As before, Osprey was a blur of sound and motion at a relatively normal speed. Martin boggled a little, hearing much but barely catching everything in a timely way. It wasn't hard to grasp once he'd turned it over once or twice in his head, but still...

He startled a little as eyes fell back on him, put on-the-spot for a reply. "Uh--" Quick. What were the rules? Every Darkov child memorized them.

"N-no shots to the throat," he recited, automatically straightening up and bringing his feet together, as though he were on a spelling bee. "No fighting past scourge exposure, uhm. No direct joint shots if there's a rookie training. No class mixing unless permitted by Grandfather. No...Nnno..." He squinted. Oh. Right. "No contracted aides."

He paused, licking his lips, then swallowing. "Uhm...I think. I think that's it. Sir."