You get it, rocketing to some plastered planet gave him a little break from hating his own guts. Just a small break, nothing fancy. But still, it was something. Because, let's face it, his disdain for himself was just a drop in the ocean compared to the fiery loathing he held for the rest of the human circus.

You see, launching himself into the stratosphere towards a planet baptized in booze provided a fleeting respite--a momentary lapse in the intense self-loathing that usually consumed him. But, this was no ordinary disdain. Oh no, it paled in comparison to the deep-seated, visceral hatred he harbored for the rest of humanity--a seething, bubbling cauldron of contempt that festered within him. It was a journey not just through space, but through the darkest recesses of the psyche, a twisted ride that only highlighted the savage circus that was the human condition.

Slipping away to that sauce-drenched orb, that planet plastered in tomato and mystery, gave him a moment's reprieve from the simmering pot of self-scorn stewing within. Just a dash of solace, really, but better than nothing. Ah, but even that was like a sprinkle of Parmesan compared to the full-on, four-cheese blend of disdain he felt for the rest of the world's meatballs and spaghetti. In his mind, a kitchen where the recipe always called for a smidgen more contempt for humanity than for oneself.

Lance's words barely broke through the air, a whisper drowning in a stew of slight repulsion, his head weaving side to side, painting a picture of "just what I expected."

Lance mumbled, his head's slight shake screaming, "Typical."

Lance's mumble, paired with a dismissive shake of his head, practically spelled out, "So on brand, it's mildly repulsive."

Standing before his team, the weight of worry in his voice cut through the lively hum.