[for one bright blinding moment, he thinks that the world is ending. the light - his own light , it's blinding. It rings in his ears and through his skull, reverberating right down to the core of him like it'll shake loose the snatched parts of himself that make him who he is, separate him from muscle and bone and metal once and for all. almost, he wants it. it doesn't last though, and when the light stops and the metaphorical dust settles and he can once again discern the shape of himself, he laughs. it's a staccato sound that falls oddly flat in expanse of the orchard, lets him know that the space he's currently occupying is finite. clearly, things have taken a turn for the outlandish.

he picks himself out of a pile of leaves, smoke still rising from him in acrid wisps as he straightens his cracked glasses, flicks dust from his ravaged suit; he doubts anyone is here to observe his performance, but the show must go on. it helps ground him, helps him retain his poise.

he cocks his head as he listens, trigger-fingers twitching in reflex. is that the crunch of footsteps making their way through this strange and alien place?]

Come out, come out, whatever you are.

[The trees and the orchard and even the picking of apples from their true source are all so strange and alien to him that he's left feeling undone, unmoored. Disconcerted. Of course, he allows none of this to seep into his outward appearance, stalking through this strange, new place with all the loose and languid canine grace at his disposal. Hands shoved into the pockets of his torn suit, eyes partially obscured behind cracked orange lenses, he picks not a thing, touches nothing-- not until he comes to the other kind of trees.

It's the weapons, of course, that catch bright at his interest. It's only when he's done rifling through them - armed once again, settling some of the unsteady feelings in him - that he plucks one of the shining golden fruit. Almost unconscious, an afterthought. When the people and their array of strange masks begin bleeding out of the woodwork, his face splits wide on a crooked-pin smile. Now here is something that he knows. Something he can sink his teeth into.]

Play time.

[He'd stepped inside ostensibly to see if there's anything that can be done to save his now-ragged appearance - one should always strive for elegance, no matter the circumstances - so its a strange sensation, to abruptly realise that others around him are in dire need of his help. That he actually wants to give it.]

Now, this may be what you're looking for. It's just your cut and colour.

[He holds up a fine-tailoured suit, no matter your gender or present state of dress.]