Okay.

[Jayden doesn't sound enthused. He's regarding the journal with some irritation.]

Have to ask. How many people in this place are thirty or older?

[Because, Christ, there's nothing here. No real actual nightlife, no dating. Especially light, casual encounters.]

I could really use someone to drink with, and I'm not doing that with a kid.

[He is really, really considering taking up smoking. Because he needs a new vice.]

And another thing -- These missions I've heard about. What are they? I need a favor from the Malnosso, and I've been told that's the way to get one.

[The book might as well be a laptop. That, at least, is how Norman Jayden's explained it to himself. Why it isn't a laptop, he doesn't know. Shouldn't most dreams give him something familiar?

Still, dream logic. He knows not to really let himself worry about that. Especially if he is in some sort of coma. He'll wake up when he's good and ready.

Which isn't t say no one's given him the lay of the land. He's heard all the explanations, read the "Newfeather Guide," found an apartment. All that good stuff. He still figures he's either strapped down in some psych ward or out on some hospital bed, but if this is the world his mind is presenting him with, he'll deal with it.

One thing he's not happy about is how much pain he is still in.

Which is part of why he's figured out how to get the journal to record.]

Okay, hope I'm using this thing right. [His voice has a heavy New England accent.] I'm new to this... Luceti place... [Pronunciation's close. Not right to most ears, but probably good enough.] Special Agent Norman Jayden, FBI. Don't have my ID 'cause I don't have my wallet.

[But that's not important. What is...]

Before I got her, I got myself into a fight. Got a couple cracked ribs -- talking really doesn't feel too good on 'em -- and some other small injuries. Mostly just the ribs.

I could use some painkillers if anybody's got 'em. [Can't hurt to ask.] Barring that, a good drink'd be great.

Vodka, maybe? Ice, juice for a mixer. Something like that. Anyone got some they can spare and wouldn't mind bringing over here?

I'd appreciate it.

[Okay. So. It works sort of like an online chat. That's what Jayden's figured out from the time he's spent under slight medical care -- still suffering from cracked ribs and other surface damage -- and settling in to his new apartment. He's had basic questions answered, been assured this is real and he's not insane, and read the "Guide."

Now, is he convinced he's not tied up tight in some psych ward, rocking in place and staring at the wall? Hell no. Really? That seems the most likely situation.

But whether this is real or just a complex hallucination he's stuck in, he'll play along.]

Um. Good afternoon, Lu...ceti? Hope that pronunciation's right. [Close enough. The New England accent is extremely evident.] Agent Norman Jayden, FBI. [He holds up the identification card he found in the shops.] Looks... like I'm gonna be here for awhile with all of you.

[...Shit. He should say something else, probably. But. What?

Well...]

So, most of my stuff's here. Found it over the last couple days and all. But I'm missing a pair of sunglasses. Pretty plain, but they've [it's risky, but he can hope it's taken for a brand; that's how they were designed to look] got "A," "R," "I" on the side of them. Anyone seen 'em? I'd like 'em back.

Um. Other than that. Yeah.

Guess... it's nice to meet you all?