunches. He had sold an outfit for just over a grand in credits, once. It was lucrative. But how would he get the tuxedo itself? He'd have to kill the servant, surely: but there was the variable of preserving the sanctity of the tuxedo and not raising suspicion. He could not get blood on it. Bludgeoning with a bent pipe ripped from the heating system? Whittling a shiv from a loose part of the wooden wall and sticking it right in his jugular? A long, fat beard of phlegm and saliva began to slide from his lower lip, strung upwards by a thin anchor on the lip, eventually slipping off as the congealed fluids fell into his lap with a squish. Black eyes dilated, staring at nothing.