questions hanging around the perimeter of his mind. Like a group of 19 year olds hoping the bouncer at a 21’s nightclub will eventually pity them enough to let them in. They just won’t go away. One gang of them are particularly annoying, walking up to him every few minutes to check if he could come in yet.
Steve: Why did you look at the faces of the drones last night Steve? Or fix that girls hair? … and the lipstick… What’s up with the damn lipstick?
Answers he doesn’t really want to hear, so probably best not to ask the question. He focuses on the task at hand.
Packs of drones are still running around as normal, still rampaging away like schools of piranhas, but less so than