Right now, though, he felt every one of his years.

Wager heaved out his breath. "I admire you greatly, Bruce. I think I'm more nervous than you are."

"Nah. I'm just hiding it better." He turned to face the appropriate slipstream. His glaive was strapped to his back and he wore a clean uniform. He was as ready as he would ever be. "See you on the other side," he said.

Then he jumped.

Wild beasts were ripping off his limbs and pounding his skull into a rock.

At least that's the way it felt to Connor as he slowly came to a vague sense of awareness. It took all the energy he had just to lift his head. Getting his eyes open was nearly impossible. Blinking, he tried to focus on where he was.

It was dark except for the multicolored tiny lights glowing in the night sky. The smell that filled his nostrils was intense, overpowering. Musky, smoky, nauseating. Connor felt his stomach lurch, then roil. His skull was gripped in a closing vice. His teeth ached. The roots of his hair stung and burned.

He was dying. No one could feel like this much shit and live. It wasn't possible.

Connor's brain stumbled into painful thought, goaded by sheer survival instinct.

… one second you won't be there and the next second you will… that'll be hard to explain…

He wasn't sure there was anyone to explain to. From the looks of it, he'd ridden a slipstream straight into a hell dimension. The stench in the air was just a few breaths away from making him vomit.

Heaving his torso upward, Connor managed a kneeling position and then pushed back to rest on his heels. Everything around him spun dizzily. He groaned in misery and clutched his waist.

"Fuck me."

He glanced around with gritty eyes. Slowly, his surroundings came into focus. A thin line of light beckoned and Connor reached out for it… and promptly fell back into an ignoble sprawl. It was a curtain and he tugged it out of the way to find a massive convention hall. People stood nearby, impossibly close, frozen in a single moment in time.