"Why don't I get a goddamn helmet," he mutters, not paying attention to the pun. He's lived with Jim long enough to develop a fairly strong immunity to wordplay like that. He takes a deep breath and gives Charles one last desperately pleading look. "I'm injecting a neutral dye so I can read the activity in his brain while you talk to him. If you could get him to state his name and something else baseline, some facts, I'd appreciate getting that information before I go to my death," he notes, chipper in his wry sarcasm.

He steps back, gesturing to Charles to be on the front lines for when they wake up sleeping beauty.