[Syncing with Oz, Mithra chimes in with his usual soft apathy, only sliding in a slight edge on the last word, on which so much hinges.]
. . . Shoot.
[Mithra lowers a fist for rock. Is it because he can't be bothered to unfurl his fingers, or because there's a certain symbolism behind the gesture? Who knows. Either way, there's a beat before he dons the most smug look known to their kind.]
no subject
. . . Shoot.
[Mithra lowers a fist for rock. Is it because he can't be bothered to unfurl his fingers, or because there's a certain symbolism behind the gesture? Who knows. Either way, there's a beat before he dons the most smug look known to their kind.]
I win.