[ All he feels is that sense of appreciation, and for what specifically, Amos has no clue. He has to assume it's for checking in on Archangel — because that's something people like, right? That's something a good person does, so for him to be in Archangel's continued good graces like this... That's probably what it is.

He frowns in thought as he listens to the explanation. It makes no sense to him, but he's gotta chalk that up to a difference in worlds. He gets that. And if someone's body reflects the pain they're in, and someone else's response is to just kill them... Amos would get it, normally. But to a child—

He misses Archangel's blip of hysteria through his own anger coming back up, his forcefulness in pushing it back down, even as he feels Archangel's own righteous version. Amos' just so happens to run hot, and there's nothing to do with that here, so he needs it to run cold again. Especially at what he says. That he would help someone who murdered a child. It leaves Amos blank, confused, stunned. ]

No, they don't.

[ There has to be a limit for what atrocities one can commit and still deserve a chance after. Surely even Archangel knows this. ]

What people like that do to others, to kids — [ Amos finds himself gesturing towards the pool, a tight and restrained violence in the movement of his arm — ] there's a fucking line there. Can't say anything about him never facing any punishment, since he's dead now. But giving him a chance? [ He scoffs as he brings his arm back to his side. Lets it hang limp. ] Where was her chance? Where was yours?

[ Or is he talking about himself here? ]

Fucker made his bed; he can lie in it.

[ Him and everyone else like him. ]