The past while... However disgusting the smell was, Sun wasn't joining anyone in going outside. To the entrance, perhaps, but not further than that, so long as it was drizzling. Just because he had a makeshift hood didn't mean he wanted to chance it... and for what? He had to be indoors at an outlet to recharge. And it wasn't like he could be affected by breathing whatever was so noxious in, when he didn't breathe. But more than that, this mess was intolerable, and he had to fix it!
Well, he was trying, anyway, using whatever scraps he could to scrape at the mold in a frantic effort to get rid of it, scrape it off the walls and into one of the trash bins he'd repurposed for collecting sludge.
He only stopped in his efforts, now and again, to return to the chair in the corner of Foulques's room to recharge for a while, and then went right back to it.
Gifts - OTA One of those times he came in, paying no attention as usual to anything around him, intent on his goal -- the sooner he did this, the sooner he could get back to work! -- he paused before his chair. It wasn't empty. It was already occupied... by... plushies?
He wasted no time, ducking back out of the room and coming back in with a mostly-intact cardboard box. The toys were swiftly moved into it, and then the box was slid under the chair facing his, the one with his plastic crate of belongings sitting on top of it.
It was plausible deniability. He wasn't getting rid of them, in case they were somehow gifts. He was just... keeping them tidy. He didn't want to mess with them too much himself yet; he hadn't properly washed his hands, just wiped them clean on a rag. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.
Anyone who came in would find him hugging his knees up to himself, his feet up on the other chair, big face turned down, hidden on his knees and against the wall, silent. If anyone who found him was being particularly observant and knew how to read his particular body language, they'd probably notice that his rays were tucked mostly into his head all around, not just where the edge of his faceplate met the wall.
If they wanted his attention, though... they'd probably have to either speak up a bit, or nudge him; he'd settled into a sort of lower-power mode to make time seem to pass more quickly for him, and therefore have less idle time in which to dwell on the toys. And of course it had some side effects, like dimming his shell's glow and muddying his senses....
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However disgusting the smell was, Sun wasn't joining anyone in going outside. To the entrance, perhaps, but not further than that, so long as it was drizzling. Just because he had a makeshift hood didn't mean he wanted to chance it... and for what? He had to be indoors at an outlet to recharge. And it wasn't like he could be affected by breathing whatever was so noxious in, when he didn't breathe. But more than that, this mess was intolerable, and he had to fix it!
Well, he was trying, anyway, using whatever scraps he could to scrape at the mold in a frantic effort to get rid of it, scrape it off the walls and into one of the trash bins he'd repurposed for collecting sludge.
He only stopped in his efforts, now and again, to return to the chair in the corner of Foulques's room to recharge for a while, and then went right back to it.
Gifts - OTA
One of those times he came in, paying no attention as usual to anything around him, intent on his goal -- the sooner he did this, the sooner he could get back to work! -- he paused before his chair. It wasn't empty. It was already occupied... by... plushies?
He wasted no time, ducking back out of the room and coming back in with a mostly-intact cardboard box. The toys were swiftly moved into it, and then the box was slid under the chair facing his, the one with his plastic crate of belongings sitting on top of it.
It was plausible deniability. He wasn't getting rid of them, in case they were somehow gifts. He was just... keeping them tidy. He didn't want to mess with them too much himself yet; he hadn't properly washed his hands, just wiped them clean on a rag. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.
Anyone who came in would find him hugging his knees up to himself, his feet up on the other chair, big face turned down, hidden on his knees and against the wall, silent. If anyone who found him was being particularly observant and knew how to read his particular body language, they'd probably notice that his rays were tucked mostly into his head all around, not just where the edge of his faceplate met the wall.
If they wanted his attention, though... they'd probably have to either speak up a bit, or nudge him; he'd settled into a sort of lower-power mode to make time seem to pass more quickly for him, and therefore have less idle time in which to dwell on the toys. And of course it had some side effects, like dimming his shell's glow and muddying his senses....