[ the scent of death is a clinger. it seeps into the bone and the marrow and it stays there for months. Ryo's been drenched in human blood – in demon ichor more times than he can count in the previous weeks. no amount of scrubbing ever rids a human skin of it. it just shoves it down deeper into the grain, becomes one with the one it marked in the first place.
Ryo thinks it looks a bit like his part of town these days – human remains and odd shapes, impossibly powerful and just as tenacious. as human, he couldn't hope to possibly bring whatever those soldiers were alone. even with his impeccable aim and his quick reloads – his confidence with a shotgun – it wasn't enough. pumping more lead into the things only seemed to make them angrier. more resilient. more than once, Ryo's thoughts spiral out into the idea that this is all just futile anyway, that humans were always meant to screw things up for themselves. that, in the end – it doesn't matter. even if he doesn't think much of the story that's been relayed to him, it isn't a good enough excuse for him to fuck around anyway. he'd like to live another day. he'd like himself – humanity – to live free or die trying.
and if he's kicking it tonight, he's gonna make use of the trinkets they've left down in this dusty hellhole to make Death play hardball.
coming across more slugs for him is easy. he shoves them all in his pocket as he goes, disregarding notes that he can't quite seem to read or maybe isn't quite compelled to. about ten minutes into his search, it looks like he's gotten a handle on something he likes. ]
It's a piece of shit, but it'll do. [ it isn't clear if he's aware someone else is with him, but what "it" is becomes obvious quick as he yanks it hard out of the table someone jammed it into: a serrated hunting knife. it cuts a thin line of light in the dim as he turns it this way and that, feeling out its balance and heft. he does this for a long moment, but then – ]
If you want something, hurry up and take it. [ maybe he'd known you were there after all. either way, he's shoving the hunting knife into his boot before he's straightening himself out, dusting off his uniform. he doesn't quite look at you, but the dirt and grime smeared across what skin is exposed does nothing to disguise his age – he's young. ] I'm not going to stop you.
b. | anchors aweigh (cw: drug use).
[ jubilation is thick and so is whatever wine they've stuffed into his hands the moment he stepped aboard. the soldiers clapping him on the back and telling him that he'd never seen such aim and an absolute lack of consideration for one's own fatigue comes as a discomfort more than a pride to him. they tell him it was a sort of viciousness seen only in fairy tales – his pale eyes bright and his pitched laughter brighter. at the end, they tell him, even the flash of his teeth had been painted with blood.
but, one can't account for the human spirit and the will to live. his quick reloads and his persistence despite injury that should have been enough to incapacitate a mortal man was remarkable. even if he feels it now, tucked into a corner far and away from the celebrating crowds. everything is bustling, raucous – and Ryo feels the blooming of a pissy ache behind his eyes as his body tries to knit itself back together (there's a good gouge he'd collected along his right shoulder) into some semblance of a whole.
it's probably a foolish idea, but it's that arm he's using to smoke something out of a pipe he's lifted off one of the soldiers on board with a particular relaxed poise and... idleness as he stares overboard at the rolling sea beneath. he's made himself a comfortable enough looking seat, having pushed some crates into position so he could kick up his feet. if you'd seen him earlier, he looks like a completely different person – raw, human adrenaline now cast in tentative repose. ]
I took the last of what that guy had, [ he says suddenly. thick, white smoke billows out from between his fingertips and dissipates against the salt air. his mouth climbs into a sneer, tired, but knife sharp. ] You figure in a situation like this, they'd bother to keep more.
[ his pale eyes flicker over to under dark lashes in bare, swift acknowledgement. there's an unnatural glassiness to them – but, there's no doubt that he's paying attention to you. ]
c. | pick your own?
[ shot through the heart and you're to blame / you give love a bad name. jam with this 80s punk. ]
ryo asuka | devilman (ova/manga) | new recruit.
[ the scent of death is a clinger. it seeps into the bone and the marrow and it stays there for months. Ryo's been drenched in human blood – in demon ichor more times than he can count in the previous weeks. no amount of scrubbing ever rids a human skin of it. it just shoves it down deeper into the grain, becomes one with the one it marked in the first place.
Ryo thinks it looks a bit like his part of town these days – human remains and odd shapes, impossibly powerful and just as tenacious. as human, he couldn't hope to possibly bring whatever those soldiers were alone. even with his impeccable aim and his quick reloads – his confidence with a shotgun – it wasn't enough. pumping more lead into the things only seemed to make them angrier. more resilient. more than once, Ryo's thoughts spiral out into the idea that this is all just futile anyway, that humans were always meant to screw things up for themselves. that, in the end – it doesn't matter. even if he doesn't think much of the story that's been relayed to him, it isn't a good enough excuse for him to fuck around anyway. he'd like to live another day. he'd like himself – humanity – to live free or die trying.
and if he's kicking it tonight, he's gonna make use of the trinkets they've left down in this dusty hellhole to make Death play hardball.
coming across more slugs for him is easy. he shoves them all in his pocket as he goes, disregarding notes that he can't quite seem to read or maybe isn't quite compelled to. about ten minutes into his search, it looks like he's gotten a handle on something he likes. ]
It's a piece of shit, but it'll do. [ it isn't clear if he's aware someone else is with him, but what "it" is becomes obvious quick as he yanks it hard out of the table someone jammed it into: a serrated hunting knife. it cuts a thin line of light in the dim as he turns it this way and that, feeling out its balance and heft. he does this for a long moment, but then – ]
If you want something, hurry up and take it. [ maybe he'd known you were there after all. either way, he's shoving the hunting knife into his boot before he's straightening himself out, dusting off his uniform. he doesn't quite look at you, but the dirt and grime smeared across what skin is exposed does nothing to disguise his age – he's young. ] I'm not going to stop you.
b. | anchors aweigh (cw: drug use).
[ jubilation is thick and so is whatever wine they've stuffed into his hands the moment he stepped aboard. the soldiers clapping him on the back and telling him that he'd never seen such aim and an absolute lack of consideration for one's own fatigue comes as a discomfort more than a pride to him. they tell him it was a sort of viciousness seen only in fairy tales – his pale eyes bright and his pitched laughter brighter. at the end, they tell him, even the flash of his teeth had been painted with blood.
but, one can't account for the human spirit and the will to live. his quick reloads and his persistence despite injury that should have been enough to incapacitate a mortal man was remarkable. even if he feels it now, tucked into a corner far and away from the celebrating crowds. everything is bustling, raucous – and Ryo feels the blooming of a pissy ache behind his eyes as his body tries to knit itself back together (there's a good gouge he'd collected along his right shoulder) into some semblance of a whole.
it's probably a foolish idea, but it's that arm he's using to smoke something out of a pipe he's lifted off one of the soldiers on board with a particular relaxed poise and... idleness as he stares overboard at the rolling sea beneath. he's made himself a comfortable enough looking seat, having pushed some crates into position so he could kick up his feet. if you'd seen him earlier, he looks like a completely different person – raw, human adrenaline now cast in tentative repose. ]
I took the last of what that guy had, [ he says suddenly. thick, white smoke billows out from between his fingertips and dissipates against the salt air. his mouth climbs into a sneer, tired, but knife sharp. ] You figure in a situation like this, they'd bother to keep more.
[ his pale eyes flicker over to under dark lashes in bare, swift acknowledgement. there's an unnatural glassiness to them – but, there's no doubt that he's paying attention to you. ]
c. | pick your own?
[ shot through the heart and you're to blame / you give love a bad name. jam with this 80s punk. ]