“Theta Sigma, you are fundamentally an arsehole! How the hells am I supposed to get your sorry rump unstuck from Flesh-coma? If you’d just told me beforehand I could have prevented your getting stuck between the Flesh body in the Infirmary and this one in the first place! Your real body, hear that, Princess? But no, you had to go and be a wanker!” The strains of a spirited rant funnel dimly from somewhere pitchy and rumbly.
And would someone turn the red light off, please? It’s hurting his pelvis. No wait that’s a skull; is it his?
“You swarthy bag of dicks! I’ll have your head when you wake up! OW! Your stupid lovely brilliant whore of a ship has hidden the telepathic transducer! Where in Sepulchasm is it and why are we idling?”
My, but that yelling is unpleasant.
Humming softly, he tunes out the transmission from his outer ears and focuses on his oftimes greyish cravat and his heartsbeat and his lips.
They are tingling- but that’s what you get when you land on your spine after falling through the eye of a Museum. Well he is fairly certain he isn’t a camel. Although the golden curls do give that impression, he recalls being told.
And it’s The Museum, isn’t it? How queer, to return here again.
He opens his eyes; just the sight of the bright rubble-filled land before him serves as good a buffer as any, blocking out the rest of the distracting noise. To his right, however, there is the rushing of water, a great big water, as an ocean or a bay. Or perhaps a swimming pool.