Retreat he does, as far as the nearest bookcase—a negligible distance for anyone in this room but him—with a slight detour to kick the fallen device ahead of himself. It skitters along the floor, rattling horribly, and hits the base of a shelf: still preferable to the stomp of scuffling boots.

"Library," he pants, the sending crystal aglow. Half a breath's hesitation, then, as he glimpses the greenish scar across his palm. If it comes down to it—

No.

"Library, first floor. It's hostile—hurry—"