Seldom has he found impatience a profitable value to hold in this brave new world. A hunter must never allow the urgency of thrill force muscles to act too quickly–no, there is more pleasantry to be found in the wait. Stalk, then strike. It is the same mindset he applies to this; the other’s petrification suffocates the senses in its acerbic nature, her muscles QUIVER beneath his stare, it is the very image of terror stretched across small form.
It is in her hesitance that patience finds reward.
The glasses bear heavier weight the longer they stay in his hold. It isn’t a burden he wishes to continue holding–too easily does one slip into compassion and steers from the Entity’s influence, it’s a dangerous game to play. Not one he indulges in too often.
Ojomo is grateful when that hand plucks mangled frames from skeletal fingers; a quick, fleeting gaze to the piece that snaps back into the palm ( odd, he had not believed them so terribly destroyed upon first glance ) before it strikes back to the flighty bird before him. She trembles and WEEPS.
Form wracks and the beast is left to guardianship; a stagnant foe left to stand his ground in silence, he simply follows falling tears as they slide over dirt-streaked cheeks.
She sobs and appreciation comes through in staggered, soft-spoken words. Another oddity she throws at him–kindness, gratitude, in the face of a reaper whose claws still held scraped flesh beneath them. He won’t deny her the right ( no matter how questioned it may be, he remains stilled and stoic against the urge to question ) but the eyes would betray. A brief, subtle flicker from her to emptiness.
Stifle that vein of HUMANITY. Suffocate the pinprick of empathy that creeps along the mind and encourages a step towards comfort. Bury it.
Focus drifts onto the piece still held in hand. It’s contained neatly over muddied flesh, soon to be rolled into spindly fingers in order to examine the loosened hinge–she is lucky it was not SNAPPED, it was a workable destruction that had befallen the accessory.
A cold snort. Interrupting.
He’s moving again, but not towards. Away. Taking the broken piece with him, Ojomo steps silently towards the direction of Autohaven’s gas station, only a second taken to glancing over covered shoulder to see if she would follow ( he intended her to, expected ) but stride remains unforgivingly steady.
To weep before the beast is so foolish, this she knows-- (don’t give them the satisfaction) though she cannot stop herself as fingers graze crooked frames. Not only the disadvantage of poor sight leaves her frightened-- but the fragile things were the last she has to remind her of the world outside of this place. They were something much more than a pair of spectacles-- now destroyed.
She’d no clue if the frames would fix themselves the next time she would perish. She always seemed to return to this world with them upon her face, just slightly crooked like the night she had been taken-- always requiring an adjustment with the fingertips.
And-- the killer. He brings them to her. And she’s frightened. How many times had she seen the cruelty of the hands she’s just grazed.
Her sobs fall to tense silence between them.
Then, he moves. He walks away. Leaving her kneeling in the dirt.
He has the temple of her glasses in hand, she requires it if she is ever to fix them.
She swiftly stands, hands curling up to her chest as she watches steady stride towards autoheaven’s dilapidated gas station-- catching sight of his subtle glance over shoulder.
Numbly, she steps forward. It’s nearly a stumble but she catches herself in another step forward. This is stupid. It’s forceful to follow, everything screams to run-- painfully slow pace compared to his own long strides as she basks in contemplation of running or following. But eventually, she’s there, presence ticking the still operating bell at store’s entrance.
