[ It says something, doesn't it, that Gen simply accepts that 'joke' and the needling with little more than a flat stare, the dark shadows under his eyes accentuating the sheer exhaustion he's been marinating in since he arrived to this city. Even Makoto's mention of his beloved obsession earns only a roll of the eyes before Gen looks away, the click of his tongue a muted noise -- more reflex than it is a willful projection of scorn in his usual fashion -- and his words muttered low under his breath. ]
You creepy stalker fuck.
[ Insults like these are petty and meaningless, he knows. But they're easy, and he's always been the type to bristle and project his negative emotions outward. A dense mass of anxiety and discomfort's been building in the pit of his stomach since he was given this assignment, a strange sensation that he can't quite vent just by terrorizing the Veneran citizens; even the prospect of blocking out coherent thought with the adrenaline rush of combat by hunting down the Pleroma doesn't hold the same appeal it always does. And so he tosses that careless barb Makoto's way, but ...
that, too, doesn't feel right.
Nothing here feels right.
Case in point. While he'd normally bristle at the thought of Makoto even daring to assign him a task like this, in this moment Gen barely reacts. He'd been following a few paces behind Makoto with little comment, keeping his gaze sweeping wide over the surroundings, and his next breath escapes as a near-sigh as his sights settle on the familiar warehouse. He had already visited the warehouse, of course, but had found little of note, forcing him to go about shaking down Gibraltar's associates in search of something more concrete to work off of.
And now here they are.
He'd offered no further comment in response to Makoto's proposal, but Gen does reach to his belt as they near the entrance of the warehouse. There's the clink of his mace being pulled from its holster at his belt, then the sound of the heavy metal head whipping through the air as he gives it a small swing. The creak of the leather of his glove as he tightens his grip around the handle. ]
You gonna try to get in there first? Or are you ready if I just flush'im out. [ With force. ]
no subject
You creepy stalker fuck.
[ Insults like these are petty and meaningless, he knows. But they're easy, and he's always been the type to bristle and project his negative emotions outward. A dense mass of anxiety and discomfort's been building in the pit of his stomach since he was given this assignment, a strange sensation that he can't quite vent just by terrorizing the Veneran citizens; even the prospect of blocking out coherent thought with the adrenaline rush of combat by hunting down the Pleroma doesn't hold the same appeal it always does. And so he tosses that careless barb Makoto's way, but ...
that, too, doesn't feel right.
Nothing here feels right.
Case in point. While he'd normally bristle at the thought of Makoto even daring to assign him a task like this, in this moment Gen barely reacts. He'd been following a few paces behind Makoto with little comment, keeping his gaze sweeping wide over the surroundings, and his next breath escapes as a near-sigh as his sights settle on the familiar warehouse. He had already visited the warehouse, of course, but had found little of note, forcing him to go about shaking down Gibraltar's associates in search of something more concrete to work off of.
And now here they are.
He'd offered no further comment in response to Makoto's proposal, but Gen does reach to his belt as they near the entrance of the warehouse. There's the clink of his mace being pulled from its holster at his belt, then the sound of the heavy metal head whipping through the air as he gives it a small swing. The creak of the leather of his glove as he tightens his grip around the handle. ]
You gonna try to get in there first? Or are you ready if I just flush'im out. [ With force. ]