The figure watched intently at the pulsating vantablack substance that was contained in a large, grey crate. Off it spiralled a light purple mist-like substance, which darted to and fro, with almost discernable meaning "Facinating. Absolutely facinating." The figure, usually in a constant state of cold, unimpressed confidence, was utterly transfixed with the container, as if he was a toddler with a mirror. "Cravis?" In an almost comedic role reversal, Cravis, usually at least mildly interested in whatever sent his way, seemed completely at a loss at the apparent importance of this black... stuff. Suddenly noticing his name, turned to his employer, secretly happy to be rid of the duty of staring aimlessly in the general direction of the crate. "Yes?" "Turn on the machine." Cravis thought his bosses intrest would soften his mind. "The spacetime fabric softener?" He had thought wrong. "Cravis?" "On it, boss."