[ Claude watches as Aerith detaches herself from him and speeds on ahead, neither offense nor judgment in his gaze. He can't blame the woman. To find yourself in an entirely different world is a startling enough prospect the way that Claude had come here, cast away in a wide field with enough time to sit and think about things before being confronted with people and towns and noise...

Claude loves it, the hustle bustle of it all, the sensation that he's one of the people instead of above them. But sometimes, too, he yearns for the silence he used to be able to eke out between meetings. ]

It's abnormal to any sane person. Here, I'm afraid it's quite normal. [ His voice is still pleasant, but lacks the chipper brittleness of before. He's no longer trying to sell anything -- or buy anything, as the case may be. ]

If you look in your pocket, you'll find a note. It's your sentencing. Which is to say, it will tell you what your supposed crime is. [ Something to do with whatever she got herself caught up in, no doubt. ] Here's the spiel we're given: we are the Chosen, picked out by the gods of this land for our crimes, and sent here to repent them. We've been plucked from our homes and placed here, in another world entirely.

[ It's a lot to take in, he knows. There's no better way to say it than to just say it, unfortunately. He almost looks apologetic. ]

Sorry, Aerith. I wish I had better news for you.