[ There's a ten-year-old boy running, screaming, in your direction, Pursued by a screeching, staticky anomaly.
Engage y/n? ]
--
not tiny
[ Who is this stylish man with a silver cyberarm? A nice haircut? ...considerable amount of gray at the temples?
Well. Who else is that tall, narrow, and obsessed with asymmetrcal pinstripes. Some things never change.
He never thought he'd be back here again, but hey, it's not like he remembered this place back home. He smiles, a more subdued one than normal, and looks back at his company.
Not where I come from, it isn't. Unless my dad made a terrible mistake. They do that sometimes - I wouldn't be surprised to hear your name is - Iunno, Florence or something.
Oh, thank frick. I was starting to think you were an impostor. A really, really bad one. One who'd never seen the real Rhys. Or even a photograph. A child's drawing, at best.
[ She might be covering up genuine relief. Maybe. Just a bit. THIS IS STILL VERY, VERY WEIRD. ]
Okay. Are there a lot of people that big? Do you make a lot of bandit money like that? And - and if somebody is seven feet when he has a little girl on his shoulders, do you do bandit things to him?
[ She does the fucking jazz hands thing as she says it. She actually does jazz hands. It's over. It's fucking over everyone go home there is no coming back from this level of dorkiness I'm so sorry ]
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