Flint's look toward Barrow is the thing that stops him spiraling as he looks hopelessly out at the dingy room, letting the Commander's words sink in. This is, he grudgingly acknowledges, precisely the reason he has never sought out a leadership position before. Who the fuck is going to listen to him, anyway.

But Flint is acknowledging him, he sees that. And he gives a reluctant nod in return, raising his mug with a sarcasm imbued in the motion, as if he knows how foolish this all is but is doing it anyway.

"I'll have a think on it," he murmurs, "thanks, Commander." He means it.