The fraction of the second upon hearing that voice, Chilton ripped off the white (and recently purchased) captain's sailing cap that sat upon his head (intentionally and thus, unironically). His spine shot straight, dislodging his arms and arched torso for playing with the ship's wheel -- That. Voice. The melodic drawl of Doctor Abel Gideon was something that Chilton was only recently obscuring, and as if attuned to clockwork here was the man in present flesh.

Chilton shot down a glare as if his pupils were arrow-tipped. Abel Gideon, wheelchair-bound, but just as able-bodied in any other respect. He was a cycling menace, Chilton decided, and quick action was necessary.

"Out? And about? Without your chaperone?"

Chilton chided his visitor, planning to distract, while his hands fled to the deck -- he planned to pull up the drawbridge, so Gideon would be robbed of access. Time was not on his side.