#for root

someone’s taken his ration box, lifted it over to a table three away from where he planned to sit. it’s not a someone he recognizes, so he tries not to assign motive, chalks it up to being a mistake. they’re military grade tins, which means they’re utterly uniform aside from acquired dings. he’s probably done the same and walked off with the wrong lunch before, but he’s too hungry to wade through storage looking for another free of scrap rats. hungry enough that he’d very graciously describe what’s waiting inside as appetizing. 

closing in on the stranger, finn feels an old knot in his stomach pull through. their face, which seemed to be static and humanoid from a little distance, ebbs and flows like a crowd of at least thirty in between blinks. a strobing image of someone sweating, melting, oozing without losing mass. one of the more inarticulable things he’s seen today, it doesn’t make him want to hurry forward. it’s a shame he’s come near enough now to collide with the bench. when he looks up from cradling his knee, the spectacle's fled and left only a bad feeling.