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Smokey bones pour bony rain. Without any lightning, thunder speaks in English, "My daughter, oh, I have waited centuries." Ace Cavernstorme cuddles the partially-assembled newborn in a warm wind. With a few flutters of the eye, you signal to the thing that it's time to get inside, this sappy storm has postponed your assisted suicide for long enough. The thing tucks its hand into your armpits and pulls you towards HQ. The Rolling Head follows you to the door, but you can see the indecision in his roll.
  1. "What's up RH, all of this schmaltz got you missing your pop?"
  2. "Should we talk about how this thing seems to be a rolling head too?"
  3. "Go on now, go on and get. I never liked you anyway."