[The atmosphere of late-- it's filled with a kind of crackling tension that winds its way between his bones, detonates bright sparks in his blood. The whole Quad seems heavy with it, and whilst concern and worry and fear might be brewing among the general populous, for Unit 68 there's an unsteady giddiness to it all, a sense of something building, a badly healed wound waiting to be torn open. It's a time of activity, of flux, and for something like him such a thing can only mean the chance to get out and play more often, to play hard.
It doesn't seem like a bad thing.
Like now, for instance. Accompanying a weapons shipment (and there's something funny about that, isn't there? A weapon guarding weapons, hahah) isn't necessarily a high octave job, not compared with some of the other missions he's assigned to, but the opportunity for it is there, bubbling black beneath the surface, and he can hold out hope that things will get interesting. That he'll get to have some fun.
That the Handler assigned to him for this particular job has been held up is a cause of minor irritation (information gleaned through the conversation between Enforcers, none of them bothering to inform him directly-- why would they?), that they'll leave some pilot to mind him until they turn up, but it's not much of a dampener on his thrumming spirits. There's a sense of something in the air today, something looming, and he has a good feeling about how this job is going to go. Good, of course, depending on who's perspective one views it from.
The Enforcer calls for him by number and a quick, high whistle (the dog jokes, they never get old apparently), and he follows the sound with perfect obedience, back straight and face impassive despite the jittering activity inside his head. And then he catches sight of Steph. His mouth twists in a smile, but it's a detached kind of thing, devoid of visible recognition, his demeanour just as glacial as she expects it to be.
Once the Enforcer departs, however, there's a fractional loosening in him, something infinitesimally closer to informality setting in. His smile widens, although he makes no move to decrease the distance between them, uncanny red eyes flashing to the sword held in her hands.]
no subject
It doesn't seem like a bad thing.
Like now, for instance. Accompanying a weapons shipment (and there's something funny about that, isn't there? A weapon guarding weapons, hahah) isn't necessarily a high octave job, not compared with some of the other missions he's assigned to, but the opportunity for it is there, bubbling black beneath the surface, and he can hold out hope that things will get interesting. That he'll get to have some fun.
That the Handler assigned to him for this particular job has been held up is a cause of minor irritation (information gleaned through the conversation between Enforcers, none of them bothering to inform him directly-- why would they?), that they'll leave some pilot to mind him until they turn up, but it's not much of a dampener on his thrumming spirits. There's a sense of something in the air today, something looming, and he has a good feeling about how this job is going to go. Good, of course, depending on who's perspective one views it from.
The Enforcer calls for him by number and a quick, high whistle (the dog jokes, they never get old apparently), and he follows the sound with perfect obedience, back straight and face impassive despite the jittering activity inside his head. And then he catches sight of Steph. His mouth twists in a smile, but it's a detached kind of thing, devoid of visible recognition, his demeanour just as glacial as she expects it to be.
Once the Enforcer departs, however, there's a fractional loosening in him, something infinitesimally closer to informality setting in. His smile widens, although he makes no move to decrease the distance between them, uncanny red eyes flashing to the sword held in her hands.]
Fancy that, indeed.