That movement would be Gus, who is straightening up slowly, struggling to account for his new surroundings and, more alarmingly, his new skin. He's brittle, rough to the touch, and horned, decorated up and down with little scales and spikes. Layered over the usual brown of his complexion is a new dusty amber tone. His fingers, now oddly tapered and ending in small, sharp claws, skate cautiously over his face. The whole of him is like this, his head adorned with a sort of horned ruff.

He recognizes the look and feel of it at once; he's carapaced like a desert horned lizard. Albeit a lizard who still stands upright, still built like a human, and still wears a suit. The dream has dressed him slightly down; he doesn't have his jacket and his sleeves are rolled up, giving him a "casual lizard-man Friday" look. Gus is not amused.

"What in the hell," he mutters to himself, now scanning his surroundings, finding them inadequately informative.