That makes Hank stall in his tracks, just drinking a freshly acquire glass of water with a knit in that deep brow of his and a pointedly unhappy look.

Then he moves the cup away. "I wonder if your superiors ever owned a fuckin' dog. I do. If it bit me, I'd wonder what went wrong that it wanted to."

He finishes stuffing his face and calls out a hello to Chris, buddy buddy with the guy, but that statement is lingering with him. He's had a bad feeling about some of the stuff going on up top. It's been chiselling away at him, that suspicion, but to cling to the last shreds of hope he's not wanted to know.

Maybe he should want to know.

Expendability is one of the issues of this place. It always has been. Hearing it, being reminded of it, is jarring in a way he can't quite identify. But there's a mother and daughter out there that need to find out what happened to their beloved fuckbag of a husband, so he needs to focus on that.

"Alright. Grabbin' my pack and then we're headin' out." He heads for a stretch of lockers to grab his goods, undoing the old school lock binding it shut (pre-war, scrounged early on) and pulls out a vest and a military pack that he puts on his back.

"We're talking to the wife and daughter first. We're not telling them that you're the killer. You're just my assistant on the case. Got it?"