Learned helplessness, as it turns out, is a bigger issue than he initially realized. He can't make himself leave with his conscience intact, even locked in an internal battle of will against himself, minute tension needled into his shoulders.
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?"
;___;
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?"