The Port is a half-decayed monstrosity of a city, mottled with pockets of life still desperately eeking out a living that is independent of the pervasive sense of lurking darkness. Not even the sentient kind, that which came out at night and overpowered the unprepared. Harry looked upon it just last night, gauged it and decided he was not going to back down ever again - call it pride, maybe stupidity, but he would not live a timid life. Not even in this place, not if he wanted to get home most of all.

He's taken from his thoughts, the contemplation of the city around them and the wind ruffling through his hair, when John says something. It's almost too quiet to hear, and Harry glances up at the very end to file something away about his companion. He chooses not to mention the idle words, and sits up a little higher when John guns the bike and does as he's told. Harry would rather have a frame and four walls to his mode of transportation, but that's because the Beetle has taken beatings through the years - beatings that would have left Harry dead were it not for that extra line of defense. It's being out in the open like this that is as worrisome as it is... exhilarating.

"I already ate," he shoots back, "but if you're hungry, you should get something." A cold dinner might not the best or most filling meal make, but he's not going to mention that. It's not important, and he won't be the ungrateful one. The corner of mouth that is unscarred had long since curled up - he's never seen this side of Marcone. Never put thought to anything but his role as Baron and boss. Now, that's been put on the sidelines, and they're two men with Particular Talents, trying to get home. Common bond, common goal.