The rest of that could be commented on, but Andyr’s a bit taken by the question, eyes widening a bit at the man as his brows knit, a wary, incredulous kind of almost-smirk on his lips, as if he’s not sure if that’s supposed to be a joke or not.

“You always psycho analyze people five minutes after meeting ‘em?” If it’s meant to be good humored, nothing of that shows in the tone, but it isn’t spoken harshly either. More blank, distanced. For a long moment or so, Andyr’s deciding whether or not he wants to try to answer that seriously, or just tell this guy to fuck off. Sucking the inside of a cheek between his teeth, Andyr idly chews as he thinks it over, eyes cast aside at one of the stained glass panels against a far wall. Eventually, he comes to a conclusion.

“No. Neither.” The answer he’d come to after reflecting on it, honest in how it’s given. “There’s nothing left to prevent losing, and my way of rebelling is a lot more violent than this.”

Massacres, bloodbaths in the Hapsburg hallways in the times he’d gotten free, scalpels plunged into the bodies of lab techs that couldn’t restrain him fast enough, guards with their skulls crushed open when they’d relaxed a bit too much around him. But the not caring? “They never cared about what happened to us, so why should I care about them? Let ‘em die off. That’s evolution, isn’t it?”