[Of course he'd go right back. Maybe a part of him - maybe even a lot of him - knows that he's better off away from there, but he can't stop thinking about it and he can't stop thinking about Him and anyway, he's meant to be there. Someone's got to be there, and what if that captain went and...

There isn't anywhere to be outside of the compound, anyway. Isn't any such thing as home - that concept doesn't even make sense anymore - isn't anywhere else he would feel right. And what's this guy know, anyway, what's he know that makes think he knows the score, thinks he knows better than The Man?

The problem is, this guy's not listening. Maybe The Photojournalist is saying it all wrong. Maybe he's getting the words jumbled again, but he knows there's something to what he's saying, and the guy just isn't trying to understand. He didn't try to understand at the compound, and he's being just as... just as close-minded about it here. Why can't he just try for a moment to listen, really listen? Probably if The Photojournalist told this guy the right questions - not that The Photojournalist knows what those are, but if he did - the asshole still wouldn't listen. He'd keep going on about how The Man is "crazy" and how everything's fucked up and how The Man is wrong and--

And The Photojournalist is getting tired of hearing it. Because it's wrong. It's wrong.

He moves toward the guy, tapping a finger against his head.] No, no... How about this. How about I've got a question for you.

See, Jack, it sounds to me like you're doing an awful lot of saying what's wrong. Sounds to me like you think you've got answers. Where to go, who's crazy, who's got the right to act, who deserves to... who deserves to live.

But I have a question for you. You tell me, Jack: what do you remember?

I mean back there, I mean back in the compound, I mean middle of the night dead in the water, I mean the noise that pulls you out of sleeping, I mean Him.

I mean what happened.

What do you remember?