Kira puts an arm over the railing, another under, eyes closed as he rides out another roll of earth beneath their feet. The steps groan, the building shivers. It's a nauseating kind of fear, and tempting to ease back down with Frank and the dog. As far as earthquakes go, he assumes this one is fucking bad, but--he wants to find his bird, he wants to see Karen with his own eyes. He wants to go find Mark and be given a real task, even if he's too drunk now to do it well.

"I don't care if you talk," he admits, still holding on as the shaking stops. He slides upward, one step taken between the words. "It's fine, Frank. Better than fine. I'm the one who needs to shut the fuck up, and I don't trust myself to do that."

So he'll go. Gold star for self fucking awareness, even if he winds up concussed in a ditch for it. "I'll message you later," he promises, finding the swaying door and pushing out into the inn.