Ah. That clicks almost everything into place--the look of him, the discomfort, the injury (he's sure it's an injury, maybe an old one, maybe something terrible, it would match his face), even his curt tone. A mercenary is a dangerous beast, even more dangerous if they aren't stable. His mind ticks back to that fierce-looking little girl. Is that all Pheme saw fit to provide in the way of a handler? Is it enough? Is it too much?

Another tray, another drink foisted on each of them, the empties whisked away. The waitstaff isn't interested in Krauser starting to scream, either. "A mercenary." Bruce murmurs over the top of his glass. Here's what he's struggling with himself: "So does this feel like a vacation? Or like someone wants you out of the way?"