Getting up, I close the door, then turn around for a better look at him. The leg he raised earlier has all but ceased to exist, and his other one was starting to cave in to gravity. James puts up one of his hands to try and mask his face from my gaze, but the arm itself is falling down in horrid white streams as I watch. His cushy, beloved office chair is overflowing with miniature waterfalls of the sludge, and his entire torso keeps sinking lower and lower. At this rate, he's bound to be gone in minutes...a loud cough snaps me back to the present. His insides must be melting, too - and his throat must be covered with the stuff.
Seeming to sense my concern, he flashes a bit of a pained smile through his hand - it almost seems to say *don't worry, I'm fine*. "Ziz, really, it's...nothing, I'm going to be okay. I've just got to...well, how do I phrase this...*reform*, when my body comes back to its ideal tempurature. I'm...not sure I can regulate it myself anymore," he finishes with a sigh. "I've just gotta...breathe for a bit...."