Rinzler hates being grabbed. In a fight or out of one, there are few better ways to prompt retaliation—with an elbow, or a disk. But Rinzler doesn't flinch. Doesn't move.

"Don't?"

The world rolls out, slick and sharp, a natural syllable embedded in the pattern of white noise.

"Don't fight, don't harm. Or did you mean stop speaking, this time?"

The stairway lights dim and flicker. A low-power hum, sapping light. Sapping energy. The hand on Rinzler's arm will feel it too: a lethargy, caustic and heavy, seeping through the touch. Breath skips in a half-laugh, and the program shakes his head before triggering his helmet to rezz up, one section at a time.

"What makes you think you get to tell me what to do?"

His mouth is covered, but the added shield does nothing at all to damp the ringing. Black eyes vanish out of sight, but Rinzler's stare can still be felt. He twists his wrist, returning Nihlus' hold, and the added contact amplifies the sound. Echoing, after each word. Like a different speaker.

"Because you've been there?"

Like a clear and perfect Voice.

"Or because you thought you'd woken up?"

The opaque mask slants, casting Nihlus' reflection back. Skull exposed. Face hollowed.

And lit from within by two glowing points of blue.