He's about to retort--as well as he can--that he doesn't care about putting on a good show for these sadists. But the other has a point, and has survived here far better than Dennett has, so he's going to swallow and nod and try not to look entirely pathetic.

He can smell the blood, at this point. He can smell the coppery tang of it even over the saltiness of the waves. He's figuring the blood is that bright red, arterial. Not a good thing. The absolute worst thing.

It was strange--a few minutes ago, he was afraid of the other turning on him, attacking him. And here, he... managed a nod. "Yes. Please. If you could." Maybe it wouldn't be as bad if he accepted it this way.