Right, see? This isn't so bad. Just like... like explaining things to a new arrival, not that he has any notable experience on that front. Martin — any iteration of Martin — is a far cry from Norah. He's even feeling good about the direction things are headed in, the inevitable comparison between the madness of home and the madness of Darrow, until Martin mentions Sasha, and John twitches in his seat as if he'd been kicked beneath the table.

Christ. He doesn't know. Not about Sasha, or Tim, or what the Institute really represented. How in the hell is he supposed to get into all of that?

John pulls in a breath, easing back from that proverbial ledge. He hasn't been asked to get into all of that, yet, and he is both tired and cowardly enough to take the easy exit, to focus only on what's been put before him and not the sea of implications beneath it.

"It is a lot," he says first, taking a sip of tea to buy himself a few seconds of breathing room. "But, er, not related to anything we were investigating. We thought it might be, at first, but... I think it's just a coincidence that we went from one strange place to another." He takes a slow breath, schooling his expression. "The others aren't here, though. Well— Daisy is, Daisy Tonner, but I-I don't believe you've met her, yet." He gestures, a bit weakly, towards the ceiling. "She's just a couple floors up, actually."