None of those are real languages, c'mon.

He's a little sticky himself, sweaty and stale from lack of sleep, but for once he is smiling, and he seems to mean it. He has an energy again he's been lacking for the last couple of days; some singularity nestled in his core which now stirs, a racoon unfurling from torpor, looking up at the sun. )

( The sun is starting to stream through the scant slits of windows left exposed, where the shutters had not been fully closed. The room smells kind of like cardamom, Joel dropping a tray on the bed with a whole compendium of alien foods he guesses can be eaten for breakfast.

Yeah yeah sure whatever. Here.

Yeah, terrifying . . . !