I know that. [He returns to his usual brash American yammer now. That deadly seriousness will dip back in when the time is right, but he's a better nuisance than he is a voice of reason.] Even so, it doesn't mean throwing your hands in the air and calling it quits. Think about what I said, all right? Maybe there is someone here who could help you if the time comes. I'd offer but hey, unless he's got a great sense of humor and a weakness for American Rock-n-Roll I can't sway him for shit.
[Then a flash strikes. Soft clicks, and this time it's Richie blinking away spots as the camera drone putters out three new pictures.]
Oh, hell, ask first, you goddamn pest!
[Richie gives it a swat and it flies off screeching. He watches it in his aggravation. Not thinking twice about what had happened moments before.
The photos lay at Gamora's feet. Two face down, one coming to fruition. The image is...strange.
It's a picture of a picture, which lies inside an album. You can see the corner sticker holding it in place and the pink flesh of the thumb holding the page down.
The nested photois in sepia and greys. A street by a canal, from a town sometime in the 1930s. Gamora may not know the signs of the era but perhaps the antiquity can be implied by the style, or the lack of color in the photograph itself. There are two small boys, one in knickers and a cap with big glasses and bigger front teeth (something familiar, maybe), and the other is wearing a sailor suit.
The latter's been snatched at the neck by a jarring figure. Popping over the ledge from the water below is a clown - but the face has been replaced with that of a six-year-old boy's. Still slathered in greasepaint to suit the costume. Ragged black sockets stand where his eyes ought to be. A child's head on a man's body, done up like a party clown.
Both boys are screaming. The clown is lifts its prize with an ecstatic grin.]
no subject
[Then a flash strikes. Soft clicks, and this time it's Richie blinking away spots as the camera drone putters out three new pictures.]
Oh, hell, ask first, you goddamn pest!
[Richie gives it a swat and it flies off screeching. He watches it in his aggravation. Not thinking twice about what had happened moments before.
The photos lay at Gamora's feet. Two face down, one coming to fruition. The image is...strange.
It's a picture of a picture, which lies inside an album. You can see the corner sticker holding it in place and the pink flesh of the thumb holding the page down.
The nested photois in sepia and greys. A street by a canal, from a town sometime in the 1930s. Gamora may not know the signs of the era but perhaps the antiquity can be implied by the style, or the lack of color in the photograph itself. There are two small boys, one in knickers and a cap with big glasses and bigger front teeth (something familiar, maybe), and the other is wearing a sailor suit.
The latter's been snatched at the neck by a jarring figure. Popping over the ledge from the water below is a clown - but the face has been replaced with that of a six-year-old boy's. Still slathered in greasepaint to suit the costume. Ragged black sockets stand where his eyes ought to be. A child's head on a man's body, done up like a party clown.
Both boys are screaming. The clown is lifts its prize with an ecstatic grin.]