[ the scent seems to cycle between the petrichor and exhaust - as if someone is turning a wheel, or... rotating the locking spokes of a pair of gears. it's chrono's usual communion settings, condensed into some kind of single sense version rather than expressed as their own warring mindscapes that, despite their usual clarity, couldn't begin to compete with tezcatlipoca's godly image.

chrono himself rolls his eyes. ]

Which World? This one, yours, mine? I got a ton of problems with this one, if we're goin' there. [ he clicks his tongue, raising an eyebrow at tezcatlipoca. ] Us fresh-faced expendables are just thrown into this conflict and expected to square up, and you jus' get to waltz in like you own the damn concept of squarin' up? Great.