Well, tonight's revelry will be the judge of that, [ Claude says lightly, as though he's joking -- but a part of him isn't. A part of him still doesn't trust them, even knowing that their heads had been tampered with, not due to any sort of misgivings about Spock and Jim as individuals, but out of distrust of what had happened to them. He's aware that this is how this place goes; you are impacted by a curse or a spell of some sort, and a few weeks later, you're back to normal. But he can't help but wonder what effects may still linger afterwards, pathways laid down in their brains, priming them to be the worst selves. Could it really fade away so quickly? He wonders. He knows of this madness back home, of people twisting themselves into monsters, vengeful, corrupted, the way that the only recourse is to simply put them down.

Not that he's complaining about not having to kill his friends, or at least to try. He's no monster. He's just suspicious, as he always is, his sword worn as readily at his hip. Not that that's a warning sign in and of itself; for as long as Jim and Spock have known Claude, he is never without his weapons, a General too accustomed to battle to feel truly comfortable without them. ]

I've gotta say, even after everything, I think the two of you got the shorter end of the stick, [ he says conversationally -- and despite his own death, genuinely. ] It's no fun having your mind scrambled like that. I have no normal to get back to; the powers they gave me didn't exactly change my personality. [ A quick wink. ] Just a title I've never lived up to in my life.

[ Angel? As if. ]