The sight of this new Niska is so eerie and uncanny: her mannerisms cut down to the bone, to the bare minimum required for efficient movement. Nothing extraneous, no human tics or fidgeting or restlessness. Spine straight, posture perfect. That dry-as-bones humour doesn't get a laugh out of Brigitte, but the side of her mouth twitches. A kind of weary, rueful acknowledgment that, at least, Niska tried.

She pauses on the synthetic's doorstep, her hand against the doorframe.

"Call if it gets worse," she says, over her shoulder. First, do no harm keeps looping in her head. She's not an actual doctor, hasn't sworn any formal Hippocratic oaths, but something still squirms at the thought of abandoning someone if they're injured, if they need help.

Even if she can't quite look at Niska just yet.

The door opens; she leaves.