Roland speaks impassioned, even when he keeps his voice cool. A man with a task, and Tidus can sense it, become more certain that he fits nowhere in this job. He wants to know more, to unravel what's going on, and every part of the determined effort that Roland attempts to drag him in - despite setting out the question of what he wants- makes Tidus all the more agitated in his own skin.

It's a want to escape, there on his lips; his mouth moving wordlessly as that agitation builds, yet unsure if to express it. But he can do this, he can't-

"I'm not-- I'm not this guy you think I am," he starts, the words dumb in his ears, but he continues anyway, fingers gripping into the leather of the book. "I don't know anything 'bout getting intel or what's going on. You shouldn't waste your time asking me. Ask someone else. Ask over the SCAs. I don't know how to help."

But he hates it anyway, everything he says--a guilt, a shame, whichever one, it sinks in deep regardless. It's like he's giving up without trying, useless, unable to help. Not reliable. Because everything Roland speaks of is beyond him, utterly beyond anything he knows to do with. Tidus sets the book on the table and stands, Roland's figure entering more in his frame, but he refuses even now to look higher than his chest. Folded arms. Roland will tire of him now. He's just a kid, in the end. It won't matter.

"I'm just...here to do the mission. That's it."