[There isn't a crack of lightning or a poof of sparkles. Nothing quite so dramatic as that. One minute he's a pipsqueak with glasses thick enough to fry an anthill if you held them to the sun and beaver teeth too big for his baby mouth.
But blink once and then he's a man, falling onto the heels of his palms as the sting of the headache leaves him dizzy and blinking. No glasses here (if you looked closely you could see the faint rims of contacts hovering on the whites of his eyes), and his teeth look uniform through the twisted wince he's in. He's about Bree's height, dressed well, black curls better combed and cut, but the bags drag heavy under his eyes.
Tired. Old, even if he doesn't quite look all his thirty seven years. Bewildered more than anything once he gets his bearings. He looks to the targets, the turntable which is scratching static by now, and then to her. He blinks.]
2/2
But blink once and then he's a man, falling onto the heels of his palms as the sting of the headache leaves him dizzy and blinking. No glasses here (if you looked closely you could see the faint rims of contacts hovering on the whites of his eyes), and his teeth look uniform through the twisted wince he's in. He's about Bree's height, dressed well, black curls better combed and cut, but the bags drag heavy under his eyes.
Tired. Old, even if he doesn't quite look all his thirty seven years. Bewildered more than anything once he gets his bearings. He looks to the targets, the turntable which is scratching static by now, and then to her. He blinks.]
—I...seventy...what?