Unfamiliarity. It's trying to peel back our skins to see our bits. Our structures.
[ river's wings aren't entirely visible, not the whole length of them - but more than half of each wing extends out from behind her back, up, easy to see over her shoulders. and that's more than enough to see that they're hideous. tattered, missing feathers and other chunks, and it's clear that they were white once upon a time; now they're ash grey in places, charcoal in others. they're clipped. tampered with. there are a few artificial feathers, and more noticeably, metal rods in a few spots where there should be bone.
unpleasant. something horrific about them.
she drums out his four beats as always, with her fingers, on her knee. she hits the last beat hard and pauses - seems to forget what's happening for a moment. stares at the ceiling, dazed.]
[He blinks, a bit. Thrown off his game, if he's playing one and guess what, he always is. More for the fact that she keeps tapping onetwothreefour like she knows what that means, what that matters, or maybe it's all in his head. But the things in his head have a tendency to spill out, and when people listen to it, well, who knows where they'd go, just following him.]
[ the four beats this time are more deliberate. knowing they have his attention, instead of the absent-minded tapping of earlier, when it was like singing along to a song you have stuck in your head. this has intent. ]
Not me. I'm not the looker. Not for the bits. It's just a question.
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( video )
[ river's wings aren't entirely visible, not the whole length of them - but more than half of each wing extends out from behind her back, up, easy to see over her shoulders. and that's more than enough to see that they're hideous. tattered, missing feathers and other chunks, and it's clear that they were white once upon a time; now they're ash grey in places, charcoal in others. they're clipped. tampered with. there are a few artificial feathers, and more noticeably, metal rods in a few spots where there should be bone.
unpleasant. something horrific about them.
she drums out his four beats as always, with her fingers, on her knee. she hits the last beat hard and pauses - seems to forget what's happening for a moment. stares at the ceiling, dazed.]
What are you made of?
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[He blinks, a bit. Thrown off his game, if he's playing one and guess what, he always is. More for the fact that she keeps tapping onetwothreefour like she knows what that means, what that matters, or maybe it's all in his head. But the things in his head have a tendency to spill out, and when people listen to it, well, who knows where they'd go, just following him.]
Want a look, do you?
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[ the four beats this time are more deliberate. knowing they have his attention, instead of the absent-minded tapping of earlier, when it was like singing along to a song you have stuck in your head. this has intent. ]
Not me. I'm not the looker. Not for the bits. It's just a question.
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[And just like that, there's a cross look on his face. It's gone pretty quickly, but it's there. He doesn't dance to anyone's strings.]
The same bits everyone else is, I suppose. Only with more wings this time, lucky me.
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