"Good." From his tone it was clear that he required no further detail. Billy's mind filled in images of instruments he had only seen in movies--knives, pliers, electrodes, their clear purpose always hidden at the last minute by a daring rescue or a convenient fade to black. They were paired with the echoes of screams he'd heard filtered through the vents at Arkham, where it was unclear if the pain came from an outward source or an inner torment.

Perhaps the reason that he shied away from violence was that he'd yet to burn out the part of his brain that allowed him to contemplate the pain of others. There was no compulsion to help but there was the compulsion to turn away, to blot out the very idea that suffering existed. The thought itself was uncomfortable--was it any surprise that he was seeing a person for whom pain was a welcome amusement?

The cultists and their tools had taken control away from him. They had hurt what was his and they had broken his will so far that he had not even noticed what was lost. It was an even worse violation than what the vigilantes and the horrid collar at the asylum did to him. For that crime he wanted to know that they had suffered and known why they were suffering...but still he chose to look away from the gruesome particulars.

Billy wiggled upward to let Ragdoll's arms completely encircle his shoulders. They wouldn't be going anywhere for a while.