He follows her, taking in all that of what Capitol thinks of his homeworld-- their homeworld. It all rings of a sort of uncomfortable and he's not sure if it's because some of it's being incredibly wrong, weird, or right in other ways. He sees her Scalemates, as he recognizes from her little performance before she was arrested, taken from him. That feels so long ago now.

He sits on demand, immediate. His head is down again as is natural for an avox, and more so when under orders.

It's only then, when she speaks, that he realises what she's found and brought him to. Paint is here, real paint, all done as for indigos proper. That's the only thing what slows him down in all getting thought on her actual words.

Does he remember? Of course he does. There's not a part he's forgotten. Ain't nothing he's been as to forget. He wonders why she would think that but... he guesses it wouldn't be so impossible, which in its motherfucking self, is an uncomfortable thought. Memories were what he had best right now. Just because he's all shatteredlike of his selfness ain't mean he don't remember.

He nods, staring at the paint and breathing deep.