The problem with animating a construct and setting it up with semi-autonomous subroutines is that sometimes it chooses to act on them all on its own. The problem with trying to take a quite large spinosaurus skull for a walk is that its legs were left on the far side of the portal it tried to squeeze through, thereby rendering it relatively immobile. The problem with fixing that issue by sprouting a bevy of vaguely-humanoid, vaguely-froglike legs, all along the inferior mandible and occiput alike, is that none of those legs came with working eyes or an understanding about such pesky details as, say, which way is forward, which in turn brings to mind such phrases and concepts as herding cats. The problem of combining all of these into one particular moment in time and space is that the skull-on-legs, attention caught by Ford's notebook snapping shut, promptly bustles towards him, aiming to butt its nose up under the hand he isn't offering for a handshake — much as a cat or dog might.
This is, naturally, distracting enough that Ford might not notice that the new arrival has caught the galaxy-blackout eye of his awkwardly-dangerous friend, eyebrows raising in an expression of sheer incredulity as he mouths Sasha?!
For a second, or maybe nine or ten of them, quite a few different expressions flick across his face, for that matter. Really it's a pity, that the sun and shade are conspiring to cast such a pattern of shadows across his skin, making it more difficult for anyone to read the questions written there — questions like are you fucking for-real with this shit?, or what the hell have you been saying about me, Teacher?, or maybe do I ever want to know what you called me while you were talking about me?
But then he's looking at Ford again, and the way the Luggage skull is now trying to rub its cheekbones along his pant leg, like a cat scent-marking its territory, and groans loudly.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he complains. "I am terribly sorry about that — did you want me to make it stop? I — huh." He blinks, gaze flicking thoughtfully between the two portal-tinkering wiseguys. "I think it thinks you smell... familiar," he tries out, tasting his words as he goes. "As much as thinking applies, anyway, or smelling, for that matter — which fields would those be, for you?"
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This is, naturally, distracting enough that Ford might not notice that the new arrival has caught the galaxy-blackout eye of his awkwardly-dangerous friend, eyebrows raising in an expression of sheer incredulity as he mouths Sasha?!
For a second, or maybe nine or ten of them, quite a few different expressions flick across his face, for that matter. Really it's a pity, that the sun and shade are conspiring to cast such a pattern of shadows across his skin, making it more difficult for anyone to read the questions written there — questions like are you fucking for-real with this shit?, or what the hell have you been saying about me, Teacher?, or maybe do I ever want to know what you called me while you were talking about me?
But then he's looking at Ford again, and the way the
Luggageskull is now trying to rub its cheekbones along his pant leg, like a cat scent-marking its territory, and groans loudly."Oh, for fuck's sake," he complains. "I am terribly sorry about that — did you want me to make it stop? I — huh." He blinks, gaze flicking thoughtfully between the two portal-tinkering wiseguys. "I think it thinks you smell... familiar," he tries out, tasting his words as he goes. "As much as thinking applies, anyway, or smelling, for that matter — which fields would those be, for you?"