A few minutes into the blackout, Cecil's still talking. He isn't sure if it's having any real positive effect - no one's really replying - but it certainly isn't hurting, and it makes him feel his own existence more acutely, and so he continues.

At first, the beam of the flashlight on the other side of the room is a welcome sight - worth interrupting the third in his running list of possible causes of the blackout for. "Well," he says warmly to his invisible audience as it approaches, "It looks like someone here came prepared! I'm sure we'll all be looking back on this with fond - though slightly nervous - laughter in just a few-- hey."

The smile he had prepared for their rescuer vanishes as the beam of the flashlight catches him full in the face. He flinches, putting a hand up between himself and the glare of the light-- he can't even tell who's holding it through the bright spots now taking up most of his vision (though he's pretty sure no one he knows would be that inconsiderate).

"Uh," he says, and feels a spike of irritation-- he can't remember where that last sentence was going. He's been thoroughly interrupted. "You know, we're all already blind here, friend-- so could you maybe...?"