The initial contact sent a shudder down their spine– they hadn’t been touched with affectionate intention since the Night Sentinels. Not that it stopped them from giving a raspy giggle, immediately leaning back into his touch to apologize for pulling away. Just because they hadn’t felt it in eons didn’t mean they hated it now. If anything, the contact was a relief, with how much time they spent in their armor nowadays. Better than getting decapitated every five seconds, though!
Without their helmet on, however, they couldn’t read any comms he sent. To apologize, the Slayer kept a close eye on his hands, watching his rugged sign language and doing their best to make sense of it. They frowned once they did, and leaned a little closer to him– signalling for him to keep on at it if he really wanted to.
‘ Aw, hell, that’s a shame! Someone took your hair? Well, probably not that, but… ’ 93 stilled for a moment, glancing over his armor several times. At least, until this moment, they’d assumed it was armor. The Doom Slayer went completely still for a moment, anger flashing in their eyes like lightning. It was gone as soon as it had come, however, and they went on as if they’d never been disturbed. Not that they thought his situation, whatever it may have been, was any less wrong.
‘ Once got all my hair shaved off against my will. Fuckin’ AWFUL! It don’t grow back very fast, either, so took forever for it t’ come back t’ this. Then I died, meanin’ it didn’t grow at all. No long hair for me. Anyway, feel free t’ mess with mine as much as ya’ like, if it makes ya’ feel better! I don’t do nothin’ with it, hehe. ‘
(good heavens i love this response @.@)
Alcatraz is half-zoned out just running his palm feather-light along 93′s hair, suit rolling a blizzard of feedback up his vision with every touch. Even then, half-zoned out for him meant there was still some serious computing power sitting around.
He almost pulls back at the shiver, feeling a little guilty, but resumes hesitantly, utterly captivated by the way a curly strand looped round one of his fingers. He does better with the signs, now; observation was a hell of a way to brush up, it seemed.
The suit, of course, isn’t blind, or dumb. It catches that snatch of rage, and his hand is gone so fast you’d have thought 93 was on fire. Even when it’s outwardly passed, SECOND oh-so-helpfully points out that there’s still cortisol present in target, that their blood pressure is high, that they’re sitting on the aftereffects of the spike. Alcatraz smothers the small part of him that wants to continue–the majority votes that they keep all their limbs. Intact.
With his removed hand, he decides to try and properly sign to them.
‘Sounds nasty. I didn’t have it shaved–against my will, anyway. Military basics, and all that. But the suit always could use a little extra keratin, right? Considering I’m missing a lot of me, hair is the least of my worries.’
Time's Vengeance 