"Rift," he repeats, drawing out the word with a fair amount of intrigue. He nearly shakes his head and disregards it.

A soft prickle hums along the contours of his mind.

There was a Rift, and there was a city. There was an organization. The memory is poorly organized, dimmed and faded, and yet something would indicate a sense of acute familiarity.

"Is this real?" He looks at his hand. He flexes fingers. The musculoskeletal contractions are perfectly timed, perfectly responsive. Nothing would indicate that this is in any way fabricated or false.

For the first time, Nicholas's even composure slips.