[ He's not ready, but the narration suspects that won't do much to discourage a certain fine Southern gentleman.

Alex is stationed at one of the hallway communicators on the tenth floor, and he's looking distinctly worse for wear. Weird ropey, tumory shapes are starting to show under skin that's mottled with the colours of bile and bruises. And there are sores and blisters all over him, not to mention many slightly-bloodied holes in his clothes where the ice shards punched out.

He's still chatting away with his good buddy J, but he's twitchy as hell, clicking his fingers, rubbing his arms, glancing about. ]