( The shape at the bar does not look up at Logan's quiet arrival. This is fine with it. After all, they eat here together all the time. That's what they're doing now, isn't it? Maybe the other one is not eating, but soon he will be eating. They will be eating together.
It scrapes its fork across the plate and brings the tines to its mouth. There are no teeth in the jaw that hinges open, but the flat clack of upper and lower plastic open and close on the empty utensil rapidly, making a soft, uncomfortable chattering sound. It does not seem to realize that people don't leave the tines in their mouths when they chew.
It smells like Frank. It's wearing Frank's clothes — boots, utility pants, a thick sturdy jacket despite the heat — except that it couldn't find the vest, so some faint approximation of it sits as a textureless, flat skin-style imposter across its featureless abdomen. It did find Frank's handgun, he may be able to smell that, too. It's settled in his lap, heedless to any semblance of firearm safety, crooked, with the barrel pressed against its own midsection.
After several ticking seconds of this, the other is still standing. Slowly, with the unpleasant creaking of immobile plastic, the figure turns its head to look at Logan — look being a generous term, seeing as there are only two smooth plastic divots where the eyes should be. The shape of lips exists, most of a nose, those things match the man that birthed it into being, screaming to life silently, nursing from the dark recesses of his soul. It is not old enough yet to have eyes.
But still, it stares expectantly. Aren't you going to sit? Doesn't he always sit? )
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It scrapes its fork across the plate and brings the tines to its mouth. There are no teeth in the jaw that hinges open, but the flat clack of upper and lower plastic open and close on the empty utensil rapidly, making a soft, uncomfortable chattering sound. It does not seem to realize that people don't leave the tines in their mouths when they chew.
It smells like Frank. It's wearing Frank's clothes — boots, utility pants, a thick sturdy jacket despite the heat — except that it couldn't find the vest, so some faint approximation of it sits as a textureless, flat skin-style imposter across its featureless abdomen. It did find Frank's handgun, he may be able to smell that, too. It's settled in his lap, heedless to any semblance of firearm safety, crooked, with the barrel pressed against its own midsection.
After several ticking seconds of this, the other is still standing. Slowly, with the unpleasant creaking of immobile plastic, the figure turns its head to look at Logan — look being a generous term, seeing as there are only two smooth plastic divots where the eyes should be. The shape of lips exists, most of a nose, those things match the man that birthed it into being, screaming to life silently, nursing from the dark recesses of his soul. It is not old enough yet to have eyes.
But still, it stares expectantly. Aren't you going to sit? Doesn't he always sit? )