He takes the tape, writing not on the black tape itself, but on the luminous blue case. Futaba. Good enough, he figures, setting it in a new pile and sitting back down.
"So," he murmurs, watching the tape in Ren's hands, the joke falling flat even as he speaks it. "What fresh hell awaits us?"
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"So," he murmurs, watching the tape in Ren's hands, the joke falling flat even as he speaks it. "What fresh hell awaits us?"