"I never thought I’d see you this way, Fyodor." On Greta’s parlor wall across the room from Lindsay, Ryumin’s video-manicured face glowed with bogus health. It was a good replica, but to Lindsay’s trained eye it was clearly computer-generated; its perfection was frightening. The lips moved accurately with Ryumin’s words, but its little idiosyncracies of movement were eerily off-key. "How long have you been a wirehead?"