fucking unreal.

         ‘ you, ’ nathan starts, circling them like they’re a museum exhibition. he feels he’s entitled to poke and prod, covet and coo, new standards on treatment of artificial intelligence be damned. ‘ ... are fucking spectacular, huh? shit, man, what i wouldn’t give to pick your designer’s fuckin’ brain. ’

does an under-the-breath angry utterance of a name qualify as a greeting, or have the rules been bent some for hux’s benefit? either way, they’re getting nothing more than a ‘ren’ and a look that suggests he’s just smelled something foul. all customary, but unequivocally short of pleasant.

commentating on his own doings may be an unattractive habit, but it is significantly harder to correct than to succeed with an apology. he’s been mumbling obscenities at his computer for the last half hour, at least. in his defense, the tunnel vision keeps his company entirely out of mind: the jump of his shoulders and desertion of his smile is no act. 

worldwell.