For someone who's so physically imposing, Venom Snake doesn't seem to take up much space. He's an oblique mass of carbon-black and sun-warmed tan, like a raincloud hovering on a clear day.

His mouth is the softest thing about him, and it remains slanted.

"You're not wrong." The joints of his mechanical hand click in time to his thoughts. A steady one-two staccato, as the red fingers bend from knuckle to knuckle. "On all counts."

Someone did try to kill them, someone did ruin his eye to keep him alive, and he probably will not, in his life, ever lose in a bar fight. Smart kid.

He almost leaves it at at that, but he figures that it's better to throw Tetora a bone.

"—I lost it on the day I got this." A tap against the horn-shaped shrapnel lodged in his forehead. "You win some, you lose some."