[ He doesn't know if he regrets this. It's difficult; if this was really the best time for this, or if there was never going to be such a time. Robby rubs a hand over his mouth as Prompto goes to sit on that curb, his hands off the cart. Quiet at first, but then he takes a step over. ]

...Not really. [ And he lowers, to take a seat beside him. Knees up, arms draped over them so he can rub his hands together this time. His own voice a note lower. ] We found out last month. But this place is fucked up, and-- they have a lotta control over us. If we can't find a way to change or stop it, it'll keep going. 'Til they're satisfied.

[ He's not looking at Prompto but at his hands, the white cloud of his breath. Remembering the room of photographs, the crazed sounds of conflict mingling with a stereo playing joyful music.

Isn't it more wrong to keep downplaying what can happen to them? What's happened, what will happen, if this goes on? ]