There's a great clang as Phil all but throws himself against the bars, manacles beating metal to metal, sound ringing dully off the stone walls. Pain is a visitor, he tells himself, pain is transient. Pain means nothing.

"What," he almost-laughs, "am I not good enough for you big boys? Mm? What've those kids got that I don't? I've got a handsome mug, I can run and fly. I can even shine your shoes."

Phil's dehydrated. He hocks up a thick, frothy mix of saliva, blood, and whatever was in the back of his throat and spits it in Heth's face.

"Ooh, sorry," he simpers. "I missed."

If one of them starts talking he's going to do it again, aiming for the mouth.