There is a jangle of metal behind Helena. A legless proxy is hanging by the chains on the wall, delicate wires and springs snagged in the iron.

"In a sense..."

The proxy's voicebox suddenly goes demonically low, and the mechanical whir quickly grinds to a halt. Its voicebox is apparently in need of winding. He motions with his hands, caught in the manacles of the shackles, towards his voicebox, as if asking her to wind it.