[ his distress is only an invention of his tendency to blanch at the sight of blood — it plays too acutely into his fear of the unknown, the poltergeists of his past and his present and how he opts to bruises his own composure than confront anything head-on.

but fishing is easier. more mechanical, less precise, no bleak wash of red slippery and cooling in his fingers, just limpid fins and wide, wide pupils and shimmery, trembling bodies and makoto —

makoto averts his gaze, scrubbing at the nape of his neck as he trains his gaze on the diminishing line of trees. the presence of water from the wobbling, palpitating rush of water resounds through the bent branches and shivery foliage unabated. ]

Sounds like a plan to me. We'll need nets, though. Maybe bait and a way to prepare them afterwards, too?

[ he isn't wringing his hands. there isn't any recursive motion to his stance at all, stock-still and staring out at the unfurling jungle, the primeval wildness that counteracted the gleaming chrome and latticed sky bridges of the colony. ]

Should we stick together, or do you think it'd be better to split up?