There appears to be no reaction in him. He doesn't say anything, and his posture doesn't change. The weight of his gaze, if she can feel it - genuinely perceived or imagined in paranoia - remains. Vigilante and assassin are not mutually exclusive, but she seems to be choking on the notion of murder. He wonders who taught her that. (And how well, for her to be scrambling to unlearn it, blood-soaked and bruised.)

"There are many questions still to be answered about the Militia."

Even without the synthesizer, his voice would sound dispassionate, free of clues about his emotional state, if he's judging, guiding, or critiquing her. There's a faint high-pitched rumble in the distance, and he moves finally, rising to balance against the far supportive cables. She should move, too, unless she'd like to get run over by the El Train in a few minutes.

It's something to think about. Questions, that is. Questions that no acting Militia agent or properly power-fearing citizen will answer. Ones that could be coughed up by someone with a big enough chip on their shoulder; are they cleaning up the city, killing these men, or are they doing the Militia's dirtywork for them, silencing potential leaks and making themselves targets at the same time?

(Why the hell is she alone? How old is she?)