Benedict is not, contrary to popular belief, stupid. When Finnick's entire body seizes when Benedict grabs for his arm, he instantly feels guilty, well aware that he has apparently stepped on some sort of trauma for the man, all because he was careless. With a murmured apology, he unclenches his fingers around Finnick's wrist, placing his hands pointedly on the tops of his thighs as he kneels on the ground beneath the bar.

"Gunpowder." Most high-quality long-guns were powered solely by weapons crystals, but Benedict has been on enough tours of duty through the Spirearch's Guard that he has become quite familiar with the smell of cheap, low-quality guns, the way the smoke tickles the nostrils and makes him want to sneeze.

"And ozone." He frowns, turning his eyes back to Finnick and away from the flower. "You smell the sea?"