Micolash doesn't have to ask twice. Majima puts a couple meters of healthy distance between himself and the eccentric man, reaching into his pocket and palming his PINpoint. Just in case.

"What the flying fuck ...?" For a moment, he has trouble processing exactly what's going on. He feels suddenly lightheaded as the hallucinations and fever dreams during that miserable year come to mind. It's the closest mental model his brain can construct around whatever this is.

The hypnotic suggestion adds a new layer of discomfort. A bout of dizzy vertigo makes him stumble backwards, upending a chair with a loud clatter. It distracts him enough to tear his eye away, even as the nauseating noises continue.

"Stop," he says, keeping his head resolutely turned away. He repeats himself, this time with a snarl, "Fucking STOP!"