Barnaby never thought he'd grow to like this city in any way, but there's something horrible about seeing it taken apart. Every cracked wall, piece of rubble, broken space makes the anger bubbling in his chest that much hotter, more ready to overflow into action. His earlier thoughts about possibly staying out of the conflict were foolish, he sees now; the Initiative has made the war a pressing concern for all of the transports, and he can accept that now. The United Earth, whatever else they are, have done something horrific and unforgivable, and he'll be happier to see them gone.

(And before when he looked around these roads, these walls, these paths, he'd seen a city not so unlike his own; now he sees where people had to flee, where people have died, where fire consumed.)

He'd been looking for a purpose before, fumbling around in the dark for a reason to keep going; and now he has one, all but literally falling into his lap. It's his own will (he's sure, right?) to accept it.

It's lost in thoughts like these that he approaches the area where Martin sits.