11. “Those old, nameless bastards we work for are beautiful and terrible and absolute. They are also archaic and far too patient. We are none of these things.” The figure leaned in closer. It’s flesh had begun to seep. It’s eyes, greasy puddles of indigo. “We are angry...and petty...and bored. We want back in. Not when those adorable omnipotent sleepyheads finally decide to put a pot of coffee on. Now.”