Queue.

Wait your turn.

Getting a move on.

Prequel.

Back when hats were befeathered and toes were kept under wraps.

At her royal highness's bidding.

Master Sergeant Plug of Her Majesty's Second Infantry Division

Look again. It's only the mildest of glamours. The trick is to start with the feet and work your way up. Even the least of Her servants has learned the art of stillness under scrutiny, but this particular fellow has a peculiar sensitivity about his toes. Peer extra hard and he will start to fidget. Lean in and you'll see the telltale blurring around the edges. The rest of him can be tickled out and cloven from his shade. But there's no predicting his mood, and a sullen Plug tends to spit.

Answer.

Last of the armored guard.

Lonely? No. Mostly I just go around relieved there's no one near to observe the witless shit I do all day.

Subterranean by design.

Slipping through the cracks.

Loftier purposes.

A simpler riff on an older pic.

You really DO always come back!!!

Droooool.