[ A flesh tank, all the same. Alva picks up Petra off his shoulder - she's started eating his hair now, that's not healthy - and cups the feline neatly in one hand. Small things look smaller in his hands, but ask him if he cares.

He does sit on the unmade bed now, watching the floor as the shadows cast by schools of fish undulate like the waters they're swimming in. Where does the current come from, he wonders? Who's going to clean the glass on the other side of the room? ]

Your body might be fine, but you still need to breathe. [ Alva frowns a bit, thinking over the past few months. Surely nothing's changed that drastically? ] That hasn't changed, has it?

Should I be worried for your lungs?