No hiding. Good. They wanted to hide the program, what they were doing, from her. From themselves. If you have a different face then you're not the one doing the cutting, it's someone else. They were all someone else there, in that too-bright room with the light that buzzed in time with the machines. Truth light. A very personal interrogation.

River stands, still holding the tablecloth close. Underneath the cacophony of sounds and stimulus and emotion that she can't ignore there's a rational part that tells her this is all she's got now. Gotta go along, at least for now. She can run if she finds out he's lying.

"Who's Whiskey?" Has to check. Strange-smile man--Malcom--might be putting his trust in the wrong people. She did that, once, probably. It's harder to pick apart the older memories.