The bombs weren't only useful for their usual purpose in a world where they had limited abilities. Without a project, a focus, Rude probably would have snapped harder than he had. Making explosives was a form of meditation -- one so intense that he, as Tseng knew well, often forgot about things like eating. He would stop when his focus was significantly impaired, because then the bombs weren't up to the correct standard, and if there was one thing Rude hated, it was sloppy explosives.

Finishing the food he was chewing, Rude took a drink of the beer as he thought over his answer. The problem wasn't really with Reno. The problem was with himself. He knew this, intellectually, but it would be work. "Forgive him, if he can see the problem with what he did." The slight squeeze on his arm had been a start, but Rude needed to hear him say it, because... well, it was Reno, and he didn't just throw the words "I'm sorry" around. He would mean it, if he said it.