"[b]Er... Alright. I can imitate Garin too, y'know.[/b]" Drake said, unnerved by Sawyer's unusual dissolution. His copilot had always harbored a grim, stoic darkness behind his warrior past, but whatever had realized itself inside of him, it wasn't good. Drake had never seen such an uncharacteristically numb face on his friend until now, but he recognized the look. He'd seen it on the fringes worn out cantinas, where ruined men lamented their fortunes with emptiness. He'd seen it in strung out outlaws who'd lived and laughed their last, forgoing their former charisma for the numb embrace of psychedelics. He'd seen it in the shattered mirror, when he'd consumed himself with avenging Celina until his only waking thoughts were those of hate. Drake leaned forwards slightly, the RnB music contrasting the scene with painful sharpness. What had Sawyer done do cause this upon himself? Did a lifetime of fighting finally wear the man down to this pitiful imitation of the warrior-mage he had been? This wasn't Drake's area of expertise... But Michael hadn't given up yet. This dichotomy between past and present would be no longer. "[b]Aaron,[/b]" he said quietly, addressing his former friend by his first name, "[b]What did you do to yourself?[/b]" Inwardly, Drake scoffed. Kindness, concern, what good were they to him? Sawyer was glazed out of his mind, and the abrasive part of Drake yearned to declare it so. But Michael, the friend, the ghost within the machine, could not give up on this man yet.