We will assume that Julien leaves his hotel door unlocked. This isn't a normal hotel anymore; the maids come through far more rarely, for one.

He has managed to get to the kitchenette portion of his suite, where he's rolled onto his side. Julien's legs want to be in the fetal position, but his back is straight. One wing lies open along the tiles, touching the far wall. The other is folded but sometimes beats, trembling, trying to cool the burning in his chest, which has... stretched out. A ridge has formed along his sternum and is pressing against his skin, visible through the primitive feathers scattered along his skin.

Around him are the shreds of his shirt and, in the tiles of the floor, the Network flowing and pulsing with life. Julien lies breathing heavily and with great damp heat, eyes closed, feet clenched.