"Well, it's obvious—" Anders begins, though the unintended effect of that skeptical prodding cuts him off. Upon touching his tattoo, Connor is treated to a simple memory - seemingly, at first. Somewhere in a great hall, conversing by firelight, Anders is relating a story to a short, stocky woman with long, pointed ears, nearly buried in a suit of armor twice and again her size. On his lap he holds a little orange cat, playing with his fingers as they talk.

There were days when that stupid cat was the only person I saw. Except for it not being a person. Still. I liked him. Poor Mister Wiggums.

Why 'poor Mister Wiggums'?

The warmly lit hall vanishes, briefly, a memory within a memory recalled - there's hardly any light in the dungeon, and Anders remembers himself as little more than a shell, in his solitary confinement, hollow-eyed and filthy. He presses his face to the bars, trying to find the right angle as he peers toward the sounds of steel clashing and horrible shrieking and something unnatural's guttural roar.

He sounds as light as ever as he relays that memory to his companion, and the kitten in his lap bites down on his hand.

He became possessed by a rage demon - but he did take out three Templars. I was never more proud.

"—But maybe I don't get it, since I don't know a lot about androids. That's all sort of new to me."