He just shrugs, continuing to fuss with the little faux-bug. "Processing flax, probably. Spending every reasonable hour retting, scutching, heckling...if not tending to the damned plants." He doesn't sound pleased by the prospect. It's agriculture and textile making, about as repetitive as it gets.
— one was checking who signed out what from the equipment rooms as the world's end loomed. But most importantly, do not mind the poison in those eyes. Do not mind the faint little glow, nor how the struggle to squint is cut by little flashes of distress. He is 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙠.
—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—
—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. —
Squinting at this thing, this not-quite-person, Amos' raw stomach begins to chew at itself. Curiosity quickly drags him down into anxiety. As much as his rational mind tells him the creature cannot possibly hold any significance (the hair, the eyes, the shape…), there is radio —
–-occupies space and moves. Can’t help it to such a degree, that should the silver-haired thing look back at him, Amos won’t even hide his observation. Staring. Looking. Disconcerted.
@remnantallure.bsky.social [ look! ] Familiar. It doesn’t feel right, looking at this youthful thing–-Amos can’t help squinting at the creature, trying to figure out just what he’s looking at. He can’t help it, the staring, looking at the way it –-
— better if I just…stayed home. Maybe I wouldn’t have ended up ‘like this’.”
@poeticphoenix.bsky.social [ confess! ] “You want to know something?” Amos carefully repositions the limbs of a plastic faux-bug sat on his desk. He pushes its little limbs inward, making it small. “Something I think things might have been —
