[ He thinks he grasps at Pilot's meaning--to be only one of his kind, the only one with his particular baggage, among so many others sharing a unified experience. He's a strongly gregarious individual; he likes people, he's interested in them genuinely. Some of that is his training, some of that is just him, personally. When he'd been in the Cube, the first few weeks had been very real torture--being cut off from his crew so suddenly, the death of Plex, and then pure, crushing, bleak loneliness. No one to speak to, nothing but him and his cell. When the Warden wasn't using him he'd be left alone there, disoriented, no idea how he'd left or returned, his mind in shambles. He isn't sure when it stopped actively hurting--only that it did, at one point, when he'd endured so much pain that it felt like life could throw anything at him, he'd survive all of it and more. ]

I try to forge connections where I can. I don't let myself wallow in it too long. I've learned to adapt quickly to survive.

[ He turns to his companion, offering a very slight pressure at the point where their shoulders touch. ]

Are you hurting, Pilot? [ What can he do to ease it? ]