The Disco One was getting looks for altogether different reasons. Pity. Disgust. Tired by way of repetition. A hairy man, in an offensively colorful tie and the world's most disco blazer, the feel about him halfway between authoritative and sad. He has found himself a bottle of cheap red wine, the kind that tastes chemical and sugary and stains the lips.

He smells like he's partaken of it. The strong stench of alcohol emanates from his lips and his clothes. He has been here naught but a couple of hours and the feel of inebriation is the only thing that makes sense.

And, now, he's being accosted on the meaning of a word by a dinosaur.

"What?" His tone of voice isn't offended or anything. He felt great, but being seized by a dinosaur is a new one.

[ Half-Light: Do I even need to speak up here? He's got claws that look like they could take your head off. You need to get out of this situation NOW. ]

[ Empathy: He looks desperate. Not threatening. He looks lonely. ]

[ Inland Empire: Left without a partner. Cast into a world he doesn't know. ]

"Hey, big man dinosaur. Let me give you a low down on reality. Bonding is what happens when you spend a lot of time with someone. You can feel those threads tying you to that person. In your chest-place."

[ Drama: My liege, your performance was excellent, but I do not think that is what he meant. ]