( they exist on polar opposite sides of this spectrum then, though makoto hasn't lived as a demon long enough to forget the difference in the weight of a name between the mortal and demon realms — on earth his name had felt paper-thin and immaterial in a population of billions, not holding an ounce of importance until he had signed it at the bottom of a demon's contract, but as soon as J had brought him to meet datenshou and he had felt the syllables of his name turn to shards of broken glass in his throat, he had realized just how different anonymity was in those two situations. one had been just as safeguarding as it had been isolating. for the other, it was death — the simplicity of nonexistence, heralded by no one to speak to or remember you.
makoto had already realized that those rules no longer apply here. if they did, he would have already been extinguished, given there was no one here that knew his name. he also hasn't told anyone, instead giving out his initial as he had to dextera — he isn't really sure why he does this, but in the end he feels that he chooses to still believe that there's importance in a name, and given it's the very last thing that's uniquely his that he even possesses... he's choosing to be jealous with it.
there's nothing sporting in provoking someone who cannot speak to defend themself; makoto, then, relents somewhat, though less out of mercy than just an acknowledgement that it simply wasn't fun enough to warrant the effort.
without his demon's innate ability to appraise the weight and contents of a soul, he has to try to divine it from other sources. he studies dextera just as the stranger steals a few sidelong glances at him, taking note of each minute instance of body language, puzzling at what it indicated and why. as for his now-companion's observations, he's not wrong in the slightest. the demon known as "M" is a canvas that has been painted over so many times it's almost impossible to see the original of the human that he'd once been. he is what he must be, at whatever costs.
it's after the sixth or the seventh failing-to-be-furtive look that makoto goes ahead and heads him off at the pass. )
If you have any questions for yourself, there's no need to be shy. Go ahead and ask.
( whether or not he'd be perfectly honest in his answers is another question altogether, but it's worth a shot. )
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makoto had already realized that those rules no longer apply here. if they did, he would have already been extinguished, given there was no one here that knew his name. he also hasn't told anyone, instead giving out his initial as he had to dextera — he isn't really sure why he does this, but in the end he feels that he chooses to still believe that there's importance in a name, and given it's the very last thing that's uniquely his that he even possesses... he's choosing to be jealous with it.
there's nothing sporting in provoking someone who cannot speak to defend themself; makoto, then, relents somewhat, though less out of mercy than just an acknowledgement that it simply wasn't fun enough to warrant the effort.
without his demon's innate ability to appraise the weight and contents of a soul, he has to try to divine it from other sources. he studies dextera just as the stranger steals a few sidelong glances at him, taking note of each minute instance of body language, puzzling at what it indicated and why. as for his now-companion's observations, he's not wrong in the slightest. the demon known as "M" is a canvas that has been painted over so many times it's almost impossible to see the original of the human that he'd once been. he is what he must be, at whatever costs.
it's after the sixth or the seventh failing-to-be-furtive look that makoto goes ahead and heads him off at the pass. )
If you have any questions for yourself, there's no need to be shy. Go ahead and ask.
( whether or not he'd be perfectly honest in his answers is another question altogether, but it's worth a shot. )