“I wouldn’t go in there alone either, really…” the Flesh chimes in a flat and dangerous tone, “…good call. We must away now, Dallyrasse- I have a stop to make before we spice the punch.”
After answering, the Flesh whirls on him, seeping against his clothing in a wet and living wind, leaving only a face as it moves over and through and between the folds of his robes before fully forming again in all his ginger scarecrow glory. Now on the other side of the console, the Flesh stalks away through the shuttle’s bay hangar door like Sergeant Pepper on a bender.
Only when he himself returns to the cockpit does he realise it, as his lips chill to white and his hearts beat like dying furnaces against the loss.
Something is missing from his person.
And it isn’t the clutch purse.