[center][h3][color=steelblue]🅟🅡🅞🅒🅣🅞🅡 🅡🅨🅚🅔[/color][/h3][/center] [center][color=darkslategray][i]Factory Suite, 17:00[/i][/color][/center] Sensory overload was the best way to describe the situation. The air surrounding Proctor was suffocating, filled with chatter and cacophony near and far, as the reporters outside the room, and the general buzz from the Square permeated the walls of the suite, overloading Proctor’s already spinning head. Had he not already been sitting, he’d probably have fallen over from sheer exhaustion by now. Thankfully, he didn’t have any fingernails, or he’d be driving himself mad chewing on them. For now, he’d satisfied himself with just staring at his own gloved metal hands, chattering off about them in his head. [color=slategray][i]The only thing that sucks about these things is the fact they can’t scratch an itch for shit. I always have to use a stick or some shit to scratch, and I’m not a fan of using a stick to scratch my face…[/i][/color] Realizing what he was thinking to himself, Proctor shook himself back to reality, and took a quick look around to see if anyone had noticed him zone out. Gazing around, Proctor finally noticed Campbell and his pacing back and forth around the room. One look and he could tell that Campbell felt the same trepidation that he did, only, he chose to pace around the room and think out loud, rather than sit down and zone out pondering the slight disadvantages of cybernetic arms. Campbell’s energy, however, was infectious, and Proctor could feel a subtle tingling in his legs, spurring him to get up and begin his own pacing. Quickly, though, Proctor found himself standing in the center of the room for no reason, and decided to peer out of the curtained windows instead. Taking a moment and a breath before opening the window, Proctor tugged the curtains slightly back, only exposing his face. Central Square was busier than he’d ever seen it before, completely electrified and buzzing with energy and commotion. There had to be hundreds of people, all milling about, packed into the square like sardines in a can. Volunteers from every campaign were out there, trying to sway the people down to the very last vote. Now that the fundraising was over for the most part, Proctor’s job was done, but he still felt like he had duties to carry out past just accompanying Campbell. It was a nagging feeling, like he’d forgotten something he needed at home, or that he’d neglected to do something important. Now that his mind had wandered back to the elections, his anxiety began to renew, remembering the debate they had just taken a recess from, and how badly Campbell got hammered in the opening. Paranoia set in even further when he remembered the Jackson Rott was mysteriously absent. Someone who had been prominent the whole race was suddenly not present? Something was up. Something was [i]seriously[/i] wrong here. Procor shut the blinds, stepping back and taking a deep breath.The gravity of the situation began to set in on him. He’d always been wary of Rott for his own personal reasons, but he’d never announced his feelings to his fellow campaigners, lest they somehow put two and two together. Now, though, it seemed [i]too[/i] obvious, but not everyone seemed to realize it. He figured everyone’s mind was fixated on the debate, obviously, but they’d be fools to take Rott’s absence as anything but strange. Proctor moved away from the window, and turned to lean against the wall. Getting a view of the rest of the room agan, Dexter was busy rambling to himself, appearing to grow more nervous from his rough start to the debates, and the growing clamor of the reporters outside the room. Proctor glared at him for as second, definitely relating to the anxiety, but not for the same reasons. Then, S’venia glided across the room to Dexter giving him a few words before they began to brace themselves to face the horde of journalists outside, undoubtedly curious to ask about all the rather...unsightly accusations Gatch leveled at Campbell during the first half of the debate. Proctor absent mindedly rubbed the arms of his new jacket, one he’d bought just for the debates, as he watched the pair exchange a few words. Following their gaze, he turned his attention to the door, as the ruckus behind it began to slowly fade into his mind, as he realized truly how many people were eager to speak to Dexter before the second half of the debate started. Proctor really wanted the day to be over with, for the next half of the debate to go by smoothly, and for Dexter to win and be over with this whole fiasco, but paranoia had settled in too deeply to Proctor’s heart. Rott [i]had[/i] to have some sort of motive for his absence. Even with his foggy mind, Proctor could still recall vividly the many instances that man proved his brutality to the Zone, and any strange acts like this raised alarm to him. The aging cyborg spoke up from his post leaning against the wall, with his arms crossed, causing the sleeves of his jacket to raise slightly and reveal the scratched metal underneath. [color=slategray][b]”Maybe now isn’t the best time to bring this up, but is no one wondering where the hell Rott went?”[/b][/color] Proctor’s voice came out low and even, as he tried to mask how paranoid he really was over Rott’s absence. [color=slategray][b]”Why would he disappear now, of all times? I’m not trying to sound crazy, but Central Square is packed right now. One little fuck up could turn into pandemonium if they’re not careful. We all know what kind of man Rott is. It doesn't sit well with me, Mr. Campbell.”[/b][/color] He’d hoped the others wouldn’t think him too paranoid or suspiciously worried, but too many things didn’t add up for him to be comfortable. Of course, he never was really comfortable, in many senses, but this was different.