He doesn't pay the robotic arm, or the buzzsaw, any more attention than he would a regular arm. It's as if part of his brain has already accepted them as part and parcel of the whole -- of the person they're attached to.

And this person will never harm him. He knows that. More than he knows his own name. He holds onto that thought, suddenly not caring where it comes from or how true it is. It's surety. More than anything. He knows this man. Knows he would sooner harm himself than anyone else.

Whatever they are... that remains unchanged. For what good it does them.

His grip tightens, almost as if he's intending to jerk the other man closer. Something more stable and real to hold onto, in the midst of all this.

"I was... I'm a soldier," he manages. His voice sounds dry, raspy. "I have always been a soldier... Even like. Like that."