The Pursuer makes a side-glancing glare at the Mafia gunmen, and then shuts his eyes. "[i]Fool...[/i]" he says. And then, as the Synth scrunches his eyes up in concentration, each of the mens' heads suddenly and spontaneously combust, sending their brains onto the floor and walls, their bodies slumping onto the ground, and their weapons clattering down with them. Then Clink is released from his kinetic grips, as the Pursuer collapses to his knees, gripping his bald head. He grunts and hisses. His face is twisted and contorted. Does he show... pain? "I've outdone myself...!" the Synth breaths heavily. "Damn it..." His eyes open for a moment, and he hyperventilates, and then growls in frustration as his eyes are clenched shut again, his brow furrowed. "I can't move on... Why can't I move to another body?" He then glances up at Clink. "I'm done, rat. Finish me off, I have failed the Monarch. I'm as good as dead."