โ โ โ โ โ โ โ ... โ โ โ โ ๐๐ฅ๐๐ฉ๐๐ก โ โ by โ โ ๐ง๐๐ฆ๐ง๐ข๐ฆ๐ง๐๐ฅ๐ข๐ก๐, โ โ ๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ก๐๐๐๐ก๐ โ โ and โ โ ๐ฃ๐๐๐ฅ๐ข๐ ๐ข๐ก๐. โ โ อ โฐโข๏ธ
โ โ โ ๐UBJECTโ โ โ ๐ท๐ถ๐ผ .
Joined February 2026
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(a moment of silence, clearly having gears turning in mind... *๐ก nodding, before one digit held up in pause. he likes to loot what he kills.. so, one pair is swiftly
Hnnghh.
( Frustrated; squinting at its hands. Different sector. Different gear.
1004 pauses again, and brings one hand stiffly up to the side of his head, rounding his fingers into claws: Headphones? )
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(a small amount of said coffee creamer ends up on his own mask, but there's once again no harsh reaction. soon, a shake of head after observing.)
the guilty like to run. that's what he thinks. there's an uncomfortable silence that stretches after the shot rang out. but before safety could even be considered,
(visible motion of digits again, involuntary and erratic. hidden focus drifting to firearm. how very, very tempting.. but the absence of threat is what stops it.
(...one, slow nod. as if to say '๐ฐ๐ฉ๐ฉ๐ฉ' in revelation. it's placed back into pockets. motioning at self, before digits and hand form numbers: 1-0-6. introductions seem appropriate?)
covered in blood and viscera. chunks of bone as well. tracking red boot prints past the *READER with dual shotguns wielded.
(small tilt of head, reaching into pockets again.. a little straw is offered, opposite hand pointing at it, then the other. *โ)
(staring, just like before. this doesn't faze him one bit, by the looks of it. opening the carton- more like brutally tearing the top off of it- then pouring into glass...)