Thus far, he's yet to draw the connection between the flowers and him losing his goddamn mind, largely because he's fairly positive that he's already predisposed to lose his own mind, and that sort of thing is fairly regular when your neural topography has been so fucked over by AIs entering and exiting with extreme prejudice and a civilian COC that was more preoccupied with running its agents into the ground and shifting them around like chess pieces than it was with giving them what they actually needed.

"Yes," he says, automatically, because survivability is an instinct, and that's the same instinct that has him powering through the fog slammed down over his brain and straightening despite the surge of vertigo to his gut. He could take a bullet to the chest cavity and still drag himself toward a terminal, coughing hard enough to jog the fluid in his lungs.

That was him, wasn't it?

There's a hand available to him. He takes it. It's not sheathed in turquoise, but it's still familiar in too many ways for him to dissect right now.

"I keep thinking I've done the psychotic break already. I guess there's not a hard limit on those."

That...that feels more right. That kind of low, sardonic muttering, spoken as an afterthought ground out between gritted teeth. That sounds like him; more like who he's supposed to be.