Chase grunted at the strike, his ears and head ringing for a few seconds. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, peripherally aware of the words and doing his best to hold onto them. He could focus in on the pain, the cutting into his wrists, but it wasn't quite enough. The second strike seemed to straighten something out again, and after shaking his head briefly, he felt immediately awash with fear, and paranoia, and hatred, and rage, and an unfathomable helplessness, worse than even that first day in Zenith. He was going to die, he was almost sure of that now, and the prospect of it was so insane, so horrible, that something in his head snapped.
The sound started in his chest, before snorting out through his nose, spraying a little blood across the table. It manifested into choking, half-wheezing laughter. He looked up at Simms, his left eye closing against the swelling and blood that dripped down across his face, and his lips cracked painfully as a manic smile crossed his face.
"Aw, poor you," he managed until his laughter transformed into ragged, gasping coughs. His shoulders heaved and vibrated as his body tried to decide which action was more important, and he managed to get one statement out before succumbing to the latter. "Smells like...fried pork in here."