Josh listens in growing horror to the emotionless descriptions of atrocities. He doesn't know what to make of it, of the big redhead. It's not the kind of litany a man who approves of that kind of treatment would recite, but... there's no discernible anger, no disgust. Just facts and figures, as if the people he's describing, the horrors they're subjected to, don't matter, and Josh realizes that he might actually be sick soon.

"Jesus, how can you-" He voice breaks and he stops and scrubs a hand over his mouth, swallowing back bile and wishing his head would stop pounding and his vision would clear. "You're selling people to that monster and you expect me to care about your hide?"