He walked right up to it, stared. Stopped, stared, said – the door – against the fathomless hatred it tried to force into his brain via the invisible beams it no doubt thought it could pierce his cranium with – stopped, said, he did, him, “Fuck-you-what-you-want?”

The great pink door, which was a face, that he stood before, in this weird biological mechanical market square – but technological; a melange that was confusing to an entity such as him not obviously in any sense for it – built for it? Built for it. Such a place as this but –

“Fuck-you-what-you-want?”

He said it again because the door was still hating him, indeed pouring this hate at/into him, via the invisible waves it had for that. “Yeah? – Is that it? You can't even talk. Cos you're a rubbishy door. – And you've got no tongue, obviously; or you'd have told me to take a running fuck off it by this point. Not so?” Its enormous black eyes responded in the affirmative. This door thing entity hated him at levels that were psychotic – an interesting word he apparently knew the meaning of... fine this thing was one – at least in this current instant in time, if that was really a thing. – He hadn't experienced anything beyond the present moment really, going back a few minutes; but time was a thing he sensed and anyway he didn't have time for these reflections because this door really hated his dirty guts.

“You hate my dirty guts, yeah?”

The door answered in the affirmative... via hate.

“You'd like it if I was merely a pile of the dirty guts I've got inside me rather than, I don't know, whatever I am, a man/person right in front of you telling you to use the tongue you don't have to lick the arse you ain't got either? No? How about also, door that hates me – you got a name? You can't tell me. – I don't know one either, in terms of for me, I'm saying, you know, but the hate you are firing right back at me it's not pleasant. – It also doesn't seem derived in any normal sense from a healthy mental disposition. I don't even know me. I don't have a name or an identity or anything. I ain't done nothing and yet you –” he had a thought. “– Do you know me?”

The door answered in the affirmative via hate.

“Seen me before?”

The hate in its hard black eyes wasn't so categorical.

“Ambiguous is it?”

Hard hate.

“So I exist then? I've had an existence –” but he knew this already; in fact he felt that there hadn't been a time when he hadn't existed and whatever attribute he had that testified to this answered, sans hate – unlike the face door – in the affirmative.

“Where am I? Since this ain't my planet.”

He didn't get much back for the first part but the second part of that question was confirmed – but he already knew that too. Felt it in who he was. In actually who he was – that this wasn't his planet.

It was then he noticed the sword on his back, even if it was only a side-sword. He noticed too his pretty well banged up field-amour cuirass he was wearing, his tight, worn black breeches made of some kind of extremely durable material. The belt diagonal across his cuirass. With slots for something, perhaps throwing weapons, that weren't there anymore.

“You know me, fuck-hole?”

Hate.