Silas offered an apathetic shrug. "Mankind is the real monster." He offered. "I read it in . . . uh . . ." The gaunt, sallow-faced youth trailed off. He shrugged again. It did not matter which assigned reading he had read that factoid in. And while the pair of them were singularly equipped to debate the veracity of that statement, Silas was disinclined to push the matter. He rested his elbows on the dark-skinned young woman's desk and leaned in to rest his head in his palms.<br/><br/>"No." He said at least. "I don't." Silas inhaled a slow breath, and let it out equally slowly, as if breathing was simply too onerous. "But<em>what</em>will we talk about? We<em>do</em>need to maintain appearances." He looked to Nicolette, and then to the surface of her desk. The desk had no answers for Silas. "Unless you want to do me a solid and snap my neck so I can go home." Silas looked up with what he wanted to be pleading, puppy-dog eyes but the result was probably more akin to a Kubrick stare.