"Predators often isolate." Unless they are more akin to a virus or contagion, in which case they find a vector and surge through points of contact. But that... This is too passive, whatever it is. Behind his mask and within the shadow of his hood, John grits his teeth—or some kind of tension that runs from his jaw to his throat. But...

"Maybe..." John's form sways, a shift in his weight like one might move from foot to foot, and his arms fold across his chest. "But then if they are merely impressions of memory left on the skin of the ship? What's accomplished then?"