"Locus-" There, he managed a word, he managed consonants, he managed coherence. Goal made and attained in the span of a moment and he allows himself enough leeway to bury himself deep in the neural lace. To tangle and snare along every singing nerve so this is his experience.

York happily rides shotgun, shivering under Delta's soft cries, his clawed fingers grasping at Locus' shoulders. "Too much-"

He wants this to last. He wants it to continue for as long as possible, forever-