criminal by design

+ Prove it. Kill someone right now.

+ You mean you haven’t already? Step up your game.

                   He is kind when she tripped and her cold drink splashed upon him. Strange of her to trip, though, as she’s always very careful. Of course, no one can ever be perfect. While waiting for her dear companion to show up, the stranger and his friends speak with her. They are an older bunch, and she feels as though she has seen them before. What concerns her is the ominous feeling she has around them. Her gut tells her to stop speaking with them, but it’s far too rude for her to do just yet. 

                   He, the one once covered in her drink, requests she walk with him to his vehicle to get another shirt, to keep him company, after all, she did spill her drink on him. Despite the churning of her stomach, she agrees with a nod. With a grin, one that unsettles her, he takes her hand and begins to lead her away. 

                   She looks over at him meekly, speaking in her soft voice, "Please be quick, I’m waiting for a friend still…"

          a curious habit of silence pervades him, brows furrowing to knit together as a hand ( or rather, his only, ) rises from within the depths of his trench pocket enveloped within its silken casket to brush rogue tresses of ivory behind his ear with a juvenile huff. it's unusual for the air to be bitter, cold, even. perhaps it were the nature of events unfolding before his own eyes -- and one would assume he were jaded, unfeeling, uncaring enough to dismiss the girl's plight entirely, but it's an all too familiar kind of situation -- in the sense that somewhere, deep within the vast expanses of his knowledge burdened mind, resided memories that blended with books he'd arduously read and experiences of his own childhood.

          so it's perhaps not odd at all in the manner that he, with broad strides upon svelte muscle, instigates intervention; steel capped toes nary disturbing earthen marl, even with the brevity of their gait. and for a brief moment does he linger, porous gaze boring finite depth against his crown; and he does not need a second longer to analyse, because to a hive mind that is constantly working, turning with laborious cogs and wheels; a plan is too safe, too boring, too trivial. and that just won't do at all. and chaos is too fun to pass up.

          lips purse, drawing oxygen into aching lungs for an inevitable, dry, sardonic chuckle, harsh upon his venomous tongue. vacant gape remains stoic save for the rising corners of something akin to a psychotic grimace, starless orbs empty, hollow of emotive context.

“—You wouldn’t happen to know where I can get this fixed, would you?”

   The android holds out a pocket watch, one of which was left behind from his Master. "It’s not ticking anymore."

     ❛you know, if your first instinct is to ask the advice of a       one handed stranger who  --  though i'm certainly not       suggesting my status to be so  --  may very well be a       pathological psychopath;   you may just be looking in       the absolute wrong direction.  that's  just my  opinion.❜

          blithe chuckles, dry and harsh with blunted wit, glide from an upturned lip like an attuned afterthought. a pregnant pause then alters his disposition as he deigns not to acknowledge the stranger's outstretched palm, nor moves to take the object within his grasp, ( it's probably dirty and only god knows where else it could've been beforehand; ) and he silently, irrefutably, thanks himself for his preordained investment into sanitary measures. regardless, he offers the other nothing but a nonchalant shrug, an exhalation of a deep seated, vehement nature expelling itself from pursed tiers. exasperation, by this point, is not a new found emotion, nor is it seemingly neglected in recent time frame.

+ Super high-school level you should never be allowed to speak again?

“Listen, because I’m only offering this warning once. There’s a thing in this world called common courtesy, and it involves not insulting people around you. Please do all those you’re referring to a favor and keep your awful opinions to yourself. I don’t have time, nor do I have the desire to deal with bullshit." 

Leaning over in curiosity towards the stranger, Miki placed her hand on top of her pinkish lips and smiled a bit. She smiled, but it’s not like she wanted to. It’s a habit of her to use her false signature smile around people she’s never met. After all, that’s what sells more and more space products now-a-days; having a cute mascot that smiles all the time. And God, did she hate it. Creepy fanatics trying to chat her up just because of  her looks and metallic curves. It was disgusting. Hopefully  this guy was different. Someone who really wasn’t like everyone else. She didn’t care if they had the biggest issues in the world, as long as they didn’t annoy the ever loving crap out of her. But she had to admit, just leaning into someone was odd and pretty creepy, so she snapped out of her usual smile and threw away her curiousness and stopped, a sigh leaving her soon after. "I’m sorry, kind of a habit of mine."

          a perturbed brow acknowledges her foreign presence within thirteen paces of his personage; though his countenance offers little, porcelain marrow unflinching beneath taut, tight-lipped grimace. vacant pools rise to gauge her curious spell with a passing sneer, mask cracking for a brief millisecond before inwardly rolling in disdain. her interjection is dismissed just as fast as it leaves her lips, for he has no interest in pursuit of her grievances, no matter how justified it may seem -- habit or not, he has no interest in her apologies, nor anything else she has to offer, above all else her company is certainly not welcome.

          brief as his reprisal may be, his head lolls upon his shoulder, ivories boring into the flesh of his cheek in mulling irritation. cue an exhale through parted tiers, hot breath clouding in a haze to which extends saturated venom and further deliverance with the click of silver tongue 'pon the roof of his mouth. his attentions are elsewhere, as per the rhythmic drumming of lithe digits against the well worn and yellowed pages of the tome that he balances upon his knee suggests. ah the beautifully naive wonderment of those whom hold zero intelligence. how do their pitiful little minds even work, oft he wonders -- far too often, he finds.

█ ▌ █ ▌❀ Nor would I expect or oblige you to, either…I-I suppose one simply acquaints themselves with those in the ruins over time, really.

█ ▌ █ ▌❀ —Of course; my name is Norikazu Chie, current vagabond, former fencer. 

█ ▌ █ ▌❀ —I suppose I was only offering the sentiment up in a broader sense, since we’ve only met but a couple of times. 

My apologies, but I cannot feign familiarity in that way. 

█ ▌ █ ▌❀ I-I suppose so, as most things are. 

 █ ▌ █ ▌❀ How so?