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Lorne, end of season two

The cloth itches at his arms. Cloth, he laughs, it’s nothing more than grass dyed in beetle dung. He had almost been excited to smell the plock weed and hefroot as they were jostled into the purple atmosphere, but it hadn’t lasted. By the time their merry band had reached the village he was ready to go. By the time his head was used as a spittoon he was wondering why they’d come.

Now that they were back in LA all he could do was lament the viscose he’d lost and the family he was too tired to miss anymore.