[ As young as Tifa, at least in appearance. She's beautiful too, like Sophia, untouched by the filth and disease that ravaged Krat's shattered splendor. Not even the prima donna of the Opera House looked this pristine. Where is he?
Violence is usually what follows when a human recognizes him for what he is — by hearing his springs, or perhaps the soft clatter of gears churning behind a lifelike form — and he's faced far worse than an errant elbow. It doesn't mean the indignity of toppling onto the floor like this, or the apparent revulsion stings any less.
He's ever been someone who speaks subtly with his eyes, and the look he gives her is at first wary, as if he's expecting a trick. No one repulsed by a puppet cares to lend a helping hand. Doubtful now, that perhaps he's misunderstood the situation, he darts that blue-eyed glance uncertainly over her and his immediate surroundings. Just looking, not leering. ]
But, [ his jaw tenses, a flinch around his eyes that betrays a conflict, ] You said not to touch you.
[ It's probably rather obvious by now that this metal-armed stranger is more concerned about her request to not be touched than he is about anything else, let alone the fact that his own terrycloth isn't so much the last warden of his modesty as a casualty of the war with gravity. That battle has been decided, it lies half on his hip and half on the floor. She's not looking and he'd have to care about this notion of indecency enough to notice.
He's distracted by a buzzing sensation on his wrist, lifting his hand to stare at the unfamiliar band fitted around it like he's never seen anything of its like before. Then again, watches were round, often ornate matters one slipped into a pocket. The puppet tilts his head at it, then angles his inquisitive look back up at Tifa. Should she indeed attempt to take advantage of his raised hand to pull him up, she'll find him very heavy. Not too heavy for a martial artist of her caliber, mind, but there's nowhere he could be hiding anything to account for the weight. ]
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Violence is usually what follows when a human recognizes him for what he is — by hearing his springs, or perhaps the soft clatter of gears churning behind a lifelike form — and he's faced far worse than an errant elbow. It doesn't mean the indignity of toppling onto the floor like this, or the apparent revulsion stings any less.
He's ever been someone who speaks subtly with his eyes, and the look he gives her is at first wary, as if he's expecting a trick. No one repulsed by a puppet cares to lend a helping hand. Doubtful now, that perhaps he's misunderstood the situation, he darts that blue-eyed glance uncertainly over her and his immediate surroundings. Just looking, not leering. ]
But, [ his jaw tenses, a flinch around his eyes that betrays a conflict, ] You said not to touch you.
[ It's probably rather obvious by now that this metal-armed stranger is more concerned about her request to not be touched than he is about anything else, let alone the fact that his own terrycloth isn't so much the last warden of his modesty as a casualty of the war with gravity. That battle has been decided, it lies half on his hip and half on the floor. She's not looking and he'd have to care about this notion of indecency enough to notice.
He's distracted by a buzzing sensation on his wrist, lifting his hand to stare at the unfamiliar band fitted around it like he's never seen anything of its like before. Then again, watches were round, often ornate matters one slipped into a pocket. The puppet tilts his head at it, then angles his inquisitive look back up at Tifa. Should she indeed attempt to take advantage of his raised hand to pull him up, she'll find him very heavy. Not too heavy for a martial artist of her caliber, mind, but there's nowhere he could be hiding anything to account for the weight. ]