Fresh coat of paint, same machine.

Has she ever known him to complain about such things? He’d not mind, doubly so if it helps more than merely falling asleep in the same shelter as the Mimigas.

She’d be surprised how easy expressing displeasure is without words. In the now, however, a confirming nod as he patiently waits in place.

A pity he missed the tournament signups, perhaps next time.

Myths say the scarf is part of his body.

Idly rubbing index and middle finger along the front of his throat, right over the damaged vocal systems masked by scarf. More than usual, he’s left wondering what his voice would sound like.

Only way to move forward is to get moving.

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Watching the clouds roll by, mind adrift.

Ack.

Not much of an objective today. His weapons are enjoying being holstered as he surveys the land.

Blegh, sand in his joints.