So, here's what I've worked out so far: This place is...nowhere. There are people here from 18th century Scotland, and there are people here who live in space. All types. Met a lot of them at one of the very many bars you'll find here because what we all have in common, apparently, is alcohol.

[ Henry lets out a breath and runs a hand over the top of his head. ]

It's been better to just...go with it? Not accept it, two different things. But going with it while still actively looking for a way out seems to be what a lot of people do. Because no, there's no way out of here that anyone's been able to tell me, no calling out. No internet, even.