"I dunno." The question only agitates him further. When he's upset it's difficult to think. His chest is heaving, and he's pacing back and forth. Yanking at his own hair in frustration.

Life is taking the piss, and Marky doesn't like being pissed on. He's usually standing at the other end of the stream.

"I dunno, I dunno! What am I s'posed to do? Nothin' seems ta' make a difference, we're all dead anyways!" He stomps his foot and breathes hard through his nose, like a bull.

"An' if we is alive somehow, how am I t'protect meself and you without a gun!" He rounds on his heel and into the small room whence he came, kicking at whatever was nearest: a locker which dents easily beneath the toe of his trainer. The door pops open to reveal some stuff, of which he's too riled to notice.