—static where actionable thoughts should be. As the other grows intrigued and chooses to approach, the once-propagandist becomes frozen on the spot. "No no no no no…" he whispers to himself through just parted lips. Amos' dry, poisoned eyes are f i x e d on the interloper. —

—Do not mind his lean composition, nor the compressive cloths wrapped tight around the whole of his arms. Do not mind the nostalgic (and comfortable, and practical, and durable) sleeveless turtleneck, nor the matching leather trousers. That dark uniform was never his, but no—