Sometimes searching the halls for things to do just isn't enough. The halls aren't easy to clean without the proper materials, and really, the roombas have well and taken care of them for the most part. Which means looking into the stores for other sorts of messes, thinsg knocked over or otherwise scattered about. Finding things to clean is simply the easiest and quickest way of easing the steady panic in him to be following commands he doesn't actually have.
This one shop is interesting. It calls on some harsh time and world, like his and very not all the same. In it lays a heavy implication of violence and that is familiar, nostalgic. He moves along the shelves searching for something until he spots a thing what really catches. He gasps so sharp as he jerks back, it makes sound. A click. His hand goes quick to his throat, feeling it. They cut his vocals, they cut out his tongue. But humans ain't got chitinous windpipes like trolls do. Cautiously, he tests it on purpose, and then comes another click. He can make noise afterall, he ain't just all silence and breath. There's a surge of emotion for that he ain't quite prepared to process, so he takes to looking at what he's found.
On closer inspection, he can see them for what they are-- masks-- but it's more what they resemble that matters. Daywalker, his mind supplies. The undead what walked the sun scorched deserts, rising in the day. Scourge of any troll what's ever had to fight one. But this is a much worse looking daywalker than he's ever seen. He takes one of the masks in hand. They don't even resemble trolls, or, well, humans anymore. All most of the top of the face is pushed out, swallowed and consumed by some sort of fungus looking thing. The teeth are all crooked and exposed by missing lips. Looks more rotted than any daywalker he's faced down in his whole life. He thinks he'll be pretty happy never to do so.
He puts the mask neatly back and starts to explore the rest of the shop. And, if only because it's not technically communicating and no one's being here, he tries out making that clicking noise again.
A - I am so very sorry I couldn't resist, feel free to have joel punch him in the face
This one shop is interesting. It calls on some harsh time and world, like his and very not all the same. In it lays a heavy implication of violence and that is familiar, nostalgic. He moves along the shelves searching for something until he spots a thing what really catches. He gasps so sharp as he jerks back, it makes sound. A click. His hand goes quick to his throat, feeling it. They cut his vocals, they cut out his tongue. But humans ain't got chitinous windpipes like trolls do. Cautiously, he tests it on purpose, and then comes another click. He can make noise afterall, he ain't just all silence and breath. There's a surge of emotion for that he ain't quite prepared to process, so he takes to looking at what he's found.
On closer inspection, he can see them for what they are-- masks-- but it's more what they resemble that matters. Daywalker, his mind supplies. The undead what walked the sun scorched deserts, rising in the day. Scourge of any troll what's ever had to fight one. But this is a much worse looking daywalker than he's ever seen. He takes one of the masks in hand. They don't even resemble trolls, or, well, humans anymore. All most of the top of the face is pushed out, swallowed and consumed by some sort of fungus looking thing. The teeth are all crooked and exposed by missing lips. Looks more rotted than any daywalker he's faced down in his whole life. He thinks he'll be pretty happy never to do so.
He puts the mask neatly back and starts to explore the rest of the shop. And, if only because it's not technically communicating and no one's being here, he tries out making that clicking noise again.