He takes Crichton's forearm with his left hand, adjusting his grip on his cane so he doesn't smack anyone with it, and gives a curt nod when he's ready.

And it's a relief to be outside; the smell of smoke is gone from the air, but escaping the forest of dizzying colognes and sickly-sweet perfume is already doing wonders for his mood.

"Let's not beat around the bush then, shall we?" His voice is low, wary of being overheard and whip-sharp for it. "You're new here. You woke up in a strange bedroom in fucking sixties suburbia with no equipment, no allies and no notion of how you got here, and everyone else is acting like it's normal. Locals don't introduce themselves," he hisses. "It's a small town, everyone already fucking knows each other."