[The weasel chitters unhappily, but relents, letting go of Héctor in favor of scrambling beneath his feet, zipping back and forth to trip him up. Like a whisper, especially in comparison to the whimpering boy, a more familiar voice hisses,]
Don’t fucking trust it. Héctor, trust me, follow the weasel.
[Of course, the voice — Maverick’s, no doubt about it — is also coming...from the weasel...]
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Don’t fucking trust it. Héctor, trust me, follow the weasel.
[Of course, the voice — Maverick’s, no doubt about it — is also coming...from the weasel...]
H — Hello...? I wan — I want my daddy...