Goddamn multiverse.
The only good part is that no one so much as blinks when he punches the mime that had started following him around and stuffs him in a trashcan. He's not sure exactly how he ended up in a fucking space-time terminal, but location doesn't matter; mimes aren't people. All the signs and pamphlets assure him he will find his way home eventually, and sure enough, everyone here who isn't acting lost acts like they know exactly where they're going — they walk, they fly, they use golf carts and take monorails and use booths that must be either for teleportation or suicide judging by the way people go in and don't come out. So far, he's declined to use the giant hamster tube things. It just doesn't seem right.
The free piña coladas make him suspicious, but what the fuck. He's not going anywhere until he figures out the designation for his home universe, so here he is, sitting in the wide open forum area on a couch and paging through the communicator index, the still wiggling legs of the mime who accosted him sticking out of a nearby trashcan.
