Darsby had retreated into his bodily shell as unwitnessed energy. His powers sought refuge to amass another bought of feigned weakness. Being stuck at a level only just above that of humanities best physical specimens is likened to being deeply poisoned into a near-comatose state for him. Spending moon after moon in this vehicle had taxed Darsby into treating his body and mind as if they had both been depleted, his tendency towards dramatics only working to further these unhealthy habits. Recent events had dealt at least some form of a successful blow into changing him back into his usual self. He'd been through much before transcending to his current status; he'd do well to remember said days. 

"They've really done a number on you... Or, perhaps, you did a number on yourself?" A gentle voice radiates throughout Darsby's submerged consciousness. Strands of magic connect him to a distant space where his familiar dwells, busy at work.
"Have I always been so difficult?" Bubbles float from Darsby's ethereal lips in this space of tangible thought, each one slowly disintegrating, allowing words to echo into the open void. 
"Certainly. I often find myself looking after you." Our earlier voice responded in kind; it's soft syllables brush gently against Darsby's mind. 
"...Will you be checking on me here as well?" He says after a long silence. 
"Yes, in two days. I'll bring snacks, your favorite." The voice states in motherly tones. Darsby sighs at such a kind offer, seeing it as perhaps a pinch overbearing. Then, with the accuracy of an atomic clock, the time limit to Darsby's rest is reached. 

Silently, our troubled traveler opens his luminous eyes. His mortal shell takes several seconds to account for all of its separate parts as dust is witnessed to dance gently in the waning sun of a dying day just above his revitalized features. He takes a few moments just to lay there, returning his mind to places it's long left in the archaic sands of time — days of walking beneath purple sky's, hours of drills and meals with long perished companions. His present body may not require food or air, even so, these thoughts brought a faint grin and distant hunger to his typically soured psyche. 

Darsby eventually sits up over the edge of his mattress in one smooth motion, lithe legs spilling over lumpy bedding. He examines his surroundings with what most humans would perceive as extremely heightened perception. He can hear it, the sound of wood and wind a floor above and beneath him. He can smell them, the grass and trees surrounding Grandpa Jacks Estate. Even without eyes, the world would be full of plain detail for a fair amount of surrounding meters. Long years spent honing abilities to perceive greater constructs than Earth have paid their dues in some small way here. 

Darsby blinks at the nearby outfit put together by Anora two minutes into re-aligning himself. This country's plethora of simple raiments have always been uncomfortable. Too many separate articles to arrive at one outfit, it all seemed unnecessary in the grand scheme of things. Regardless, he knows it may be needed to appear somewhat normal looking when peering into his plans for the immediate future. Also, he realizes he should be kicking himself to accept the hospitality of the simple people populating this world. Once getting dressed he places his revolver into the left side jean pocket, its leather-bound handle protruding enough to be observed. 

Further minutes passed. Darsby eventually found his way on to the roof. He'd had trouble understanding the window presented to him; he couldn't accurately read the alien language on some small piece of paper that was left for him. After several grunts and a nearly shattered glass pane, he'd found himself on the roof whilst whispering apologies to Anora's relatives. His pronounced posture carries him in long steps towards the chimney Anora is propped against. He'd look vastly different than he had at the hospital.

His shoulders are squared, his balance is steady, his hips facing directly towards whatever it is he finds himself focusing on. Darsby could be more easily related to a marine in dress uniform than the shambling figure that had been nearly dismembered by a passing car earlier today. His skin may still be of a porcelain tone, yet something about it appeared more vibrant and full of entirely necessary moisture. The only thing immediately off about him would be his shirt; it is much too large for him. Baggy jeans and worn boots can near-always attribute to someone's upstanding, working character. Regrettably, a shirt of this size typically can't. What stands before Anora now looks like a middle-schooler wearing his large fathers flannel, entirely intent on remaining proud of himself despite its untucked edges reaching very close to the knees.

Darsby didn't appear to understand how he presently looked, resigning himself to gingerly approach the chimney Anora was inhabiting. Something of mild, childish anxiety had overcome those exasperated features and broad chest. He moved in a near stumbling motion to rest against the bricks himself, as if feeling he may not have permission to do this. Darsby was tired, as always, yet this exhaustion was evidently of an emotional sort. His body had renewed itself; somehow, his mind had barely followed.

"Are you... Okay?" Darsby didn't look to understand how to ask this question entirely, yet, he did, nonetheless. His words weren't full of the warmth most people expect from their fellow man, though, it may be surprising he decided to show any concern in the first place.

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(Pursuer update in next post, had a huge migraine.)