The lip of the bottle remained poised on his lips as Falcon spoke. For a man of so few words, he had the soul of a poet. He quirks a brow as the helmet rolls past his feet, but keeps his main focus on Blue Bird; for once doing the listening rather than the talking. And as his speech draws to close on such dire words, the soft tune of an old Rapture medley slides past Sander's lips as he sidesteps the helmet and weaves over to his friend. He eases himself down, resting his back against the wall and peering over to the broken man.
"In my experience, a man who questions who he is often times is the same man you'll see dead in news reports...found floating face first and bloated in a creek." Sander winces as the words fly from his lips. They sounded cruel and unforgiving. Then again...they were. Clicking his tongue, he takes another swig of the bottle before offering it to Falcon; holding it mere centimeters from the other man's lips.
"Not true," Sander starts. His green eyes dance over Falcon's slumped form, bathed in the violet light and catching a hint of blue from the windows. The old bird smiles, "you're opinion means all the world to me." And it did. Sander staked his existence on the opinions of others.