There's something new in Mulcahy's bearing that makes Gaeta take a closer look. Not merely fatigue, like the last few months; almost like part of him is -- erased, somehow. Washed out. The light doesn't seem to illuminate the color in his face and clothes very well.

"No, not too terrible," he says. Gaeta throws a tolerantly amused glance toward Peter. As if in offering, he fishes out a piece of Brass and holds it out in his palm. "I'm afraid to say calmer -- I think I might jinx it. But it's been easier than I expected."

The vague unease of the Visitor's Center can't compare to a full-on plague, after all.

"What about you?"