Breathing was a burden. It was getting hard to remember. There was something, something about that orange orb in the sky… shining outside, out of reach. Vibrating fluorescent gray light bathed him, burning through to his second skin.
Words swirled through his, through its?... through its head. “Wage Slave. Hump day. Working for the Weekend. Week full of Mondays.”
It was drivel. He, it rather, it could tell. Formulaic emptiness repeated ad nauseam. And then there was that too.
Their silly language made up of so many dead parts. More formulae repeated themselves. They said much and nothing. Oblivious, they were, to the great and unusual beauty around them.
He was done! He ought to just mark them as violent and ask to be taken off world. Perhaps he could request a transfer…
And now he thought like them!? Do not request. Demand!
This was the last straw. Its final report would be sent in tonight.