The outfit the other wears wouldn't be out of place in Neo York, but that's hardly his problem. Nor is it truly what's on his mind: he very much knows he should be dead, so a thumb fidgets somewhat idly with the strap of his goggles (repaired, somehow, instead of snapped in half and scattered across the ground).
He grimaces. He's been bad at socializing his entire life, save for one or two people, and as much as he needs to learn his way around...the concept of both being alive, and somewhere entirely new, is simply throwing him off alone. But at least he's got a phone, even if it's practically a brick.
(He wonders if the eyes that meet the stranger's look empty. People always told him that they did, like flattened glass, before.)
"Me has...two questions. Should this be considered an afterlife? Regardless of the answer to that -- do you know anywhere here that sells a good pastrami on rye?"
If there's anything Centipede knows about himself, it's that he's a stress eater...and this is a reasonable amount of stress to be under.
@blankticket
