"Maybe everything is drugged. Maybe it - m-maybe it's not. Even if it's not, I don't wanna make this easy for them."

Rhys the First tries a different approach, then: balling his robot fingers into an uneven fist before punching himself in the gut. He heaves -- dry. Again. And now he's gasping.

"I c-c-can't -- move f-fast anyway," he starts, when he's able to draw in a tiny bit of air. "Leg. Is crap."