[that's a lie, even if it's a very good one, and Tate's chin remains dipped just as his gaze stays on Crane. a look torn between subjugation and piercing inspection. like he was tentatively holding out his own filth to nervously let Crane inspect. it's fucked up, but you understand, don't you?

he pulls the chair out on it's wheels, turning it to carefully sit down. it forces his chin up, so he can keep looking at the older man.]

I had to do something. They'd keep you in there forever otherwise. You said they'd know, didn't you? The heroes. Because it was your toxin.