Lots of people use Hyperion's stuff, mutters the voice, abruptly and apparently deciding that it's still relevant here. We use their stuff. You know that.

Krieg makes a wordless, drawn-out sound that's really best described as a growl as he eyes Rhys with a cold glare. His free hand opens and closes methodically, straining against the itch to try and rip the mechanical arm straight from its socket.

No. That would be rude, insists the irritating whisper in the corner of his brain.

He stabs upward with one finger, gesturing pointlessly at a ceiling that doesn't open to sky. "The yellow H in the moon!"