David's voice echoes in the chamber of metal Erik has assembled, as do the scuffs and scrapes of his straining to move.

“Be. Still.”

There's poison in command, corrosion that wears the same voice into something coarse, all acrid metal and sawed teeth. What little he empathic output he registers across Medbay cools the hollow where he has his soul stuffed in under his heart, mounting fear into resolve.

“He isn't human.”

Erik issues counterargument in direct aside to Charles, who isn't there, eyes blind and sighted fixed on target with a fervor that belies control in the quiet of his voice. Quiet to tune David out of this A & B conversation.

It's not very effective.