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In Akhos's head, of course, every time he adjusts his glasses, there is a dramatic orchestra hit to signal that he is about to deliver an exceptionally powerful bit of monologue soliloquoy about his impending victory assured, his cleverness in the enemy's rout.

When he wants it to, anyway. Not when he's sweating in Mor Ardain and his nosepads are slipping.

Zeke's flourishes, when he intermittently hands off the scythe to its rightful owner, are of course duly appreciated, if not applauded.

His moment. His action. His call, as the director.

But Zeke's partner cue and flashy wink, to give.