Sherlock's opinion on Extras has coalesced after a bit of experimentation: they may be human enough not to kill or hurt, to be sure, but that doesn't mean they're human enough to be offended by brusqueness with respect to coffee refills. He shrugs off her allusion to someone she knows; people are always reminding people of others in Taxon, a symptom of the displacement and homesickness they all have, he supposes. He's not immune. He finds himself drawing comparisons all the time. It's comforting to their primal, amygdalic selves, probably. That doesn't mean he's interested.

"Some of my plants aren't salvageable," he says apropos to nothing. "They suspended me long enough that they went unwatered. The Phalaenopsis deliciosa likely won't recover."