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At two Peyton had left the dorms, heading out across the training fields and making her way out towards the remains of the town. It was a familiar path by now, one she didn't have to think about as she walked. Instead her mind was on her dreams, nightmares. They weren't as clear now, in the light of day, as they had been when she'd woken to them, screaming, in the night. But certain details still crept through, and she fixated on them.

<It's just dreams, they aren't really.>

An ugly little bark of laughter followed, and Warrick gave a sheepish rumble.

You know as well as I do that dreams aren't just dreams.

<You would never hurt him...>

She gave a derisive snort as she lowered herself to sit on a a crumbling stretch porch steps.

I said that about America, and I very nearly killed her.

<You weren't your self, that was different. You aren't a monster.

Peyton, dressed similarly, looked up as Jack's voice filled the relative silence of the town. A blink, as she considered him, then a weary smile. "Did you expect me to back out?" It wasn't in her to be cowardly, not really. She preferred to meet her problems a little more head on, it saved her so much more grief later on.

This problem was a little more unique, concerning, and it did make her hesitant, but with the way her dreams had been heading lately, something wanted stopped. If Jack, in all his glorious awfulness, could help, than she would bow to his rules.

For now.

The question had glossed lips pursing, and the smile faded as she glanced out over the rubble around them. "Fine." More or less true. She considered not telling him about the nightmares, they really weern't any of his ******** business, and she suspected he'd turn them against her, but if she didn't tell him everything(at least concerning this), how could she possibly expect him to be much help.

If he was even really going to help. There was a chance this was all just bullshit, and he was stringing her along for his own amusement. The thought had crossed her mind more than once, it had her scrutinizing him, looking for any hint of more deception than he usually presented.

"I haven't been sleeping well lately. Reoccurring nightmares." Small fingers trailed over the back of her opposite hand. "Where I'm hurting the people I care about."

"Well, we mustn't have that." it came out half sarcastic, but generally mild. More so than she usually was when she spoke to him. The effort to be civil was clear.

If that smile had lingered, if the tone had been condescending, she wouldn't have shared. Instead he seemed genuinely interested as he moved to take a seat near by, back to a wall, arms folded across his chest as long legs stretched out before him. For a long moment she watched him, temple resting on knit fingers.

"They always end the same, though the lead up differs. Sometimes it's a mission from the leads. Someone straying from the path, a liability, and I'm tasked to hunt them down and take them out." Pale eyes lost their focus, looking distant as she recalled the details. "Sometimes they're infected with the red-eye, and there is no saving them, only the mercy of death." Did Jack know about the red-eye? "Sometimes I'm infected, and there is nothing but the need to destroy, to win."

Her head turned, facing the road again, though she wasn't see it. Chin resting on her hands. "They're running, and I chase them down, pin them, and my dagger slips between their ribs and into their heart." It's effortless, always, practiced ease. "I count their pulse as it fades, and sometimes it's only a few beats, sometimes it's more, but it always fades in the end."

Her head dipped, fingers pushing pale hair off her brow. "Yeah, my promotion." So he had heard, but how much did he know?

"America was with me, we had to investigate a bass that had been suddenly abandoned. When we arrived it looked like the people had just vanished, up and dropped whatever they were doing, just walked out." Pale eyes flicked to him again, watching his face. "They did. We followed a trail into the jungle and found everyone dead, massacred. It looked like something had sweat through and just slaughtered them," she laughed, bitterly. "Nope."

Sitting up, she tucked clasped hands between her knees, pressing them together. "There were eyes, glowing in the bushes. Red eyes. Then everything turned red, and all sense of reason was gone. There was only rage, and violence, and the need to kill, to destroy." Here she paused, licking her lips nervously. "I almost killed America."

<It wasn't you...>

She shook her head, distracted, before focusing again. "She snapped out of it first, brought us back home with the pendant. We had to stay in quarantine for a couple days."

"I didn't see any bodies, just the eyes glowing from the bushes." She frowned, brows creasing as she tried to remember. The moments leading up to the fight were blurry, unclear. She remembered the base, the trail, the carnage, the glow, and then everything after had been the fight. Crystal clear.

She blinked at his second question, staring at him for a long moment before giving a very small shake of her head. "I don't know. They cleared me in the infirmary, but..." Her mind went back to America, the mission in Russia, and the chaos that had happened there. "When America went to Russia, it happened again. Only it was different, worst. As if the more, or longer, you're exposed, the more vicious you get. But also the more conscious." And worst, but she didn't expand to just how bad it could get.

"I think it takes root, and it stays with you, maybe lying dormant, maybe subtly influencing." Features pinched, vaguely angry. Not at him, but at her own words. "But I think I've always liked violence. I've always been good at it, at least." She shook her head, exhaling harshly. "No mood swings, maybe urges... It depends on who I'm facing, or the situation."

"Yes." Hands came up once again, smoothing through long hair and holding it loosely at the back of her head, fidgety.

A flicker of a glance. The intensity of his stare was a little unnerving, and she looked away. "I've always defended Astrid, always. If anyone tried to mess with her, I made sure they never considered it again. I got kicked out of a lot of schools, for fighting."

Of that she was well aware, but the means did justify the ends. Astrid was safe, at least until they picked up and moved again. It was a vicious cycle. Frowning, she considered his question. "Both, I think. One very often lead into the other. Hurt the a*****e that hurt my sister bad enough, and they never touch her again. Vengeance and protection." She did have a temper, anyone that knew her had seen it.

"Not so much the case here, where combat and fighting are encouraged for no other reason than to become better at it. There is no better division for me than Sun." There were times she thought perhaps she would make a good moon, but at her heart she knew better. It was why she was so grateful for America.

He had been behaving so well up to this point. So civil, so human. She supposed he was over due. A soft scowl hardened delicate features as he analyzed, tried to pick at her, poke at her. She wanted to tune him out, call him a liar, get up and leave, but she couldn't, and he ******** knew it. So the girl stayed put, fingers curling just a little more tightly in pale hair, eyes cast down to the toes of her boots.

The indolent smile had her wanting to cross the small stretch of pavement between them so she could smack that smug look right off his damn face.

Oh, but his next line of questioning froze her in place. She stiffened as he very obviously struck a cord, and shoulders hunched, hands moving in a way that let ombre curls fall into her face. "Conscious, but not in control." Her voice sounded funny, strained. She remembered the flash of fear in America's eyes when the hold on her had broken and she'd portaled them back to the island.

Then she was looking up, hands falling back to her lap as she turned to look at him. "That's what you're supposed to be helping with, Jack."