( the vast majority of people that makoto has spoken to here in the Golden Peacock seemed to prescribe to the same concept: that the essence of strength and power was that which allowed someone to kill (or threaten to kill) others, or to otherwise defend themself from similar mortal attack. it’s strange to him. having died himself, it’s not as though he doesn’t understand the mortal coil, but things had been so different in hell. high-ranking demons had spoken in haughty and contemptuous tones to him in confidence of how boorish and low-brow others seemed when they flaunted their physical strength or magical prowess—violence was seen as something low-class. only no-name demons, whose reputation was so negligent that they had to wildly shout their names into the crowd to force others to recognize their existence, even for a moment, would act so uncouth and brazen. not to say, of course, that high-ranking demons were gentle… violence simply had a different place in their society. it was a plaything—a coddled and beloved pet. it nestled even more inextricably into their desires and lusts than it did for humans (or perhaps they were just less ashamed about it?), particularly since a demon couldn’t be permanently killed by way of violence. makoto had seen other demons employed by datenshou torn to shreds and consumed in the process of entertaining and satisfying their guests, but they would just be back and walking around the brothel days later, as if nothing had happened.
he is quietly (and hypocritically) grateful that datenshou is far more cautious about his own clientèle.
as strange as they are, hell’s rules appeal more to someone like him. he’s not physically strong and never has been, and unless he opted to exchange this body for a wildly different one, he likely never would be. becoming a demon hasn’t given him power, beguiling influence, or magical affinity. he has nothing, but he does think he could learn to make demons fear him. fear is, in essence, an aversion to what one doesn’t know or understand, and he, as a human-turned-demon, is largely an anomaly. they think they understand him, celebrating him as some sort of exotic bauble, but… in the last few months before being brought here, he had started to see the shape of something. could he use that? could he take into his own hands how others saw him, underestimating and disregarding him as powerless or guileless, and use it to his advantage? it only takes one show of unsettling power to firmly place another demon beneath your thumb—conceptions are not easy to change.
the thing that had frustrated him in being brought here is that the rules had changed again. if every world has its own path to power, with its own answer to what it was, and he kept being tugged between them… how could he ever make any progress and feel as if he were truly moving forward? he might be immortal, but the yoke of wasted effort and spinning one’s wheels is an exhausting one. and ultimately it’s all a goal that’s merely reactive to all that he’s gone through in the last year or so. if unaffected by the machinations of others, is it really what he wanted? hell, has he ever really known that? he just isn’t sure. )
Yeah.
( the third vial fills. he feels… tired. )
But it’s like you said. If they want it enough, they might just try to take it. So as long as I have a way to prevent something like that…
( he trails off, something occurring to him as his particular end of the deal—the realization causes a sudden and violent twist to his gut, one perfectly caught between anxiety and exhilarated anticipation. he… well. as much as it’s been a while and that there will always be a part of him starved to make good on whatever offers he received when he received them, he can’t help but think… )
Um… for your side of the bargain, ( he looks back up to charlie, looking furtive in a vaguely nervous sort of way, ( would you mind if—we did that at a later date?
( he shifts where he sits, trying to sift through the morass of his surface thoughts for something resembling a salient reason. he has plenty, but they aren’t always packaged in ways he thinks seemly for other people to hear. ) I-I just think… I might need a little time to prepare.
( the third syringe filled, he removes it and offers it to charlie, then pressing a cotton ball to the bead of blood at the injection site. he doesn’t bother wrapping it with a bandage or anything—he knows it will disappear in a moment or two. )
đź‘Ť all good
he is quietly (and hypocritically) grateful that datenshou is far more cautious about his own clientèle.
as strange as they are, hell’s rules appeal more to someone like him. he’s not physically strong and never has been, and unless he opted to exchange this body for a wildly different one, he likely never would be. becoming a demon hasn’t given him power, beguiling influence, or magical affinity. he has nothing, but he does think he could learn to make demons fear him. fear is, in essence, an aversion to what one doesn’t know or understand, and he, as a human-turned-demon, is largely an anomaly. they think they understand him, celebrating him as some sort of exotic bauble, but… in the last few months before being brought here, he had started to see the shape of something. could he use that? could he take into his own hands how others saw him, underestimating and disregarding him as powerless or guileless, and use it to his advantage? it only takes one show of unsettling power to firmly place another demon beneath your thumb—conceptions are not easy to change.
the thing that had frustrated him in being brought here is that the rules had changed again. if every world has its own path to power, with its own answer to what it was, and he kept being tugged between them… how could he ever make any progress and feel as if he were truly moving forward? he might be immortal, but the yoke of wasted effort and spinning one’s wheels is an exhausting one. and ultimately it’s all a goal that’s merely reactive to all that he’s gone through in the last year or so. if unaffected by the machinations of others, is it really what he wanted? hell, has he ever really known that? he just isn’t sure. )
Yeah.
( the third vial fills. he feels… tired. )
But it’s like you said. If they want it enough, they might just try to take it. So as long as I have a way to prevent something like that…
( he trails off, something occurring to him as his particular end of the deal—the realization causes a sudden and violent twist to his gut, one perfectly caught between anxiety and exhilarated anticipation. he… well. as much as it’s been a while and that there will always be a part of him starved to make good on whatever offers he received when he received them, he can’t help but think… )
Um… for your side of the bargain, ( he looks back up to charlie, looking furtive in a vaguely nervous sort of way, ( would you mind if—we did that at a later date?
( he shifts where he sits, trying to sift through the morass of his surface thoughts for something resembling a salient reason. he has plenty, but they aren’t always packaged in ways he thinks seemly for other people to hear. ) I-I just think… I might need a little time to prepare.
( the third syringe filled, he removes it and offers it to charlie, then pressing a cotton ball to the bead of blood at the injection site. he doesn’t bother wrapping it with a bandage or anything—he knows it will disappear in a moment or two. )