#rottenpupper

[monstyrigone]

@rotten-pupper sent a meme for sera !!

"turn around. slowly."

breathing is heavier than it had been several seconds ago, but even then, it is not harsh enough that it makes a sound. his chest is constricting itself in an attempt to quell the manner of how his heart beats within it.

he's been caught before, but he'd always had something in mind as a rebuttal to the odd older woman that stumbled on him on a rooftop, the occasional child that spotted him scoping a place out. it has never been this thick into the process of setting up, where he's actively preparing to quarantine out a location for selection.

hands come up, sliding out of his jacket pockets slowly until they are nested in the air at either side of his head, capped with a baseball hat that covers most of the wintered-auburn hair atop his crown. greenish gaze slips from staring forward to the corners of his eyes, trying to catch at least a peripheral glimpse of the woman behind him over his shoulder to no avail.

soon, he's turning, slowly and at the waist rather than using his booted feet to shuffle his weight about to carry out the order. after a long moment drawn thin by his attempt to garner himself more time to figure out a response, as well as how much she knows, he's facing her, the brim of his cap drawn down mostly over his features until his chin tips up. little stubbles have started to sprout in a much paler, redder color there since he's been out here, but she wouldn't know that from adam.

"something i can help you with..?" he hums, the drum of a faux - but convincing - german accent plithing through his voice.

[monstyrigone]

@rotten-pupper let sera step inside !!

“   i  thought  that  you’d  remember ,   but  it  seems  that  you  forgot .   ”

"there is a lot that i should remember, but can't. it wouldn't be surprising that you got lost in that mix." pentele leans back in his chair, leather squeaking against pants and too much weight as he rests his arms on those of the padded seat, a glass with something dark and burning nested in his left hand and tipping back and forth as he just looks at her there, sat across from himself like he's supposed to know.

there's something interesting about brain damage, and the way that in some folks, it doesn't present itself as such. it isn't obvious, isn't clear that there are chunks missing of time or matter or memory, there just are. his right hand instinctively comes up to graze along the visible scar that cuts his hairline there on the same side of his skull, the thing gnarly compared to every other mark on his body, but blackened fingertips fall back down to the leather of the seat again and grip it lightly.

"whoever you once were, or thought you were to me... you aren't anymore."

there's no apology, no gentle coaxing to reality or admission, only the cold, calculated directness of the man that had caused that scar, tinged perhaps with a bit of his cruelty in delivery, for there's a part of the ginger that wants to see how much such a statement of fact makes the woman squirm.