Dick's hand reaches out in the direction of her voice. His head stays slumped. Partially out of paranoia, yes, because those brain blasts hurt like a-- but it's mostly the illness. He doesn't believe she'd brain blast him while he was sick like this.

Especially not if she was planning to say it was a brick.

"Five out of ten," he said tiredly, his other hand trying to wipe his brow or check his temp, he can't even remember anymore. "Next time, sprint for the finish line."