[ He doesn't so much answer with words as he does with the slight inclination of his head – a sort of wary acceptance.
But, that's the problem with people like Ryo: They were brilliant in ways that never gave up dividends. He could have studied his whole life away – could have become famous like his father, but who gave a shit about that in the end? His father was dead and his mother had long since been put to rest. He wasn't home – a home under siege of creatures so vicious that it set his fears here to a comparative and roiling disquiet. It's the absence of what he's accustomed to, the absence of who he really trusts that gnaws away at him. It's his drive for justice, the fact that everything sits on an artificial pause while he's away wresting the lack of freewill from the hands of some nebulous group to throw back to the masses. Would it actually matter? Maybe not. Maybe not, for him.
But, he has to believe it – has to maybe humor it. There's nothing else he can do in this moment, until he can claw his way into alternatives. And Akira isn't here to pull him from his self-inflicted death march when it came to saving Akira's skin. And so, he plays it safer than he typically has been.
His comfort with the weapon is more than evident. He bends to pull the hunting knife from his boot by the handle, adjusting his grip with a lazy flip. It appears he isn't dumb enough to come into her range without it, though the point is down and the serrated edge faces toward him. If he had intent, it would have been obvious. He isn't the sort of waffle about it, if the way he yanks his arm up and back to drive the tip into the space she's indicated without hesitation is any proof of it. It cuts in easy with a dull crack and the spider-webbing of fissures into the waterlogged grain. He doesn't even have to pull the blade all the way out again to pry up board from the true siding, his mouth curled into a self-satisfied grin, eyes bright and focused.
What he comes back with, after pulling the offending plank from the blade, is a full bottle of whiskey and box of ammo that seems enough to feed a gun or two. He cuts a look her way as soon as he shoves the knife back into his boot again, cache bared to her with the extension of a pale hand. ]
They were smart enough to save a few good things, [ he says, absent. The amber liquor sloshes up against the dirty glass, shells rattling. But, considering her choice of weapon she pulled on him, it seems pertinent to add in the rest. ] But, there's no other ammunition.
[ He keeps an eye on her, until she decides what she wants to take. ]
no subject
But, that's the problem with people like Ryo: They were brilliant in ways that never gave up dividends. He could have studied his whole life away – could have become famous like his father, but who gave a shit about that in the end? His father was dead and his mother had long since been put to rest. He wasn't home – a home under siege of creatures so vicious that it set his fears here to a comparative and roiling disquiet. It's the absence of what he's accustomed to, the absence of who he really trusts that gnaws away at him. It's his drive for justice, the fact that everything sits on an artificial pause while he's away wresting the lack of freewill from the hands of some nebulous group to throw back to the masses. Would it actually matter? Maybe not. Maybe not, for him.
But, he has to believe it – has to maybe humor it. There's nothing else he can do in this moment, until he can claw his way into alternatives. And Akira isn't here to pull him from his self-inflicted death march when it came to saving Akira's skin. And so, he plays it safer than he typically has been.
His comfort with the weapon is more than evident. He bends to pull the hunting knife from his boot by the handle, adjusting his grip with a lazy flip. It appears he isn't dumb enough to come into her range without it, though the point is down and the serrated edge faces toward him. If he had intent, it would have been obvious. He isn't the sort of waffle about it, if the way he yanks his arm up and back to drive the tip into the space she's indicated without hesitation is any proof of it. It cuts in easy with a dull crack and the spider-webbing of fissures into the waterlogged grain. He doesn't even have to pull the blade all the way out again to pry up board from the true siding, his mouth curled into a self-satisfied grin, eyes bright and focused.
What he comes back with, after pulling the offending plank from the blade, is a full bottle of whiskey and box of ammo that seems enough to feed a gun or two. He cuts a look her way as soon as he shoves the knife back into his boot again, cache bared to her with the extension of a pale hand. ]
They were smart enough to save a few good things, [ he says, absent. The amber liquor sloshes up against the dirty glass, shells rattling. But, considering her choice of weapon she pulled on him, it seems pertinent to add in the rest. ] But, there's no other ammunition.
[ He keeps an eye on her, until she decides what she wants to take. ]