Despite appearances, despite all indication he probably should--Kira isn't one to run from danger. Is only one to run from specific, internal problems, in the most cliche ways available at the given time. When the news had come through--the bunker, the tubes--he'd flung himself down the river in search of anything but the fallout. He'd drank away the night of the meeting where everyone had their feelings out about it, because--

Even invited, even in a group of people finally catching up, presumably safe to unload them on--nobody needed that.

And he doesn't need it either. He just needs to stop steering out of the slide, stop standing still when he knows he has to move forward. The list of names is a bigger draw than another round of blood vials and hair samples, left on illogical display. Touching any kind of technology, again, after almost a year--there's a comfort to it. Like he's needed the shitty blue light to fuck his sleep cycle as much as he's needed the sun.

That he's soaking it up next to The New Girl doesn't really dampen the effect. There's comfort in not being alone down here, either. "They said there's a list of names, wanted to come see it." He leans his hip on the console and finds an empty panel on which to rest his hand. Shrugs. "Didn't realize there was a line."