Moiré makes another grab, misses by a mile as Martin lowers the branch, and doubles over with a wheezing cough. They fizzle and distort with each hacking exhalation, leaning their hands on their knees. By the time they can catch their breath they've forgotten why their face hurts or where the smudge of blood on their glove came from.

They narrow their static-grey eyes at Martin, not sure why he's in their personal space but they're in a really bad mood for some reason. "What d̶̢̐͛ọ̷͇̽ yō̵̠͉̞͂̔u w̷͓̐a̶͈̕n̵̜̾ť̵͕?"