The plastic take-out containers were floating alongside Mantis. --His hands were against the back of his mask, pale and frozen, as if he wasn't sure he really wanted to do this. But then, carefully, he began to pull it away, over the top of his head; it came loose with a soft popping sound, and it fell away from nerveless fingers to tumble into his lap.
The Russian was as white-skinned as his hands, completely bald save for (of all things) his eyelashes, which were long and white, framing gray eyes that were probably quite pretty when they weren't bloodshot and nervous. --The rest of his face, though, was a scarred mess. There were old burns over part of one cheek and leading up over his ear and the top and back of his head, his nose had been burned or cut entirely off, leaving his face oddly skull-like---and though his mouth had once been well-shaped, a vicious cut had split both lips at an angle, and had scarred badly. It was really no wonder he'd asked her not to scream; he looked like he'd walked out of a horror movie, the victim of some brutal gang-murder.
There was a flinch as the muffling effects of the mask disappeared, and Mantis was still for several moments, trembling violently as he adjusted to the extra pressure, the added minds. He finally seemed to pull himself together, though, and plucked the sandwich out of the air, unwrapping it with suddenly-clumsy fingers.