As his parachute filled and caught his fall he stopped stressing out about the ingate silt. Everything in his head slid away with the waning floor and his eyelids sank to half mast. His senses dulled so he could barely hear his dad yell-talking into the phone about "raring circulation bioengineering." His limbs were limp, a feeling he craved almost more than the flight of his brain and he bent his fingers, barely able to make a fist. Luke was staring at him from the bean bag chair. "Replacement major, man," he said. "Don't even worry about your dad and the workshop shit. The silt probably won't even clog. He won't even notice." He could tell Luke was speaking at a normal speed because of the way his lips moved but his head was so side-vetted that it sounded like Luke was speaking soooo slowwlyy.
He couldn't even respond to Luke's attempts at comfort. He was fucked anyway. His dad will notice and he will lose his glossy syntax saved for customers, detonating into anger mode, screaming bloody murder. He looked down at his arm. The rhymed hirudin stubbed upwards into his vein was still leeching liquid into his blood stream. The hirudin was a nice touch. He didn't have to do anything except let go.
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