[Cohen, from the chest up, takes up most of the frame. He's covered in flecks of drying plaster, and stained with something brownish-red and something else that's sickly orange-yellow. What looks like slimy candle wax has left a sheen on his shoulder, hands and sleeves. It's cooled fat.
He's wearing a black and gold
rabbit mask. Behind it, his
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Oh my god.
[Unable to tear his eyes off the grotesque statue, Gil swallows audibly, reaching up to tug at his shirt collar. He still has no idea that he is on air, but it would hardly make any difference; you can easily tell that he is scared out of his wits just by the tone of his voice.]
What have you done?
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[Yeah, Cohen pretty much registered how scared Gil is and then didn't pay much attention to the words. But the fear sure gets a thumbs up! Figuratively.]
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[He shivers, just a little bit.]
Is that really a man in there?
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Is everybody here too dense to realise that that is the entire point of my message?!
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[Before he can stop himself, he just blurts it out.]
Inhuman.
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--Gil's remark hit a nerve.
Then Cohen tears the mask off, staring full into the wall comm's camera. His face was far from pristine when Gil last saw it, but now it's even worse. The whole left side is sloughing off, skin reddish with pustules, flesh sagging, threatening to obscure his eye. The eye itself is bloodshot and yellowing. A lot of the pustules have burst, and trickles of blood are staining the greasepaint.
What he says next, he almost screams.]
WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM?
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Damn. Why did he have to say that? Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse for himself, he is now in Cohen's bad book.]
I wasn't trying to insult your art, I was merely...
[He wants to say that he is sorry, he really does -- but he can't.]
Take... take it as constructive criticism, Cohen.
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Get out of my sight! OUT!
[Cohen slams his hand down on the wall comm's switch, cutting the feed. At least Gil managed to insult him in a nonfatal way: he's gonna hide his face in his Fortress of Solitude and sulk for a while.]
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