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( CLOSED ) two wrongs don't make a right
Who: Koujaku (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kaba) & Makoto Tachibana (cordated)
When: IC 12/19
Where: CERES Gymnasium
What: It's like the beginning of Sharknado: a fateful encounter rife with off-kilter misconceptions, mutual awkwardness, and plenty of swimming.
Rating/Warning: None.
Like every campy horror flick ever, Makoto's day starts out at the pool, because it's not like him to break habit even after the veritable apocalypse reduces his world to yet another universe caught in the great matrix of digital code and insanity. Maybe he should've specifically requested that they reassembled him with a strong backbone, but it's hard to be sensible when he's borderline-distraught and disinclined to be cross-examined for another five seconds, let alone five minutes by robots with clipboards and cold steel innards in lieu of sincere emotional empathy. His nebulous fear with anything with remote relation to the uncanny valley doesn't help with adjusting, but his friends have been expedient in speeding up the orientation to their current state of affairs.
It's the weekend and he's headed down to the pool. The rest of his classmates are presumably occupying themselves with other normalized affairs, and he can't get Haru out of the tub for anything today, which isn't as much disappointing as it falls to expectation that he likes languishing in stagnant bodies of water for hours on end just to, purportedly, "feel it touch him". In full expectation of finding a desiccated human prune upon his return, he left several towels and a stockpile of fish from the grocery store two blocks over; after his last attempt at cooking, he'd been effectively banned from the kitchen.
The trip is mostly uneventful, save for the part where a fire hydrant malfunctions and attempts to preemptively drench him, along with several other hapless pedestrians, in water. He leaves unscathed, but a good quarter of the crowd are left soaked, which sends their CYbuddies on the fritz, yapping after cars and tackling apartment complexes in a dogged attempt to scratch bizarre symbols into the walls. Attempts to keep them from committing arbitrary acts of vandalism prove futile, so he dials in the fire station on his CereVice and eventually continues on.
After reaching the gym for a cursory change in the weight room, he's trekked out to the lap pool for a few turns. At such an early hour (in winter, no less), there aren't many people out in the morning, so he takes position smack-dab in the middle of the largest one and gets into position before vaulting off. It's nice just falling back into a familiar rhythm, swimming without necessarily paying attention to times or the anxiety that threatens to burgeon into cloying doubts whenever he meditates too long on what's become of his family, the rest of his friends, his current predicament and every concern he's since deserted at the wayside.
And that's an inherently hazardous state of thinking because he's effectively zoned out to the rest of his surroundings, which makes the precipitous splash into the water beside him just white noise, inconsequential until there's something clamping its mouth around his ankle, and then he's —
"Wah ... — !"
... promptly dragged down under.
kaba) & Makoto Tachibana (cordated)When: IC 12/19
Where: CERES Gymnasium
What: It's like the beginning of Sharknado: a fateful encounter rife with off-kilter misconceptions, mutual awkwardness, and plenty of swimming.
Rating/Warning: None.
Like every campy horror flick ever, Makoto's day starts out at the pool, because it's not like him to break habit even after the veritable apocalypse reduces his world to yet another universe caught in the great matrix of digital code and insanity. Maybe he should've specifically requested that they reassembled him with a strong backbone, but it's hard to be sensible when he's borderline-distraught and disinclined to be cross-examined for another five seconds, let alone five minutes by robots with clipboards and cold steel innards in lieu of sincere emotional empathy. His nebulous fear with anything with remote relation to the uncanny valley doesn't help with adjusting, but his friends have been expedient in speeding up the orientation to their current state of affairs.
It's the weekend and he's headed down to the pool. The rest of his classmates are presumably occupying themselves with other normalized affairs, and he can't get Haru out of the tub for anything today, which isn't as much disappointing as it falls to expectation that he likes languishing in stagnant bodies of water for hours on end just to, purportedly, "feel it touch him". In full expectation of finding a desiccated human prune upon his return, he left several towels and a stockpile of fish from the grocery store two blocks over; after his last attempt at cooking, he'd been effectively banned from the kitchen.
The trip is mostly uneventful, save for the part where a fire hydrant malfunctions and attempts to preemptively drench him, along with several other hapless pedestrians, in water. He leaves unscathed, but a good quarter of the crowd are left soaked, which sends their CYbuddies on the fritz, yapping after cars and tackling apartment complexes in a dogged attempt to scratch bizarre symbols into the walls. Attempts to keep them from committing arbitrary acts of vandalism prove futile, so he dials in the fire station on his CereVice and eventually continues on.
After reaching the gym for a cursory change in the weight room, he's trekked out to the lap pool for a few turns. At such an early hour (in winter, no less), there aren't many people out in the morning, so he takes position smack-dab in the middle of the largest one and gets into position before vaulting off. It's nice just falling back into a familiar rhythm, swimming without necessarily paying attention to times or the anxiety that threatens to burgeon into cloying doubts whenever he meditates too long on what's become of his family, the rest of his friends, his current predicament and every concern he's since deserted at the wayside.
And that's an inherently hazardous state of thinking because he's effectively zoned out to the rest of his surroundings, which makes the precipitous splash into the water beside him just white noise, inconsequential until there's something clamping its mouth around his ankle, and then he's —
"Wah ... — !"
... promptly dragged down under.
no subject
Or not. A mysteriously drenched Koujaku comes charging in a moment later like he’s got a grudge against the pool and Pochi? Pochi’s tugging relentlessly at Makoto’s foot, its little legs churning in the water as tiny crackles of electricity begin sparking from its joints. For some reason the tech shop hadn’t thought to design a completely waterproof hippo considering the species’ usual habits. Why this is so we may never know.
Backtrack to half an hour ago and we see that Pochi was never meant to leave the apartment in the first place. Koujaku was strict with that little rule, on account of the little guy’s violence towards him, which might likewise be directed towards perfect strangers.
He’d thought of having it reprogrammed, but then that would entail having to take it outside.
Evidently, Pochi had rebelled against the notion—quite suddenly, as a matter of fact—by nudging a window open and dropping itself down the gutter. It was just about small enough to slide through, and Koujaku could hear that ominous clanging as he ran downstairs to intercept his wayward CYbuddy.
It had proved faster than he’d realized, however, as it sped towards the street, slipped, and was hit by a powerful gush of water spewing out of the hydrant. From that moment on Pochi had been partially blinded, its sense receptors waterlogged as it charged ahead into who knows where—perhaps searching for its owner for help.
So thankfully for Makoto, that isn’t really a bite meant to slice his toes off. In its own special little way, Pochi’s asking for help, and losing more and more of its circuitry to water damage as we speak. Makoto’s about the same height and build as its master, after all. At this point, there’s little of itself that can tell the difference.
Koujaku himself is worried as hell when he’d seen the little guy stagger out in the streets, but don’t think he’s forgotten about you, Makoto. He sees Pochi’s latest victim flailing in the water and immediately dives in without a second thought—never mind that he barely knows how to swim. (And in any case the water would probably only come up to his chin if he stood up on the deep end.)
“Pochi!” he half-shouts, half-gurgles as he thrashes his way towards Makoto and the wayward flicker of purple at the boy’s toes. “Hold on!”
Aaand he’s under.
no subject
As it is, his behavior might not be above reproach, but it's an understandable course of action, which should feasibly give Makoto a free pass when he's later held at metaphorical gunpoint for shrieking like his leg was milliseconds away from being sawed off when Pochi assaulted him. It's perfectly normal to cry uncle and scream in dismembered, fitful bursts of air as he abruptly loses the very equanimity keeping him afloat and sinks head-first.
Seriously, think about his mindset, barely six in the morning and still clambering to full wakefulness. There wasn't supposed to be anyone around, and with lifeguards like Oz and Elliot, it's no real surprise there's no one around to deal with traumatic fallouts coming to life or the possibility of Eldritch Abominations residing in the local pool. It's a big deal. It's a really big deal, he's not dramatizing anything. And through the saturated haze, he's just lucky no one's taking a cheap shot at his soon-to-be desecrated corpse.
Enter Koujaku, waterlogged and sporting hair that was once likely insured for at least 5,000 credits a strand. His advance is no less gallant as he strides out, ready to amend every wrong with a flick of his hand. A paragon of chivalry come to his rescue, apparently.
Wow, his hero.
But once Koujaku proves himself to be no more buoyant than a sinking rock, Makoto kicks into self-preservation mode and ... just stands up, coughing out water and rapidly scrubbing at his face. He's tall enough that the water doesn't even encroach on the periphery of his nose, making this whole affair just a little melodramatic, given that Pochi's halted the blitzkrieg onslaught on Makoto's toes the moment Koujaku hurled himself into the water and has since lapsed into torpid impassiveness, revolving slow circles around the thrashing bundle snagged on one ladder end at the bottom of the pool.
... Well, then.
Taking a minute breath, he dives beneath, freeing him of the snags in one fluid movement, and drags him upward. Breaking the surface at roughly the same time, he shakes his head clear of water, he gives the guy a once-over, relative concern coaxing clean out of his features.
"Are you alright? Your ... um, is 'Pochi' yours?" Makoto inquires with no small degree of mortification, gesturing over at the hippo CYbuddy paddling circles around them with loitering sluggishness. "He's okay, too."
no subject
And sometimes, it’s a giant thug who thinks like he’s some kind of hotshot knight in shining armor, out to rescue the princess from yonder beast—there’s a certain amount of coolness to be expected in the act of rescue, and panicky or not, Koujaku’s inadvertently on his way to acting out on tropes as old as time.
Despite his finely honed senses out in the streets of a rough neighborhood, the water is an entirely different kind of turf because it is not, traditionally, considered turf at all. Ergo, Makoto can actually react faster in the water because Koujaku’s still thrashing about a few seconds after Makoto has duly calmed his tits.
Give him a moment…
His feet hit the bottom of the pool and…oh. He stops thrashing instantly, pulling his head out of the water and hacking as much of that awful chlorinated stuff as he can as Pochi is summarily plucked from the water by a very large man.
At least he looked really cool for a while there?
He takes a few moments to stare blankly at the little bastard like he’s got no idea who Pochi even is (and given where he’s ended up, can you blame him?). His clothes are sagging and weighing him down and his bandages are coming undone in the water and his hair’s plastered to his face and neck in really unflattering whorls and—as sort of an icing on top of the crazy cake—his hairpin tips downward.
Oh, it’s a high schooler. He glances at Pochi, similarly mortified.
Best to leave the little guy alone for the time being.
“Yeah.”
He gingerly fishes the hippo out of the water, thinking all the while about how Aoba’s going to kill him for this. Or would, hypothetically speaking.
“Sorry about that.” He doesn’t know what else to even say.
i'm so sorry for being late and plain awful
More importantly: it's a little hard to take a convenient detour out of the gym when they're both soaked from the eyelashes down and wholly unprepared to take any of this absurdity with any degree of measurable calm.
If nothing else, Makoto hasn't recalled his predilection for being unbearably churchy just yet, so he just stares blankly as Koujaku snatches Pochi out of the water by its rotund purple torso, like he's latched onto a yapping dog itching to take a bite out of his leg, which wasn't far from the truth. All they need now is canned laughter interspersed with comedic improv for a good sitcom premise, like that robot hippo hadn't almost caused two inadvertent deaths of guys with Real Problems. Emphasis necessary, full-stop.
"It's okay! Really, it's fine. Er, I'll get a change of bandages right away, okay? Wait here."
And taking the only viable outlet left to salvage the rest of his mortification from some spectator's wanton scrutiny and nearly faceplants skidding over to the weight room. As it is, he slams into the closed entryway in a bout of weird performance anxiety, apologizing profusely to the door, and makes his grand escape — except no, he isn't an unrepentant asshole, he wouldn't leave even a perfect stranger with a homicidal CYBuddy out for blood and human fear.
A few minutes later, he's returned with an entire gauze roll and a decidedly reluctant compliance. Interpreting Koujaku's disheveled state as a sign for motherly concern, he's cautious about his approach, holding the bandages like some contrived peace offering.
"Well, that was really ... something, huh?" he eventually manages, glancing at the still-drenched guy garbed in either an extremely ornate kimono, or perhaps a frumpy bathrobe, by the looks of it. "Are you hurt?"
shhh it's fine :>
Wait, for what?
He looks down, and sighs. It’s not the medical stuff he needs, kiddo, although Pochi’s already rather enthusiastically nipping at Koujaku’s fingers with that same homicidal intent. Koujaku shakes it a little, watching it clamp tighter around his fingers.
“Yeah yeah, I’ll get you checked out soon, you little bastard,” he mumbles, combing back his hair with his free hand before undoing his obi and setting it aside over the deck. The tail end of the bandage unraveling over his torso drifts over the water’s surface, curling slowly into the water as Koujaku pulls more and more of it free, baring the tattoos and scars over that part of his body as he does so. He doesn’t know if the kid will actually come back with fresh bandages and he doesn’t care. He’s just gonna sit here till his clothes quit weighing him down so much and gather his bearings, while he’s at it. You always feel a little heavier out of the water, once your body’s figured out that air isn’t nearly so buoyant as water had been.
He’s in the middle of freeing his hair from that ponytail—his hairpin between his teeth—when Makoto walks back in. Pochi’s lying next to him, capsized like a turtle and with its legs churning wildly in the air. Does it ever run out of its fucking batteries?
“Mmrfph,” Koujaku responds articulately, still irritated—not at the kid, but at little purple bastard next to him—and carefully drops his hairpin to his lap.
“I’m fine,” he says at last, looking down at his CYBuddy. “The little guy’s worse off than I am, anyway.”
…Is it bad that he actually feels sorry for Pochi? Dammit.
;___;
Makoto's always been average. Painfully so. And while mediocrity's never bothered him, he does end up overcompensating with observation. And while that's good for picking up conversational cues, certain idiosyncrasies with a tendency for falling under the radar, he can't feign ignorance, either. His ability to effect pretension works about as well as a busted sink, and he doesn't consider social niceties when he's beside himself keeping his sense of balance relatively intact.
So he catches a glimpse of the scars, raised skins scabbed over darkened ink, and it makes for a perplexing first impression because his mind jumps the gun on rationale. Makoto tries his best not to stare in a hugely conspicuous manner, and partially fails, because he can see the telltale whorls of tattoos embalmed on the skin, prominent black streaks that he turns his head from even as his eyes instinctively slide away.
It's kind of absurd, really, because he doesn't know what to say, much less react. One palm's completely wadded up in bandages like an impertinent child sticking his hand into a medical kit in an arbitrarily presumptive fit — but Makoto wouldn't even know where to start, how to go about it, and that only begets the underlying issue at hand: no blood. If nothing else, they aren't fresh wounds.
But Koujaku's voice snaps bright in the air, an inherently resuscitative shock of sound cutting the silence, and Makoto startles back into motion, holds out the rolls to him in the likeness of a particularly demoralized gofer.
"Are you sure?"
Ever since Nagisa sat him down for three consecutive rounds of cinematic cult classics he can't get the idea of demented gremlins out of his brain, but on closer inspection, Pochi doesn't seem too horrible. It's ... kind of cute, in a plastic Furby way. The way the guy handles it, at least, reeks of weirdly nebulous sentiment.
"You really care about him, huh?" Makoto asks, crouching down to watch the CYBuddy rock back and forth in upended roly-poly motions. "He seems a little confused. Did something happen to him earlier?"
:*
Still, it's not like he isn't used to getting stared at already, but the kid has those huge innocent eyes that get to him every time. He feels a little ashamed of being in Makoto's presence, really. Causing trouble and jumping into pools like that. He should put flowers in his hair of his own accord and start singing through the woods.
Except it's Princess Natalia Luzu whatsit who's the one giving him the flowers, and secondly the only things that remotely qualify as "the woods" around this place are hella dangerous even for a seasoned fighter like him.
But that aside:
"Yeah, I'm—" He checks himself, tries to smile. He gestures vaguely to his hips, as if that area might be bleeding just a little, even though it's really not. He's hoping that might make the kid feel a little better about himself. Gosh, he's still not used to innocent teenagers who don't go around joining gangs and getting tattoos around here.
But Pochi steals the actual princess's attention here, and he's soon back on his feet and shaking its little head from side to side, as if dislodging the moisture from its neck joints. It's still waterlogged in places, but hey. Nothing anyone can do for it, now.
Koujaku still winces at that care about him comment, though, but he's not about to argue with a kid over this. Especially when he seems kinda nice.
"He got wet." Seriously, why did there have to be freak accidents on the one time Pochi decided to take himself for a walk, anyway? But, right. He should probably elaborate, considering where they've been.
"Some fire hydrant blew up outside. Left a big mess." Gingerly, he reaches a finger towards the little hippo's maw, whereupon he promptly withdraws it at a snap of tiny plastic jaws. Dick.
"Dunno if anyone can fix him, now." He's a little dejected at the prospect of losing it forever. He couldn't even save this little plastic hippo, let alone his best friend.
no subject
However, it's not a Nigerian prince's get-rich scam or a crime lord requesting he pay his just dues in sweat and tears, nothing quite so vulgar. Just a man down on his luck and crisscrossed by bullshit itself, harassed and harried in turns by fire hydrants and animatronic pets alike.
Well, he can't really help the Bambi-esque eyes and his obvious inability to hurt flies with tacit indiscretion, which would be hubris if people didn't automatically chalk it up to his bleeding heart. Makoto's latent fear of horror probably doesn't work in his favor, but that won't become an issue here with his guts curdling like soured milk over the life and (imminent) death of Pochi, snapping for life (or maybe just Koujaku's fingers, depending on the viewer). It strikes a chord of winsome empathy in him, so maybe his companion's assumptions aren't that far from the truth. Maybe Koujaku will end up that dismally terrible influence in his life, regaling stories about Ribsteez teams and hardened yakuza and what it means to finish a redemption arc (only to find yourself trapped in a digitalized Matrix ripoff with a would-be paramour suffering from repeated cases of amnesia and dropping off the face of the planet on a whim).
Only time and strategically-implemented dialogue will tell.
"I'm sorry," he eventually bursts out with in a vehement rush of emotion, all flushed cheeks and dodgy hyperawareness, words spilling from him like water in a sieve, "I saw what you meant, earlier. If I stayed behind, I could've kept him from diving in. ... I'm sorry for not getting him out sooner, anyhow."
His ensuing lapse of judgment gives rise to rehashed assumptions, and he's always breathing in recycled air, anyways, but it just isn't enough remorse on his end to warrant anything like leniency given a fresh coat of paint.
"But you shouldn't give up before you've tried. I don't know what I could do for you on my own, but if there's any way I can help you, then I'll do my best."
no subject
Don’t answer that.
And anyway, all of that doesn’t matter since Makoto’s turned the subject towards a more optimistic direction. Why yes, Koujaku does want to save this horrible beady-eyed monstrosity with hate in its eyes and fire in its limbs. It clearly hadn’t done anything wrong—just terrorized Koujaku and one other, and to be honest, Koujaku had been expecting more casualties.
He guesses this is…okay.
He sighs. “Look, none of this is any of your fault, all right? The little bas—Pochi, here—he ran into the pool before anyone could stop it. You did what anyone could have done.” Which is panic, under the circumstances, but Koujaku’s not going to judge. He still has that weird phobia of the CERES Gardens and this seems pretty damn tame by comparison. He gets it.
“And I’m sorry for the trouble he caused you.”
And…shucks. Those are sweet words coming from someone his CYbuddy had just terrorized. This kid will definitely make it far in life, if he can’t already reach it by taking one giant step. He’s never seen a highschooler that tall before, but then again with Midorijima being how it is he doesn’t exactly have a lot of (heh) legroom when it comes to guessing the average of that sort of thingy. Census. Statistics. Whatever. Still, he doesn’t think there’s much the kid can do. Except maybe attract Pochi’s attention as the little guy butts its head—almost affectionately, if Koujaku could believe his eyes—at Makoto’s foot. Koujaku’s never known it to do that before.
But then again when you keep an animal—even a robot animal, apparently—locked up in your apartment for indefinite periods of time with strict orders to keep a wide berth from the outside world, well. All that open space must’ve flipped over inside Pochi’s mad little robot brain and sent him scurrying into the unknown.
Koujaku decides he’s lost this battle, in any case. He shrugs, defeated. “I could take him to see a tech.” Might as well, if only to check if the warranty’s valid. “Not much I could do with that personality, though.” But he’ll probably try anyway. Or would that count as Toue-levels of brainwashing bastardry as far as the cybernetic animal kingdom is concerned?
no subject
In conjunction with his personality defects (namely insecurities that could drive any well-meaning human being mad), Makoto's absurdly insistent about taking accountability for issues only tangentially related to him. It could come off as ignorant if he wasn't so doggedly sincere about taking the hit for the team (or for a plasticized hippo, to be specific). Instead, it comes off as pitiful, sussing out the most believable (if overblown) reasons for painting himself as the scapegoat in this tale of inexorable woe.
... Or in this relatively mild dilemma, but that doesn't sound half as dramatic in practice.
But Koujaku's nice, which jettisons every preconceived notion of tattooed degenerates out the window and abruptly scatters it to the four winds. As Makoto had no real desire to see Koujaku lampoon himself over what seemed to be a transparently innocuous oversight, he's more than willing to make amends. In hindsight, the life and times of one Janus-faced CYBuddy are irrelevant, and frankly, Makoto's 500% done with navel-gazing perceived emotional mutilation.
So he smiles at last, nodding in quick assent.
"It's okay, it was just a misunderstanding, but please — let me make it up to you somehow. I can pay for the expenses, it's no issue at all, just let me change and get my stuff and I should be ready to go. Would today be inconvenient?" Crouching down, he surreptitiously hands him Pochi back to him, laughter warm, if spare. He's still a little rattled from his near-death encounter in the pool, after all.
"... Oh! I don't think I caught your name yet," Makoto remarks, palming the nape of his neck, "I'm Makoto! Makoto Tachibana. I'm sorry it wasn't under more favorable circumstances, but it's nice to make your acquaintance all the same."
no subject
…Besides, Pochi seems to like him. Koujaku hasn’t seen it regard anything else with the same kind of affection (except Aoba, granted, but that may be because it perceives the guy as its real owner). He might be just a bit willing to let Pochi spend some more time outside, as long as it doesn’t try to kill anybody else.
Koujaku watches it suspiciously, before turning around to gape at Makoto because what, just what.
“Whoa, there’s no need to go that far.” Nobody’s spending money from their allowances on his part. Makoto needs that for school and stuff. Hell, he’s probably training for some club activity right now before he’d been interrupted by hippo and thug both.
Gingerly, he bends over to retrieve Pochi to cradle it in his arms; the little guy doesn’t resist. Huh, must be nearly out of energy by now. Or something. He doesn’t know if this thing’s built the same way as an Allmate but, ah well. Probably not.
“Look, Makoto. You’re a nice kid and all, but save that money for your own future.” Whenever he’ll get back home and get his future back, that is. Even Koujaku’s feeling a little bleak on that note.
no subject
He's not planning to stay in Tellus for the honeymoon period, never mind the long haul, but there's something to be said for the sympathy of others: the conscious awareness that he isn't the only one wallowing in the awkward limbo of domestic weirdness (it's strange enough that there's a sense of normality in a city that thrives solely on alien technology). Koujaku's response elicits a quiet, punched-out sort of laugh from Makoto, the sort typically made by people on-site at close collisions, after the dust has settled with both vehicles solidly intact, unbroken. It's not that he's shaken, nothing so unnerving or proximate, it's just —
"Oh. Okay, well, if you say so," he tentatively answers at last, smiling with confectionary-sweet warmth.
— disruption to newly-formed routine. And, well, maybe that's a good thing that Makoto hasn't fallen victim to habitual ennui just yet.
In a last-ditch attempt to save them both from constipated emoting, he bundles the rest of the supplies in both arms, head bowed in deferential sheepishness.
"Will you be alright on your own? I was just planning to gather my stuff and head out, but I can give you directions to the nearest CYbuddy Repair Shop if you need it."
no subject
Not that it hasn’t struck an odd little chord deep within his soul as well. Something this pedestrian shouldn’t be said so easily—isn’t it kinda like giving in to that sense of normalcy CERES has been trying to pawn them for? But that shit, he feels, might be lodged in a little too deeply into the world of grownups and he really shouldn’t point it out to someone that—yes—young.
Just stay a precious cinnamon roll for life, Makoto. Everyone will thank you for it.
“That’s where the problem started.” In the auto shop, in the tech district, in the place with all the newfangled mechanical doohickeys that tried to bite his finger off in various creative ways. And he has to walk past that fucking menagerie in order to get his pet hippo fixed. Woe.
But, right. Makoto doesn’t need to hear about his problems. Koujaku flashes him a smile. Kid, will you be all right on your own?
“But if you wanna come along, I ain’t telling you ‘no.’” He raises Pochi a tad. The little CYbuddy proffers Makoto the most adoring look its cold, beady little eyes can manage.
“I think he likes ya.”
no subject
"I'm happy to hear it! I'm glad he decided to forgive me for overreacting so badly."
If nothing else, at least Pochi has no complaints with his insistence (to be specific, rectification without disparate edges or selective nuance).
"Doesn't hurt to try a second time, right?" Makoto laughs out of habit, diplomatic assiduity tossed aside for affected warmth. "Give me a second."
As getting (politely) ditched by Koujaku and company to circumvent any further intrusion remained a latent possibility, Makoto wastes no time venturing back into the changing room for a second round with the public lockers. He returns roughly seven minutes later with just the same brisk stride, slinging the arm of a backpack over one shoulder en route to ushering them both toward the entrance.
"We'll have to cut through the Entertainment District to get there, but it should be faster than waiting for the metro rail. Would you like me to lead the way?"
no subject
He could afford to be a little more optimistic…
“Be my guest, Makoto,” he replies to that little suggestion. He’s normally one for the scenic route anyway, and they are in kind of a hurry. The less he fucks up this kid’s mojo, the better.
And maybe he needs a little break after that impromptu swim. Pochi certainly has no objections, either way. A nice, warm jaunt out in the sunshine can dry off his hair that much faster.
“Maybe I could even treat you to lunch afterwards, as thanks.” It’s almost like a date, even.
no subject
"Seems like he might just be a little shy, is all," Makoto comments brightly, angling a stare his way, "since he was scared you might be upset at him after he made you sprint all the way to the gym, maybe?"
At the offer of lunch, he does momentarily stilt out of step, glancing back at him for a few disparate seconds, eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, well, I wouldn't want to intrude on your free time ..."
He doesn't even know your name, bro ... at least sweep him off his feet with a heartfelt serenade/confession of love first ... but Makoto continues down the sidewalk, eventually breaking into another warm smile, as if he hadn't faltered off into silence to begin with.
"If you're offering, I have heard of a really good cafe in this district. Think that'd make up for earlier?"
no subject
And Koujaku, who knew so little about Clear’s circumstances here, could only wonder at why robots would have fucking feelings like that in the first place. The only reason why he hadn’t voiced those thoughts out was because he thought Pochi might hear—and he didn’t need to give the little bastard any more reason to flip out on him today.
He’s trying. He’s trying so damned hard to put himself in a good mood today. But his hair and clothes are still kind of wet and smelling of chlorine besides, and he’s pretty sure he’s failed Aoba on some metaphysical level by not caring nearly enough about Pochi as he should have.
Why hadn’t they programmed a more compatible personality into the thing, anyway? At least Beni had had a much realer personality to him, due to the fact that he could adopt his own master’s over time.
“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a smile that he might have had to force out. No confessions or serenades here—his efforts thereof have been dashed time and time again, after all. He couldn’t even tell if CERES was the actual cockblocker here or if he was just that fucking unlucky.
“I got no preference, really.” Beyond someplace where he could booze it up, but since Makoto’s still pretty much a kid to him… “But getting something warm will make me feel a whole lot better about this thing.”
He bops Pochi on the head lightly with his fist—it’s an almost affectionate gesture. “You hear that? Don’t f—mess this up for us, all right?”
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Anyways, Makoto's the kind of bleeding heart that would argue that just about anything and everything feels empathy, even if it's the kind of overwrought, clinical discontent that CERES officials and androids force-feed them with. One step away from death and he'd likely argue the same, voice a shivering analogue of his fear, because he's always too honest, candid to a point. That brings into question his type of self-denigration and how he's more prone to venerate others than take even a half-baked compliment at face-value, but that's not what Koujaku's arguing for or against (if keeping his expletives at the innocuous PG-level like Makoto's nothing more than a mere child is anything to go by).
Nevertheless, he hums once in agreement, wasting no more time falling into step.
The walk to the CERES Tech & Auto Shop is awkward, to say the least, with Koujaku — ... dripping like a chlorinated faucet turned on full-blast while that plastic purple hippo, in the hallowed name and purposive intention of Aoba Seragaki, continues absentmindedly gnawing at the man's sleeve. Rather than risk another impending nervous breakdown from Pochi, he keeps this tidbit of information to himself for the time being. His sandals slosh, somewhat — he hadn't exactly been fastidious about towel usage, and stray trails of water take on a perspiring quality, like he just went out on a run, or maybe dunked his head into a bathtub on impulse. After a brief interim, however, Makoto eventually breaks the ice.
"I'm a little curious. If it's alright to ask, how long have you been here on Tellus?"
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Still, he eschews conversation in favor of keeping an eye on his pet for the most part, although Pochi’s being remarkably well-behaved in the light of things. It’s kind of eerie, really, but not altogether strange. He guesses that robots can have their quiet moments too—or maybe it’s only because Pochi’s just too malfunctioned to be his evil, malicious little self.
He may never know.
“Huh?” He looks up, suddenly embarrassed at the silence he’d kept throughout their journey. Normally he’d try to chat the kid up himself, maybe get the conversation going again, but he realizes that he’s somehow remained tongue-tied for all this time, probably because he’d been thinking too hard. Poor Makoto.
“Just about a month, I guess.” He tries a small smile. All of a month, and Aoba’s barely even lasted for that long. Some joke this turned out to be, huh?
“Still feels a lot longer than that, sometimes. What about you?”
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Still, he rouses to attention all too promptly when Koujaku decides to join the one-man conversation Makoto's inducted into the air, brows scrunching to file that bit of information away. He glances aside at the vehicles lining up at the traffic intersection, then back to his companion with a painful, painful attempt at a grin.
"A few weeks ago at best. We must've came in roughly around the same time. It's been ... weird, but I think I'm getting used to Tellus, just a little."
An expelling sigh.
"You're right about that, though. It makes me wonder how long it might take for things to finally get back to normal. I doubt everything will be remotely the same as before, even if we all do manage to get back home safe and sound."
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In Koujaku’s case, he needs a little crash course about talking to a kid that’s…well. A tad more delicate than the usual crop of toughs swarming the streets of Midorijima like so many fucking ants.
“I’m beginning to think that normal’s not gonna come easy around here, kid.” Case in point: the hippo. And Aoba had given it to him. He’s not sure if he’s got the guy’s blessing or his fucking curse at this rate, but dammit he has to make sure that Pochi survives long enough to find out, first.
But he soon looks away with a sigh of his own. It has been a Day.
“Sorry.” For that outburst. “I’m gonna do everything I can to make sure we all get home soon.”
It’s a tall order, but when he’s sort of made up his mind to do just that for Aoba, he can manage it for anybody.
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No one's got time for this kind of strange, domestic ennui, but Koujaku pulls off the disenchanted druglord look fairly well. Granted, Pochi throws off the image by a wide margin, but the other guy was likely the type to rule people with a reign of effusive, savage terror, as indicated by the glare currently claiming dominion over his face.
Pulling forward, Makoto schools his face into tacit resignation. "You shouldn't feel obligated to take it all on your shoulders, but I hope for all our sakes that this situation changes soon. I don't even know what CERES actually wants from us."