[His face shutters closed and Booker contemplates standing and leaving right then. Aborting the conversation altogether and hopefully never breaching it ever again. He petulantly fantasizes about it, about telling her to drop it and just...leave him be.

But he can't. God help him, he can't just shut her out like he would have when they first met as much as he wants to.

He breaths a few slow times, just trying to figure out how to say it. To say he's never talked about this before is an understatement.]

You know what I did.

[Fires in the grasslands. Blood on his hands, dark hair tangled through his fingers and so many people screaming... Wounded Knee had never left him, despite his having left the field long ago. He'd figured by now that it was the least he could suffer: the reminder of what he had done, what he was. He deserved that much and so much more. But that was what stayed with him, among the rest of the skeletons in his closet and demons under his bed.]

I..Wounded Knee wasn't the only thing I did that I ain't proud of, you know?

[He wanted so desperately to look away. The shame a weight on his neck that tempted his head to drop.]

Nothing happened to me. I did it myself.