The white digits of the mannequin's fingers tap out the layers of audio that consumes his attention. Nerves are electric, feeling the tingle through tendons and sinew that he isn't entirely sure are there anymore. It's very humanizing; the texture of his pants where he can get lost in the thread pattern and the ridge of each stitch, pulse syncing with a soundtrack rather than a scraping, frenzied torrent that made his skin feel like a prison cell.

The background is muffled through the plastic and silicon shoved in his ears, but the haze of hot rage and bitter metal warms him like the sun, reminding him somewhere in the buzz why this all made sense. A shield between reality and madness where the Lost walked the line. He tilts his head as a red ribbon splits across his shoe like a thriving root, followed by droplets of mist dusting the concrete floor.

The man's head waves impatiently in front of his eyes, and Fawkes could swear he can see the air swirl around it, bright eyes tracking the movement with renewed interest.

Oh.

Right.

He removes the earpiece. "-cara de muñeca?" The man smiles impatiently. A few of the others snort a laugh, shaking their heads as they converse over the sobbing traitor bent with his head between his knees. Fawkes didn't speak a lick of Spanish, but they didn't really need to translate, nor were they ever going to. He flicks the white chip that could either be a tooth or the other's blown skull fragment with his boot, watching it skitter while he blinks.

They hadn't paid him to take a life; they just enjoyed to watch as the quiet gringo presses the borrowed pistol to the man's forehead. The cold, needling tannin that coats his throat like a drought of wine brings a flash of nostalgia while the traitor gives whatever information they're waiting on; looking for any trace of sympathy in the mannequin's blank features.

He's a thousand miles away.