The turbulence is reminiscent of the fabric of reality being torn apart from the very center of your brain.
Not that it's something he'd experienced in this instance of reality, but something about those words rang true to him at just that time.
"What are you reading, Fox?" Slippy asks.
His voice irritates Fox sometimes. It can't be helped.
"Nothing," he says, trashing it.
Slippy glances into the bin and notes the headline on the newspaper reading STAR WOLF SAVES THE DAY IN APAROID ATTACK. He decides not to say anything.
"When do we need to be ready?"
"Oh, seven hundred," Fox says casually.
"Semper Fidelis," Slippy sighs. He takes the pot out of the coffee maker and pours himself a cup. Steam drifting off the surface, Slippy blows on it and flicks it gently with his tongue before making a -kkckkhhh- sound with the back of his throat. "How much we getting' paid, big papa?"
"Times are tough, Slip," Fox says, breathing through his nose. "Hard to say. Six hundred each?"
"Bullshit!" Slippy makes an exasperated noise as he sips his black coffee. "What happened to the Abloober case? Wasn't that oppumstacks?"
"Yeah. Yeah, that was oppumstacks. We got undercut by 'more qualified' mercenaries." Fox does the obnoxious exaggerated airquotes where applicable.
Slippy glances at the bin again. He doesn't say anything. Again.
"We're on the opposite end, which doesn't pay nearly as well." He pours his own cup of coffee. Cream. Sugar. A painful sip. "Hopefully we can hit them hard and wring them dry."
Surprised. "Are you talking about robbing other mercenaries?"
Fox looks at him like he's an idiot and pauses for a moment.
"If they're corpses," he shrugs and takes another sip. He makes a -hhhkkkhh- sound with the back of his throat.
Fox's vessel flies past a plume of black smoke like a dancing black snake in the gentle arms of the wind.
He then crashes into an irregular field of grass and gravel.
Were you to ask him prior to landing if he'd like to stay conscious, he'd say yes, I would love to stay conscious so I can arm myself and track down Wolf O'Donnell so I can shoot him in the face many times until he dies because that's what I took this dangerous low-paying mission to do.
However, Fox had no say in this matter.
He was unconscious on impact. He dreamed of a hundred savage warriors with spears amongst a blood red sunset, screaming and stabbing at a wounded dinosaur until its last breath was torn from its esophagus and its lungs were eaten in front of it as its existence faded into the void.