When her demeanor changes, Benedict straightens, knowing his days are numbered. "Nothing," he mutters quickly, before he can stop himself, then winces again; he already admitted to doing something, so that's obviously not true.

"I, um," he mumbles, staring at the ground, "...he was getting in my face, and. ...and I." It's so childish it's unbelievable, he recognizes this, and that makes it worse: he never had any siblings growing up, or any playmates at all, or this might be more familiar territory.

"...well I poked him in the eye. Through his helmet."