Matsiyan turns away and rises, his face already thoughtful. A moment later he staggers and leans on the nearest wall, hands rising to his head. He stares sightless for a moment and mutters. It usually takes more than that. I think she’s… dreaming. A man, thin, tired, middle-aged. Weeping over a woman rocking a dead child. Wait… she’s not… human. He sucks in a deep breath, pulls himself erect. Pilot’s wings, grey hair, a package, a handshake. another breath Sweating, headache, a metal shape in a spiral of smoke.
He shakes his head. It’s gone. He looks up and says more loudly. Excuse me. I’ll get something for this headache and see what I can turn up. I’ll report as soon as I have anything. He sketches a shaky salute and walks out carefully.