[Oof. And he was cozy. He barely looks up, reluctant to meet her gaze; he knows that what she's saying is true enough, but he still feels so... limited. He's not some great leader or battle-seasoned soldier. He's a scrawny kid from the Upper West who can't even draw a bowstring or lift a sword or swing a decent punch to save his life. Viral tried. And he can't look at a wound anymore without bringing back memories he'd rather left buried as much as he can. He's pretty good at dodging attacks and staying balanced while airborne and hey, he knows how to dance, and that's... still useless.

The pessimist in him is very, very stubborn apparently.]

They can take that too, remember? They did it a few months ago. They took our memories... now our powers, too. They can take everything from us and leave us empty, if they want.

[And it's damned depressing to be so helpless. Especially when identity means so, so much.]