[One hand wrapped, Murphy draws it back, clenches his fist and releases again, testing. It's comfortable; not too tight, not too loose. He doesn't know what good it's actually going to do for his knuckles, but in the moment that doesn't seem to matter so much.]

Yeah. Sometimes.

[After a moment, after Bellamy's memories have started to fade in his mind. His own are coloured differently, happiness destroyed much sooner. His father floated and the misery of his mother's death drawn out long, soaked in alcohol and Murphy's complete inability to do anything to help her. Except stay and take every vicious word she sent his way. He looks back up at Bellamy, mouth tugging flat.]

I miss knowing what was going to happen. It sucked. It all sucked. But at least you knew how much it was going to suck.

[There was a safety in that. The process. The rules. They were bullshit, but somehow he thinks they were less terrifying than the desperate, scrabbling unknown they'd fallen into when they'd landed on the ground.]

But now I'd probably die of boredom before they even got around to floating me. [Tone drier again, mouth twisting in the corner.] Just can't win.