The voice coming from beside him startled Arty momentarily. He jumped in his seat just enough to be visible and looked over to the man beside him. The voice was familiar. He didn't immediately make the connection to the voice he had in his head with the memory so foreign he had assumed it to be a subliminal plant of some sort meant to distract him.

"It is not entirely about being heard, as it is about seeking answers." His voice was low and soft, his earlier panic forced internal and held in place with all the restraint he could find to keep on it. He was suspicious, if only because he did not recognise Hardison, and a stranger was dangerous in these times. He preached trust over paranoia, but in the middle of the changes around his world, it was a hard rhetoric to follow.

The pause gave him time to work out, slowly, the familiarity of the voice in his head. Hardison's voice.

"When nothing but the unfamiliar surrounds you, a touch of familiarity can go far in finding a moment of peace, and your voice is - familiar." In a way that could have been seen as a threat to his life and the lives of those he protected, but he had no other spots of light to put his faith in. He had to trust in something.