The ward smells like antiseptic and muted brass. Fluorescent lights hum in a steady, indifferent rhythm. Rows of reclining chairs line the room. Behind plexiglass, a bank of monitors blink with flatlines. They call it care. You don't. Jazz moves in on quiet pedes. You are in a reclining chair at the end of the row. There’s a soft haze around your head because of the the sedation. Your optics flutter now and then and you make no sounds. You don’t need to. Jazz speaks enough for both of you.

"Ya doin' good. Good job holdin' still for the nurses. They like when ya hold still."

A nurse passes, clipboard clacking, and Jazz nods at her. You blink once. The crease between your optic ridges relaxes, just enough to make the sedation fog ripple.

"They put this stuff in ya to calm yer circuits. Makes ya quiet for the doctors. But quiet ain't the same as gone."

He reaches out and strokes your face plate.