For a moment, it's just the noise of the mostly empty bar and the quiet clattering of Jon's ice. Then, Tim laughs. It's a hysterical noise, a burst, and then a nervous, hysterical failure to contain it, not because of the alcohol but because there aren't many things that Timothy Stoker fears but having to willingly maim himself is probably one of them.

But he blew himself up. There's nothing more blind than death, is there? And they are far away from Jonah Magnus's awful institution and research facilities and archive in honor of research and knowledge and all-seeing knowing.

It takes a moment to reign himself in. His shoulders quake in the aftermath, but there is absolutely nothing mirthful about any of it.

"So. Daisy was in a coffin that lead to The Buried that made her abandon The Hunt. You were in a coma. Martin got groomed by an Avatar of an entity that embodies melancholy and depression and isolation. Basira went to pragmatism, as if she was exceedingly helpful with anything in the first place, and Melanie got out of everything by blinding herself. That's--that's a goddamn mess, Jon."

He needs more to drink. Desperately. It feels exceedingly like it's the only way he's going to get through this. "You sure blowing up the House of Wax worked?"