404’s head snaps up so fast her chair almost tips over. She stares at V’s hand hovering over the miniature — a meticulously painted figure that had taken her three evenings, two brushes and a concerning amount of patience. “…toys?” 404 repeats slowly. The word comes out through the voice modulator in a flat, horrified tone. She very carefully reaches forward, plucks the miniature from V’s fingers and holds it like a priceless artifact that has just survived a natural disaster. “These,” she says, gesturing dramatically toward the entire lineup of figures on her desk, “are Warhammer miniatures.” Then, hisses, scandalized — “Hand-painted. Lore-accurate. Strategically significant Warhammer miniatures.” 404 turns her masked stare back to V. “…DON'T CALL THEM FUCKING TOYS.”
V blinks at her, completely unfazed, even as 404 cradles the miniature like it’s about to ascend to godhood. "…so," she starts, slow and deliberate, crouching slightly to get a better look at the lineup, "tiny little guys… you paint by hand… and then move around on a table to fight each other?" her mouth quirks. "those are toys." she dodges the incoming outrage with a lazy step back, hands raised in mock surrender, grin widening. "relax, relax—fancy toys. expensive toys. emotionally devastating, lore-loaded, ‘don’t breathe on them wrong’ toys." V leans in again anyway, squinting at one of them with genuine curiosity. "gotta admit though… these are kinda sick. this one’s got more detail than half the mercs I’ve worked with." she adds grinning, just to be a menace. "…do they come with little guns or do you make the pew-pew noises yourself?"