The sound of Wyatt Cain swearing up a storm was something of a relief; the awareness there existed a softer side of the man was somehow off-putting, and Kendra frankly preferred to mentally avoid the subject. In that particular area, it was almost fortunate that her memories of that weekend were more or less universally... fuzzy. Glitched.
"Cain," she greeted, stopping a few feet distant and standing with her arms loosely behind her back. "You're moving it?"
Cain glanced over his shoulder, tipping his hat lightly to Kendra and generally ignoring the fact that not long ago, he'd woken up in her arms. In a manner of speaking, of course. "Figured that Zero could use some sightseeing on his walk to and from work," he remarked coolly, gesturing to the prison doors with his head.
A tangible reminder of his crimes. She approved, and nodded to indicate such.
"I imagine the council wouldn't approve of you putting him in there for the night," she observed.
Perhaps it would be overly harsh. Perhaps her view was skewed by having seen far worse punishments, the kind that were crimes in themselves. Then again, some people would call this that, too.
"If it were up to me, I'd keep him in there for a couple annuals," Cain said, not even flinching on the subject as he swung the door closed and listened to the rusting creak. There was absolutely no doubt that this was his Suit, his own prison. "I left him in one of these, but someone in their infinite wisdom let him out."
Cain glanced to the man (who happened to be one of the first who was actually bigger than Cain and could definitely put up a decent fight, but he really should never go there). "This? More like a prison, but I'm not so sure how modern it is." Glitch probably had books on it, but Cain just knew he wanted to shove it in the ocean half the time. And not with himself in it.
Now that was interesting. "Torture, eh? Looks like something they use for torture to me. Best to just a crucify a man and have it done with," Pullo said. He bet a man would talk faster getting his hands nailed down than he would being stuck in some metal statue.
Cain didn't even flinch, his face an impassive slate as he thought of that and gave the man a curious look. "Not exactly the kind of torture we endure. If you aren't Suited, there's a good chance you'll get headcased." He hesitated, pausing to explain. "Have half your brain ripped out on you and let to wander."
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"Cain," she greeted, stopping a few feet distant and standing with her arms loosely behind her back. "You're moving it?"
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"I imagine the council wouldn't approve of you putting him in there for the night," she observed.
Perhaps it would be overly harsh. Perhaps her view was skewed by having seen far worse punishments, the kind that were crimes in themselves. Then again, some people would call this that, too.
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"This some kind of modern armor?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest as he considered how a man would even move in the damned thing.
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