“Now where did you get that name?” Gabriel remarks. “I have to assume that my agents have been more forthcoming than I’d hoped.”
A sigh hisses from the quintesson skull’s orifice. "That’s what I get, settling for second-best, I suppose. Very well; I can work with it.
OOC: you can have Kitai swat the skull of his hand whenever you’d like. I don’t mean to hold your character hostage or anything.
IC:
“To answer your question, Razor: no, this wasn’t part of my plan,” he says. “You’re giving me too much credit. This is just a lovely stroke of coincidence.”
The other artifacts that Razor had bought seem to shut down, their lights winking out as their cilia wither like dying plants. The skull remains wrapped around Kitai’s hand, however. “What are you going to do, shoot his arm off?” Gabriel chuckles, the eye passing over Oreo’s cannon and lingering for a moment on Firestorm. “I’ll let you all go in a moment; I just wish to a say a few words. I hope you’re getting a good angle from down there, Miss Hansen.”
The eye looks down at Leslie; a red light glows in the rim of the reporter’s lenses, showing that their built-in camera is recording. Some of the color has drained from her face, but she holds her ground beside Beta Maxx. The minicon’s face is unreadable.
“Good enough,” Leslie replies coolly. “I don’t suppose you could smile for the camera?”
Armor plating beneath the eye slides back, exposing a row of spikes underneath that twist themselves into a hideous approximation of a grin.