He jerked his head back at the foolishness before the blood that was scribbled on his mask seemed to absorb into the bone white surface. Reaper gave a hiss of discomfort, shaking his head slightly before stilling enough to glare at 76. "At least I know where my blackened fingers come from," he hissed in reply. He had noticed them so up close. "You going to blow up a tree and whimper away this time?"

He did know, but he wasn't about to acknowledge that fact. They all knew. When one was sleeping in the mud or under some meager canopy, sometimes blood, dirt and everything else managed to find their way into the most uncomfortable of places. "I could say the same thing. Why are you even here? Shouldn't you be pissing on trees to mark your territory?"

He wasn't in control of the dream, or so he told himself. He wasn't sinking further at least. "As if. I can smell your breath from here and it's terrible."