( the tickling mental sensation of something alien and yet altogether familiar stops makoto in his tracks; the dull sound of his shoes against the cool stone floor of the lodestone chamber slow and then halt, silence filling in the space for a few heartbeats before he turns and begins to pursue the fragment of thought and feeling to its source.
he hadn't had such an easy time with the illness that the Kenoma had brought upon him (largely self-inflicted). among demons, makoto is unique. he is not so naturally and innately umbrous — after all, he had lived his first fifteen or sixteen years of life as a human, only finding himself transformed into a demon after his death. he hadn't been the first former human in hell, but he had been something of a novelty because he had been the first to bend rather than break — typically the human mind can't survive such an adjustment and they fall to pieces, but makoto... well, it would be incorrect to say he came through his culture shock unscathed, but he had adapted surprisingly (perhaps alarmingly) well. in his version of earth and hell, he is the only creature to have been on both ends of a demonic contract, and so he knew full well the sensation and expectations of either one.
"speak your wish. I will grant anything you desire. the price will be your life." they are the same words that J had told him when he had summoned him as a human, and he had spoken the same every time he had been summoned himself to play the same role. it's a delicate thing, to give a beleaguered and desperate soul its deepest desire and yet fan the flames of its despair in such a way that they grow and metastasize, so that they would make it a worthwhile payout. makoto had developed his own methods when he had thrown himself into this work; it's not easy, and so the feeling of loss and wasted effort that accompanies a contract that has fallen apart due to circumstances outside of your own control... he can sympathize with that.
even if the hunger he had sought to satisfy had been one done so when he was contracted to J, not when others had contracted to him. )
And after all that hard work...
( makoto's strange eyes — pale irises against blood-red sclera, perhaps the only thing to signify him as inhuman besides the noticeable scar and sutures encircling his neck — can see with the True Sight that his attunement grants him; he doesn't have much to worry about with this soul. the Kenoma takes root easily enough. so instead of offering him woeful "encouragement," he instead offers a hand-towel. because, well, as necessary as the process is, it's not the most dignified in the world. )
Such a shame. ( he is right, though. if it's anguish that he's after, there's no shortage to be found in this world, even if it might teeter upon the edge of oblivion. )
III-a
he hadn't had such an easy time with the illness that the Kenoma had brought upon him (largely self-inflicted). among demons, makoto is unique. he is not so naturally and innately umbrous — after all, he had lived his first fifteen or sixteen years of life as a human, only finding himself transformed into a demon after his death. he hadn't been the first former human in hell, but he had been something of a novelty because he had been the first to bend rather than break — typically the human mind can't survive such an adjustment and they fall to pieces, but makoto... well, it would be incorrect to say he came through his culture shock unscathed, but he had adapted surprisingly (perhaps alarmingly) well. in his version of earth and hell, he is the only creature to have been on both ends of a demonic contract, and so he knew full well the sensation and expectations of either one.
"speak your wish. I will grant anything you desire. the price will be your life." they are the same words that J had told him when he had summoned him as a human, and he had spoken the same every time he had been summoned himself to play the same role. it's a delicate thing, to give a beleaguered and desperate soul its deepest desire and yet fan the flames of its despair in such a way that they grow and metastasize, so that they would make it a worthwhile payout. makoto had developed his own methods when he had thrown himself into this work; it's not easy, and so the feeling of loss and wasted effort that accompanies a contract that has fallen apart due to circumstances outside of your own control... he can sympathize with that.
even if the hunger he had sought to satisfy had been one done so when he was contracted to J, not when others had contracted to him. )
And after all that hard work...
( makoto's strange eyes — pale irises against blood-red sclera, perhaps the only thing to signify him as inhuman besides the noticeable scar and sutures encircling his neck — can see with the True Sight that his attunement grants him; he doesn't have much to worry about with this soul. the Kenoma takes root easily enough. so instead of offering him woeful "encouragement," he instead offers a hand-towel. because, well, as necessary as the process is, it's not the most dignified in the world. )
Such a shame. ( he is right, though. if it's anguish that he's after, there's no shortage to be found in this world, even if it might teeter upon the edge of oblivion. )