[ The window brings Wriothesley a kind of comfort, and etches out a new facet that describes to Pinocchio just how different their lives have been. He realizes that he can't stand the wrongness of the saucer in the boxer's hand, the shattered cup on the floor at his feet; when he approaches, he pulls it from his fingers and stoops to collect the fragments of china into it.

A part of him wants to do this for him. The rest acknowledges that it might be his affection for the man — or that he was simply built this way. To serve, and doing this scratches an oft-neglected itch. Resenting the thought, he focuses instead on Wriothesley's words, the sound of his voice. The pieces clink and chatter while he listens, huffs a soft laugh at irresponsible.

Pinocchio is good company for mischief and irresponsible decisions. Especially without his cricket guide to keep him on the straight and narrow. The question makes his activity pause, his chin tipping up to direct one visible blue eye towards Wriothesley's back, now turned toward him. His gaze drops, thoughtfully, the muffled chuckle of busy clockwork betraying the mental exercise. ]

That depends. For some, life here might be an improvement at the cost of freedom. For others... I suppose I'd be relieved by their departure.

[ A pragmatic answer. Here comes the selfish one. ] Their absence would... preoccupy me.