[ 'Demon,' Makoto says, and Gen raises an eyebrow. Waits for a moment, maybe two, for some sort of 'just kidding!' But it doesn't come, and so he gives a derisive scoff. ]
A demon?
[ Feining calm is second nature for him, and Gen's body language reads languid and careless as he sits back, propping his weight on his arms. Every inch the textbook, cocky, overly-confident delinquent, unshaken even in the face of a demon. Only a terribly keen eye would notice the way he continues fidgeting a little bit with his bloodstained hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the curve of his nail where grit of leftover blood lingers. The tactile sensation grates at his nerves but he can't seem to leave it alone, either. ]
Always figured demons would look more ... impressive. Big, red skin, horns, wings. All that shit. [ The Hollywood cliche, in other words. ] You're not that much to look at.
[ Pretty enough for a guy, he supposes, but weird eyes and creepy demeanor aside, he doesn't look like the type to strike much fear into anyone. And so what if he can apparently pull his head off and put it back on? Even if he can recover from all sorts of injuries, that seems more like a party trick, comparatively speaking. There's still the slightest touch of tension in his shoulders as he cocks his head to give Makoto a look-over, too distrustful to fully let his guard down and still acclimating to just how weird this place (and apparently its residents) are, but it's obvious he doesn't see Makoto as a direct threat. Yet. ]
And I ain't doing shit for you. Do it yourself. [ A pause before the corner of his mouth quirks up in the start of a humorless smirk. ] Or -- what, gonna offer me a deal? A "demon" that can't even get out of this ridiculous place, or else you wouldn't be putting up with those guards and their bullshit. What kinda deal can you cook up, huh?
no subject
A demon?
[ Feining calm is second nature for him, and Gen's body language reads languid and careless as he sits back, propping his weight on his arms. Every inch the textbook, cocky, overly-confident delinquent, unshaken even in the face of a demon. Only a terribly keen eye would notice the way he continues fidgeting a little bit with his bloodstained hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the curve of his nail where grit of leftover blood lingers. The tactile sensation grates at his nerves but he can't seem to leave it alone, either. ]
Always figured demons would look more ... impressive. Big, red skin, horns, wings. All that shit. [ The Hollywood cliche, in other words. ] You're not that much to look at.
[ Pretty enough for a guy, he supposes, but weird eyes and creepy demeanor aside, he doesn't look like the type to strike much fear into anyone. And so what if he can apparently pull his head off and put it back on? Even if he can recover from all sorts of injuries, that seems more like a party trick, comparatively speaking. There's still the slightest touch of tension in his shoulders as he cocks his head to give Makoto a look-over, too distrustful to fully let his guard down and still acclimating to just how weird this place (and apparently its residents) are, but it's obvious he doesn't see Makoto as a direct threat. Yet. ]
And I ain't doing shit for you. Do it yourself. [ A pause before the corner of his mouth quirks up in the start of a humorless smirk. ] Or -- what, gonna offer me a deal? A "demon" that can't even get out of this ridiculous place, or else you wouldn't be putting up with those guards and their bullshit. What kinda deal can you cook up, huh?