( makoto hates inactivity. he makes of himself a machine of perpetual motion, even if it's just attempting to divine the next steps of his enemies and thinking through problems without solutions. he had once told fjord that he had to keep himself busy so he didn't go mad — he hadn't been lying, though fjord, thinking it was due to grief and the overwhelming situation he had been thrown into, had been mistaken. as a demon, trapped in an endless existence he couldn't end no matter how much he might want to, there was nothing to consume him but overwhelming anger. anger at his lack of agency. hatred toward the one who had turned him into what he was now, just to play with him like a new toy. )

Oh? ( makoto leans forward to rest one elbow on a knee, his chin resting on an upturned palm. he proves an apt listener, giving courier the impression that he drinks deeply of all of the answers that he provides.

yes, he's happy this one has proven interesting instead of disappointing.

makoto's eyes lid closed for a moment, and he hums, deep in thought. his hair falls in unruly waves over his face and across his shoulders — he wishes he had something to tie it back with, or something sharp so he could cut a length of cloth off of one of his sleeves to serve at the same. ) Your instinct is good, then. There's certainly nothing enviable about our situation.

( he sweeps his hair back away from his eyes, setting courier in their gaze — twin chips of ice, floating in pools of blood. ) You felt it too, right? The world you left behind, crumbling away into nothing... ( he doesn't seem to handle these words with any undue care; the world he'd come from meant nothing to him, after all, at least not with J in it. ) Part of their design, maybe, to bring us here? Or an unhappy coincidence that they're taking advantage of?

( an eventuality they are trying to stave off for themselves? he keeps this thought to himself. )