Dark Speakerman leads with his shoulder to the characteristic grinding of mechanical joints — it seems that the lubricant is running out — and continues to stand like a stone statue in front of someone else's door. It's the middle of the night, and he's here like a girl crumpling (if the Alliance maidens had heard this comparison, they would certainly have proved the opposite). It's a matter of a couple of minutes to knock, come in, tell everything as it is. And, if you're lucky, you won't get a couple of juicy punches on the column. Dark Speakerman begins to get annoyed at his own irrational stupidity: kamon, he even conned him, and admitting to flawed feelings should be much easier than seducing an operator with a striptease. But no, he is still standing in front of the door, with his hand hovering in the air, not daring to knock banally. Plungerman is incomprehensible, different from the general gray mass of operators and agents in general. Godlessly denying a sense of self-preservation, rushing into the most fucking hell, from which he often returns, if not on his own failing legs, then on a stretcher without these very legs at all. In general, that's another fruit that sometimes you want to kill for an excessive desire to sacrifice yourself in the name of fuck understand what. Dark Speakerman clenches his fist until it creaks and, turning abruptly, walks away so quickly, as if running from something incredibly scary. In his processor, it was. The next attempt was already a week and a half later, right after Dark Speakerman himself returned from another continent. Plungerman greeted him with a nod of the camera, exchanged a couple of banter with him and was about to leave when the speaker grabbed his wrist and, squeezing him noticeably, held him in place. Plungerman tensed, questioningly tilted the body of the black matte camera to the side and blinked the indicator. But he didn't ask anything. Dark Speakerman hears the hum of the cameraman's internal systems, "sees"