That stops him in his tracks. He suddenly thinks of what the Signless would think if he could see him right now. Would he be ashamed? Embarrassed? Angry? He tries to tell himself Sans doesn't know what he's talking about. He knows Sans doesn't know, there's no possible way he could, and yet he's right. The Psionic hated that aspect of troll culture and abhorred it's violence. And yet, there was still a not so small part of him that wished that things could be different, that he could be like everyone else and not find any problem in the slaughter of so many innocents for the pettiest of reasons.

He looks at his own hands, to the skin that still stung from the feeling of iron against it. Did he only want to believe troll-kind could be better because it meant he was less of a freak? Or did he really want to change things? Could his motivation really be reduced to something that selfish? He just didn't know anymore. All he knew was that he much preferred the apathetic numbness that had plagued him since his return to the feelings of regret and inner turmoil that roiled through him now.

"...We both were." he murmurs, finally, before taking a step back. He looks to Sans one last time, before turning and running away. He knows Sans can catch up with him if he wants, but he's hoping the skeleton has no desire to follow him right now as he doesn't have the desire to discover anymore of his own hidden personal flaws tonight.