Dextera would give anything to be able to say no, but Emet-Selch’s detailed description of the illness brings up too many similarities with a disease—the disease—that ravages the world he left behind. He doesn’t know if it exists anymore, but it’s a plausible sickness to burn through any citizenry capable of thought.

So he nods, his guilty expression turning grim as someone who only knows too much can make.

He can’t speak, but he does have a mouth, he knows words, and so he turns to Emet-Selch and points to his lips for one carefully-articulated explanation, even in silence: “Home.”