"Dude, you drummed up an industrial kitchen's worth of potatoes to cook all by yourself; the last thing I think you're doing is sitting around. I think you're probably doing a lot of work to keep yourself from wallowing, but whatever you are, you're not lazy or pathetic. Or the kind of guy who feels sorry for himself."

Self-pity is pretty distinct from self-hatred, after all. She leans back against the counter, crossing her legs at the ankle as she studies him.

"A deal's the kind of thing that's far into the future. You could get one someday, and it could help you out in stopping the progression of this thing, but I'm not gonna ask you to depend on something that's twenty steps ahead of where you are right now. So I'm thinking, step one, we find you some super-powered babysitters - so that if we end up with a flood that lifts whatever the Admiral did that's stopped your infections in its tracks, there'll be people who can help rein you in and keep you contained, without you feeling like your only options are hurting people or dying. Back home, no one's immune. That's not going to be the case here."