All things are temporary, [ Sukuna tells the boy, dropping his chin into his palm, and looking at him a bit flatly, though he can't stop one eyebrow from arching, the tattoos moving with it. ] We'll see just where on the scale this is.
[ It's clear enough in the way that the atmosphere of the car halts, that he's not all that pleased with that response. It's not a chill that runs through it so much as the air stops its lazy motion altogether; a feeling, a senseโ Sukuna makes the spaces that he inhabits suit him, and they bend for him; turning silent or jovial by turns. The boy is not afraid of him in any wayโ it's a new thing for the yakuza, he's so inured to terror, used to people cowering from him when he passes, and he likes that; that is the sort of reaction he has worked long and hard to instil (but not so long, and not so hardโ not really; the growth there was organic, earned media, if you will. You kill enough people, and the crowds sit up and take notice. He's not some baby bosuzoku with a motorcycle who causes the ojijis to cower at the convenience store counter; he has the city by its throat, the politicians on payroll; this is a career to him, a vocation).
This boy isn't afraid, he thinks. Spoilt in the laps of the Gojo-gumi, he must think he's the prize here.
One pair of green eyes, and a pair of blue diamond earrings, and the child thinks its a princeling. Sukuna has plans to change that view quickly.
He wonders what Gojo will think if he sends the boy back flayed and quartered.
A war would be refreshing, it's been too long since the old clans got to test their mettle in an outright gang war. The eighties were the real days, and the crash muzzled them in the nineties. What a pity, but who knows. He glances over at Megumi, eyeing the boy's fine features. An elegant set, an expensive looking thing. He wants him, naturally, but he wants him in the way that he wants things bought with such a conditional contract that the thing changes form in his hands.
He wants the boy to ask to be brought over, away from his handlers.
That's victory, that's loyalty. He wonders if it's best to win it with the usual cruelty. ]
You think I'll return you?
[ Something nasty enters his voice. The first real sound of the eveningโ a snarl; it curls in his throat like a claw.
He looks over, eyes catching the light of the passing nightlife: red. Bloodied and red. ]
I don't do business with the Gojo-gumi. There's no deal here.
[ A sneer, and he doesn't touch Megumi at all, chin raising with an imperious tilt. ]
no subject
[ It's clear enough in the way that the atmosphere of the car halts, that he's not all that pleased with that response. It's not a chill that runs through it so much as the air stops its lazy motion altogether; a feeling, a senseโ Sukuna makes the spaces that he inhabits suit him, and they bend for him; turning silent or jovial by turns. The boy is not afraid of him in any wayโ it's a new thing for the yakuza, he's so inured to terror, used to people cowering from him when he passes, and he likes that; that is the sort of reaction he has worked long and hard to instil (but not so long, and not so hardโ not really; the growth there was organic, earned media, if you will. You kill enough people, and the crowds sit up and take notice. He's not some baby bosuzoku with a motorcycle who causes the ojijis to cower at the convenience store counter; he has the city by its throat, the politicians on payroll; this is a career to him, a vocation).
This boy isn't afraid, he thinks. Spoilt in the laps of the Gojo-gumi, he must think he's the prize here.
One pair of green eyes, and a pair of blue diamond earrings, and the child thinks its a princeling. Sukuna has plans to change that view quickly.
He wonders what Gojo will think if he sends the boy back flayed and quartered.
A war would be refreshing, it's been too long since the old clans got to test their mettle in an outright gang war. The eighties were the real days, and the crash muzzled them in the nineties. What a pity, but who knows. He glances over at Megumi, eyeing the boy's fine features. An elegant set, an expensive looking thing. He wants him, naturally, but he wants him in the way that he wants things bought with such a conditional contract that the thing changes form in his hands.
He wants the boy to ask to be brought over, away from his handlers.
That's victory, that's loyalty. He wonders if it's best to win it with the usual cruelty. ]
You think I'll return you?
[ Something nasty enters his voice. The first real sound of the eveningโ a snarl; it curls in his throat like a claw.
He looks over, eyes catching the light of the passing nightlife: red. Bloodied and red. ]
I don't do business with the Gojo-gumi. There's no deal here.
[ A sneer, and he doesn't touch Megumi at all, chin raising with an imperious tilt. ]
You're out of luck, boy. You're mine.