[And that's where Nick hesitates. He gives his brother only one more glance before his eyes settle themselves elsewhere in the room, anywhere but DiMA's face. He takes a long drag on that cigarette, catering to some psychological need for the familiar, the expected -- for how he wants to be perceived rather than how he is. There's still dried blood on his bare hand, the color mingling with the rust and corrosion that coats his skeletal fingers.]

I had to call a woman tonight to tell her I'd found her husband dead. Maybe he'll come back, maybe he won't, but... it got me doing some heavy thinking. It's not like I haven't watched people die here, but this one hit close to home. He's from Boston, been working with me on a few projects.

[And he's dead, for now. Was it because of the gods? Or something else? Was his association with Nick what got him killed? These are questions Nick isn't sure he wants the answers to just yet, not when he's barely keeping it together beneath his synthetic skin.]