At least he was awake this time they're herded off to this new little pocket dimension. That's what he's started thinking of these places as. Fully enclosed little slice of quasi-reality. It's comforting to know the shift is coming and yet in the short time they've been here — wherever here is— he's surprised to find the number of things he misses about Victorian London. Or at least, their version of it.

He wrinkles his nose at this gruel.

"Hygiene aside, I'll miss the food," he mutters. "Which I doubt anyone's ever said about the English."

For anyone who's ever gone loooking for evidence of Quentin's conscience this might be it. Alone and depleted by the festering regret of whatever he did to whatever spectre he saw, he lays sprawled in one of these many labyrinthine corridors. Starring at the ceiling, lazily chant singing something to himself, his head lolling back and forth with the imagined beat.

"And it's noooott fair. I keep on. Writing a. Sequel to. Stories I know that are not there. I don't wanna die. But I don't wanna live liiiike thiiiis.

Quentin's far too nosy to look away from that giant snowglobe that offers him a glimpse into the world he left behind. His eyes glow with reflection of light from that sphere as he leans over the scene of Krakoa. It looks all small and tilt-shifted down there and he he concentrates to see if he can pick up anyone's voice. That place is also so full of voices. The FOMO creeps in almost instantly. How boring must that place be without him? Did any notice he was gone?

"Listen, listen... Can you hear them? I think I can hear them from here..."