"Are you all right?"
That's, like, the seventeenth time in five minutes somebody's asked him that question, so York is halfway to answering before he realizes the voice is coming from inside his head.
His vision is still blurring and doubling—hardly seems fair, seeing double with just the one good eye—and he reaches out to snatch at the wrist of a passing medic. "Uh," he says, "I think something's happening." Halfway across the room, he sees the Director look up sharply, start stalking his way.
"I apologize," says the voice in his head—says the voice in his fucking head. "I did not mean to cause distress. The first integration can be disorienting. It may help to focus on my voice."
"Okay," York says. "Sure, yeah. Focus on the creepy disembodied voice. No problem." His own voice has jumped about an octave in terror, so he shuts up for a minute, just watches the room spin around him. Someone's standing at his shoulder with a sedative in hand, and he shoots her a reassuring grin. Well. He shoots a reassuring grin in her general direction. It's hard to tell if he's hitting the mark, just now.
"The disorientation will pass," the voice says. "Hello, Agent York. I am Delta."
York doesn't like the determined look in Sedative Lady's eyes, so he stops himself mid-introduction and settles for a high-pitched, noncommittal hum in response, teeth clenched together into a rigid smile. Sedative Lady takes a half-step toward him, glancing to the Director for her cue. "I'm okay, I'm okay," York says. "Let's hold off on the big, scary needles for now, huh?"
The Director, much to York's relief, waves Sedative Lady back, then leans in closer. "Agent York, can you hear me?"
"Yeah, I hear you."
"Oh," York says, his voice climbing again, "he's here too."
A green light is flickering and blurring in his vision. For a second there's a weird pang of hope in his chest, because that's what they always tell you to watch out for when your vision's returning, right? Flashes of light, jolts of color. When they took the bandage off after the accident, when they were assessing his case to determine whether the damage was too extensive to support a prosthetic eye, that's what they'd been asking about. Light, color. Anything.
The green light brightens, but he can still feel the weird muffling on his left side, the frustrating, familiar smear of perception, and his hope flickers out as quickly as it flared. "Hello," says Delta, who is not so much a disembodied voice anymore as he is a little green dude in armor, a holographic projection. Which is, y'know. Not any less disconcerting.
"Hello, Delta," says the Director, and adds, "Agent York, you can relax. The integration was successful."
"Yes, sir," York says through teeth still gritted in a rictus grin, his muscles tensing like they're trying to turn themselves inside-out.
"Agent York is understandably anxious about this procedure," Delta says, which is just great, because a psychic little green dude in armor is exactly what York needs right now. "Given his recent medical history, a little paranoia seems... logical."
That catches York up short, because there's a weird spark of humor in the words, something deadpan but a little teasing, something that might someday, with a little coaxing from a true master, become a halfway decent joke.
"I am here to assist," Delta adds, when the silence stretches too long.
York exhales slowly, letting the knots in his shoulders ease away, and pushes himself up on his elbows. His head is still spinning, but the little green light is a focus, a beacon, a sharp still point in the blur of his vision.
He takes a deep breath, feels the pull of the scars on his cheek when he smiles. "Hey, Delta," he says. "I'm York."