He was covered in a ludicrous amount of metal, though he often behaved as though he’d forgotten—or that it was simply irrelevant. It was a hobby of his and nothing more. He enjoyed standing out and being different. He’d been born with a lurid eye color, and yet he embraced it to the point of dying his tangled, filthy mane such a shade in faded patches, ensuring that everyone noticed. And yet he wore sunglasses—perhaps to veil the vacant look in his eyes. The idea of a greenhouse piqued his interest, for it was wintertime now and nothing could grow out here in these frigid, barren conditions.
A greenhouse would allow him such privilege, and he immediately intended to take over at least a portion of the building before he’d even seen it. He had a green thumb, even if he didn’t have much else going for him. Plants seemed to speak to him—figuratively, of course. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder again, as though it’d begun to slip during their conversation and stepped forward. “Sweet,” he said, grinning stupidly.
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