Logs From The Suit

[Typrop]

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Bridge of his helmet's "nose" pinched, Notkin spares the camera the usual forward gaze. Instead, it is directed towards the floor. His hand moves, and his helmet shifts with an uncharacteristic amount of give. He leans forwards slightly, as the helmet begins to slowly slide forwards. One sharp sniff of startled panic ensues as he quickly slaps his hand over his head, and presses his helmet down, bolting upright to ensure it does not slip any further. In the background, a white star smoulders quietly, and dark grey clouds swirl in the distance, mildly faded like dried ink.

"... Encounter. Omicrons. Left Tarancon, meeting of Gall' and Order. Never heard of Gall'. Order, still new. Fresh. Omicrons, fresh, bit crazy. No law. Things there, though. No... No-mads. Nomads. Aliens. Not, not snake-kind, odd. Purple, bright, act inside of the head. Tied to Kuzunoha? Can't tell."

He leans back, and reaches into one of his suit's pouches, some form of necklace from what little the camera can see. The chain is slightly corroded and tarnished. He stares at his open palm as the black lenses of his helmet continue to shroud his expression. His voice quavers, creating an awkward, slight warble in the voice modulation as he begins to croak out.

"Fallen. Back to work, same... Old. Harmful."

As he continues, his voice grows less and less stable, causing the modulation to spike in volume irregularly, overwhelmed by the shift in pitch and tone.

"Try not to think about, like... Then. Fall back in, again. Trying to get out."

Eventually, he shifts to a confused, slight whine.

"...Meant to be this way?"

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