"You did!" Every introduction he's made, he's transmitted that cookie, and almost every time he's gotten a failed pingback. It is a sign of how stressed Devero is that that little success transforms him; he stands a little straighter, his shoulders are less tense, and his face becomes markedly less forbidding.

"Thank you," he says, nodding an acknowledgement of the pronouns. Oh, and-- "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

He touches a hand to his Interface lightly, as if he needs to reassure himself that it is, in fact, there. "Everyone's networked, where I come from," he says. "Everyone. And most places, too. This train should have a transport local feed!" But this train has no feeds, no networks, none of the digital conveniences that he's used his whole life, and he feels deeply, painfully unmoored.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, upsetting his Interface briefly, and exhales. "Sorry. A tour would be appreciated, thank you."