[It's all right. It's...perhaps not all right? It is, perhaps, salvageable. The plant curls like some massive, dying spider, shriveling in its center, wheezing a choking cloud of greenish smoke that settles like pollen across withering leaves.]
[It's dead.]
[It's dead.]
[It's dead.]
[The Drifter breathes, short and ragged. Ticks up a fresh message, with some difficulty:]
no subject
[It's dead.]
[It's dead.]
[It's dead.]
[The Drifter breathes, short and ragged. Ticks up a fresh message, with some difficulty:]
hurt?