Metzger has already seen it: the wind, the wreckage, the heavy black clouds. He’s German, no taller than 5’7” -- dwarfed by the ship idling at his back -- and older, grizzled silver about his whiskers. The pulse of his hovercraft’s jets thrums through through the ground into his boot heels while he unpockets his network device.
He’s been slithering in and out of these tunnels for thirty years, give or take. ]
Climb back in. [ He hooks a thumb back at the hatch, busy checking his messages. ] I’ll return you to your snot bucket.
[reality]
[ No judgment.
Metzger has already seen it: the wind, the wreckage, the heavy black clouds. He’s German, no taller than 5’7” -- dwarfed by the ship idling at his back -- and older, grizzled silver about his whiskers. The pulse of his hovercraft’s jets thrums through through the ground into his boot heels while he unpockets his network device.
He’s been slithering in and out of these tunnels for thirty years, give or take. ]
Climb back in. [ He hooks a thumb back at the hatch, busy checking his messages. ] I’ll return you to your snot bucket.