It was like a jam in a copy machine.
A stutter, a whirring, a jerk, and he was – he just was.
There was pressure, weighing down and crushing and it took him a moment to realize that he needed to do something to make it stop – a gasp and the pressure was gone. But now he had all this, this stuff in him, filling him up and he was going to explode unless – release the gasp. Breathe.
Breathe in, pause. Breathe out. Repeat.
He didn't do anything else for a while, just concentrated on this bizarre concept, this sensation of aliveness that was foreign and fascinating and necessary. But then something else entered his existence -
"- alive! I can't believe it! Oh my god I really did –"
And there was something about this frequency that niggled in his consciousness, that he knew what this sense was called, that he understood it, that he recognized the pitch and timbre despite having never experienced it before. But it was too much to handle and process and he was suddenly drifting away, into a black not unlike the dark screen at the ending Title card. His breath continued, coming in and out, steady and even as he fell into dormancy.
Unaware of this moment, of the brief awareness displayed by the slumbering mass on the table, Joey Drew took off his ink-stained gloves with child-like glee and wonder. He placed his hands next to the creature's head, shaking in elated euphoria.
"Welcome to the real world, Boris."