His eyes stare upward as he falls.
He was, of course, jolted awake by the scent of all the moisture in the atmosphere. Must be his fascination with rain. Although, droplets of freezing cold hydrogen dioxide descending at high speed into the depths of one’s nostrils while one is busy plummeting from the great height of a high-swept jungle bridge is rather unpleasant…
The air is rushing over his body, tumbling over him like so many little waves; countless currents buffet his clothes, rippling through his shoulder-length curls as he grows closer to the… ground?
But it isn’t the ground that his straining back will strike; all of the jungle’s trees seem to have vanished, and the jungle as well.
Now, there is only sea air between him and oblivion… and that huge glass dome towering above familiar cliffs.
What, the Museum? Here? He thinks he should have guessed. But where is here?
He folds his arms across his chest like the lone resident of a sarcophagus and waits for the end to come in a shower of exceptional glass and decorative piping.
At least he’ll die somewhere with lovely art around him…