Fortunately the building doesn't appear inclined to make any out-of-the-ordinary sounds. People come and go, a clock ticks steadily, and the city's noise is muffled to an ever-present amorphous rumble. Through all that, Azwel sleeps, but it's not the heavy, peaceful sleep Vash usually sees. He would occasionally give a small twitch of a hand or leg, or his brow would furrow for an instant. It's a fitful sleep, clearly fraught with dreams.

Eventually Azwel's eyes flick open and for a moment a frisson of panic flashes through him--he has no idea where he is. But a small clock on his nightstand stares calmly back at him, its gears steadily turning. He breathes a long sigh and turns, seeing Vash there. For s few beats he just looks at the other.

"I don't think their drug worked, this time," he says. "Or, at least, not nearly as well as intended."