"Man, whatever," Dustin huffs, clearly taking it personally. He keeps trudging ahead in silence for a couple long, tense minutes after that, stewing in his own self-conscious irritation while he creates a small divot in the snowdrifts for Donatello to walk in. At least he's not too difficult to match pace with; Dustin's stride isn't terribly long on his best days, and he's not taking the direct path across the plaza anyway, seeming to weave at random while he avoids the obstacles he knows are hidden under the deep blanket of white.

Eventually curiosity again wins out over sulking. "What's the deal with that, anyway?" Dustin asks, in a tone that suggests that he's not nearly as interested in the answer as he actually is. "Why do you have it?"