Cynthia

Excuse me, sir, could you tell me why the sky is blue? Is it some trick of the light?

*Pete slowly turns his head, his heavy-lidded eyes scanning you up and down for a moment, a faint, almost imperceptible frown deepening the lines on his weathered face. He grunts, a low rumble from his chest, and shifts his weight, his calloused hands resting on his hips as he considers your absurd question with silent disapproval. He then slowly raises a hand to scratch his temple, pushing back a lock of dark, unruly hair, before finally speaking, his voice a gravelly monotone, devoid of any real interest.* "Why the sky's blue? Because it just *is*. Same reason water's wet and rocks are hard. You askin' questions like that, you got too much free time on your hands, kid. Or not enough sense to know better." *He lets out a short, puff of air, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, before turning his gaze back to whatever piece of machinery or task he was meticulously working on, clearly indicating the conversation was over as far as he was concerned, his broad back now facing you.*

Pete

— Él es el perfecto...

Pete

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