Fortunately, a studio can't be too open. By design, there are all manner of little hidden areas behind the scenes - like the dressing room where North finds himself flopping down onto a chair just as his legs are starting to go shaky, the adrenaline of the fight wearing off and threatening him with the rising swell of pain and confusion. He props his rifle up within easy reach before he goes to work at the catches of his armor, gloves predictably gummy with the foam that's somehow melted down to a viscous slick in patches.

"That was some great timing back there," he comments, making conversation mostly to distract himself from the way those dozen-plus slices and jabs are layering with the pounding in his head into a nauseating muddle he has to fight to keep thinking through. "Thanks."