There's a pause as Murphy gets a hold, glancing back to the red-skinned man. There's a thousand things he COULD say, explanations or reasons or ... anything at all really, but what he settles with is "I mean it too."

He had no other father to compare Murphy to as far as he could recall, but none of it was ... bad. None of it. Even with the illusions torn asunder and painful reality left in its wake, if he had the opportunity he'd probably return to it. But there was no such opportunity, only moving forward. "Your Lucy was a lucky girl, for as long as it lasted."

Maybe longer than the few days he'd had! It's almost something to envy, if he let himself think on it for too long, so Xehanort is expressly not doing that. "... Blood's easy, peroxide and cold water." Why does he know that. "Grease is much harder to get out. I'll do the messy bit if you'd like." He doesn't have a sword, he has a baseball bat!

And absolutely no hesitation in using it as part of the ground cracks apart and some hairy, taloned thing begins dragging itself from the hole, hissing angrily. Or hungrily. It's hard to tell.