He could see. This was always a good thing, the seeing. This was a bit much. At least his hair was restored to its usual-- green Jewfro-type business. And he'd suited up, the great glorious bastard, back to being comfortable and NOT naked. And NOT slimed. And it didn't take long, did it, to get a roach hanging out of his mouth, smoke sifting slowly towards the ceiling. He had his hands in his pockets. Spike was confused.

'Chosen,' that was the vocabulary word for the day. 'Chosen' for. Aliens, or. He hadn't soaked it all in just yet, he had to mull, and there was a numb kind of look on his face as he stood just off to the side, peering about the other people in the room and not recognizing a damn one. "Greater purpose my-- ass," he was muttering under his breath, not even really SMOKING the cigarette, per se, just felt more comfortable with one hanging from his mouth, for the time being.