Torch has a chat with Idiom.

Late the next night Id is walking through the Well, back to his room after spending the afternoon and evening pivoting between the Company’s basement and various possibilities. The catwalks around him are quiet and dark, no echoes or lights to compete with his own.
He is tired and, still unfamiliar with the route, he realises too late that the lights, instead of illuminating him as he walks, have led him astray. Stopping to look around, mentally retracing his path, he concludes that he is lost. Annoyed, slightly embarrassed that he will have to break the Well’s silence to ask the AI for directions, he is surprised to find himself stifling a frightened yell as the single light above him brightens to a searing intensity before burning out with a pop and a drizzle of sparks. He is in total darkness, total silence, and spiralling towards terror, despite reassuring himself that there is no need for such feelings.
Then, from the darkness nearby, he hears the soft exhalation of breath.
“Who’s there?” he says, voice tight and expectant.
“It’s only me Idiom, no need to be ah ... so alarmed.”
“What are you doing?”
“Just walking. Yourself?”
“I’m going to my room, to bed.”
“Indeed.”
They stand in silence.
“The light went out,” says Id, voice a little high.
“That it did. Tell me Id, I am curious, are you ah ... satisfied here with us? With the Company.”
“Satisfied? I suppose so. I’m more than satisfied with what I’ve learnt, with what Reg is teaching me. I’m satisfied with the investigation we’re working on. But then, I’m not satisfied with other aspects, aspects we’ve discussed before ... the violence, this casual immorality, the Company’s purposes,” Id says, surprised at how honest he can be here in the dark.
“I appreciate your candor Id. You still wish to ah ... stay with us then?”
“What? I have a choice now?”
“No, no more than before. I simply want us to be clear. Suppose I were to hear ah ... rumours, it would be good, would it not, if I knew your opinions, your feelings?”
“Rumours?”
“What about them?”
“You said you’d heard rumours.”
“No, no. If I were to hear rumours. Are there rumours I should be ah ... made aware of?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard everything that’s going around,” says Id, expecting a knife, or a deft flip over the catwalk’s edge and a long fall to the concrete floor far below, at any moment.
“I hear a lot, it’s true. Tell me, are you satisfied with the ah ... cortical implants we gave you?”
“Completely, I’m in your debt,” he says, sincerely thankful. Although he can no longer see the energy fields around rifts - at least not while the implants are active - this seems a small price to pay for the freedom from pain and from painkiller addiction they have given him.
“Good, good, I just wanted to make sure. About those rumours though, if you can try to remember, what we give we can also ah ... take away.”
Abruptly Id is plunged into an incredibly fine moment of agony. Pain so brief it is there and then gone, leaving him sweating cold and breathing hard.
“Oh. Look, the lights have come on again,” says Singer, completely unsurprised, and when Id turns he is already moving off down the catwalk, a small device briefly visible in his hand. A device that Id guesses must be a remote control to his cortical implants.
“Good night, Torch,” he calls, managing to keep his voice steady, noting with pleasure the small tic it produces in the man’s stride.
“Good night, Id. Pleasant dreams.”