The white walls of this Institute facade seem to go on forever, unmarred by anything but the pulsing, veinlike trail along the floor. The voices resonating through the hall get louder, more recognizable -- but Nick still can't place when this was, who that other voice is. Is that his brother, the only other prototype synth out there? The only one who might understand how he came to be? The one he might have, in a confused fit of rage, murdered with his own, mechanical hands?

Why can't he remember?

His pace picks up the longer he's in that hall, the voices and the need for truth urging him on. He has to know; he has to find out what he's been denied for so long, what has been eating him alive since the gods sent them into one another's dreams. There's a second where nothing else matters, where he's sure the sounds are getting closer, but—

He stops as Safronov's voice cuts in; his fingers curl. "The hell is this, Safronov?" he asks, as 'mnemonic synthesis' apparently wasn't clear. He didn't get his memories copied from a scientist.