Reaper hadn't bothered to linger within the crumbling mass of the ship, seeing himself out of there as fast as his wraith form could carry him. A lot of things he'd seen and done are burned into his memory, but he doesn't let the weight of it cripple him. In some ways, his actions were none too different from what he'd truly wanted to do. It's not as if killing Jack is something he'd refrained from doing out of the goodness of his heart.

Some of it, however, forces him to feel remorse. He can still remember the face she made, the bare-bone hints of anguish hidden beneath the forcibly practiced ignorance of their affiliation. It's such a bizarrely small detail, something that should've been lost within the haze of his monster brain, addled with the instincts to just devour. And yet, there it is, rising to the surface like a pesky reminder of how he'd tried to kill his only ally.

He has all the time to just sit and rest, the regeneration of his wounds already taking effect as he strips off the ruins of his clothing. The equipment managed to stay in tact, but the leather will need to be replaced. Even his mask is removed, content to let what shows of his face completely dissolve into black nothingness, as he covers most of head and face with a t-shirt that one of the support staffers had tentatively handed it to him. His hands turn over, and the shine of the glowing blue glove is the brightest thing in this room.

"...fuck."