The Master’s hand opens on a bunch of soft grey.
He remembers to open his eyes, but his eyelids lift on a strange landscape of headless, legless women set on poles all around.
There are clear white windows like sheets of spun sugar, everywhere he sees. Everywhere he looks.
His fingers traverse the grey. He lingers, sensing that his presence has been in another place but recently. There is a golden ring on his other hand, the one not touching grey.
He blinks, staring up, on his back, at a pair of stick-frame breasts that wink at him, their bounds the casing of an unfinished house. They end in truncation, with nary a bum to show for it.
His eyes, less bleary now but for aetheric beam locators, that somber expression of womanhood, take flight about the room. The space is less dark and markedly less boring than he first imagined, relying instead on high ceilings like turned out steeples, the whole thing cornered, drawn and quartered by inside-buttresses carved with a thousand white equines- a mob of hooves.
The grey is crinoline, he realises, as he pulls it to his face and buries himself in her old clothes.
“But they’re not old,” he murmur to the empty air inside her Type 102. “She’s coming back for them, if I have to deliver her myself. That idiot better keep her in one piece, or I won’t…”
“Or you won’t love him anymore?” says the female face randomly popping out of the white box-shaped console sticking from the floor. The face has a seam running from one eye all the way down, like a bonkers playing card turned decorator.