[ But how much of a choice it really was? That is his own excuse, of course, but with the σ-virus crawling around in his brain, half-dead in the middle of some God forsaken forest, what else was he supposed to do? Perish the human inside and crawl the Earth as an undead thing, mindless, a corpse, less than an animal?

His fingers dig harder. Nails almost breaking skin. Shoulders so tense they could snap the muscles under the tight skin.

He doesn't say anything to him, then, having reached the nesting deck, where he beelines to the bed that he has used - further refusal to ever set foot inside the pod. Makeshift thing, probably not comfortable, but then again, he has forgone comfortable many years ago. Crouches next to his bag, an old, dusty, dirty thing, flopped over the blankets, checking the inside (old habit, rechecking everything). Makes sure he keeps his back to the man, blocking his vision as he checks the antidote (he still pretends it is a secret, even when told it is not; he has always been stubborn). A pang tugs in his chest; the number of antidotes keep plummeting.

He talks over his rummaging; like a distraction from himself. ]

Are you trying to sound like Cathaway? Because at least she sounds weird enough with all the "we". You're not very good at these speeches.