The station is full of places for Grif to hide, creeping through the shadows of abandoned mining equipment. It's every space horror movie he's ever seen in here, and that sure does nothing to help with how much he's starting to freak out. Grif doesn't know what he expected to find, but he does know it wasn't this.

A year of Legionnaireing has made him careful and alert in a way he never was before, and it's enough to get him to Rich's modified stargate.

...And to Rich.

Grif's eyes widen and he pulls himself back around the side of a massive drill, his back pressed flat against the dead machine. What the fuck, he mouths. What the fuck.

Alright, so. On the one hand, his best friend is now a space monster. That's bad. But on the other, he knew it! Grif can't suppress a little airpunch of... shit, this isn't really triumph, is it? Why can't he be right for good reasons, for once?

Grif has a job to do, now. He peeks back around the corner. The monster that was (is?) his friend is engrossed in its (his?) work, and it affords Grif the chance to dart from vantage to vantage, getting the best look he can at the span of the hideous project.

Duty done. Grif finds a particularly dark spot to lean back against a wall. Time to phone home.