incalculablesanity:

    ^{There’s an irregular thumping in his chest, which precedes voicing action. A glance shoots across to the other’s gun, hardly distinguishable, whilst arm muscles turn sour as they try to keep raised a conciliatory gesture. The pointed weapon holds Nagito in check, but it’s dark ( consuming black blotches the night. ), he can only assume it to be one ( “don’t move, or I’ll shoot!” weren’t these the words? He’s not about to try credibility of his flimsy eyesight. ).}

    ^{His calm demeanor breaks ( snaps! ), and awaiting inside lies a shaking emotion, for he starts to give a laugh: exhilarated with a tint of consolation, but out of place— not for him, yet he doesn’t expect understanding to be brought across for the feeling he experiences. Excitement! Amusement? Fascination. He could die! But— even if— this is the part, where unexpected happens ( right? ), and he’s giddy with anticipation, waiting for this unheralded gift.}

    ^{Still, ample desire longs for a taste of what is to come, and doesn’t allow for negligence to prod; no carelessness should ruin with a hasty death, and so compliance follows as soon as his croaky giggle ceases, giving respite for an ensuing purr. Nagito’s thoughts travel fast:}

    ^{「 That’s right, isn’t it? I didn’t give you a name! But nee— you seem troubled— pressed for time? I wonder… is it really time for shallow introductions? If ‘m stuck, I think my person can wait— I’m not going anywhere, no? Rather than that, we should find you someplace to breath, or maybe you’d like to hand me over to the authorities? Aha— if I can speak of them as such; it’s like we’re in a cage full of dominant beasts, and in their strife for power, we puny ants might get squished or ignored all together. Like right now! Don’t you think? 」}

[ He looks like a wisp of a boy, ready to take flight at the slightest wind. As if to mock Makoto, a wind blows gently against his back, and he shivers in it’s cold clutches. The boy doesn’t fly away, though–the boy begins to laugh. And those eyes. Pits of something, something he can’t describe. It looks like a morbid sort of optimism, the kind where someone would say ‘well, at least we’re not dead’.

He’s been misunderstood. This place is a locked cage forced underground. This place is a glorified graveyard, where all the corpses walk around and deliver death to the hale and hearty. Strength in numbers–the living has joined the dead, and Makoto now stands with the cadavers, pointing guns at mysterious figures who ooze out of the cracks of night and offer kind words that fall short. Figures. He switches his gun hand–thank the lord for ambidexterity. ]

“N-No…I mean, you can’t…go. I’m not handing you over to anyone. You’ve…come across something rather horrible, and I’ve got to take you in. Not to the authorities. They have no jurisdiction here.”

[ The newcomer is very behind on the times. There are no authorities, not in hell. Besides, they’re all dead, anyways–their guns stolen off their cold bodies and resupplied to the youth of evil. The dead don’t follow rules. Makoto’s eyes hold guilt and regret, and this rueful sort of anger that makes hazel eyes spark gold, like a firework spitting out glittering flames. He doesn’t want to threaten people. It just happens. The strange speech is ignored–there are more pressing matters on both their hands right now. ]

“Give me your name. R-Right now. If you try running, or doing anything stupid, I’ll shoot you. Don’t think I won’t.”

incalculablesanity:

    ^{Imprudence ( impertinence! ) is motion’s fuel; feet skulking around high walls ( full of dust, a finger’s tip runs across and takes off its very own part. ). Nagito has no real idea in mind, his steps skip— light in weight— and he would try to edge the building’s outline right beneath his scalp, past sturdy bone, where his sickened brain lies. His entrance has been denied at an earlier time— but as a child will only find more curiousity in places, which access has been refused— so finds he desire to return; in recent moments, now, still-- it repeats, does not cease. At night, his lithe figure will draw him to where they have their established nest, residing in there, and having all this— excitement ( ? Amusement! ) to themselves. ( selfish. ). He shakes his head, whilst a sigh escapes with heavy breath—}

    ^{「 De—-! 」}

    ^{—He is caught— stumbles— his ears discerning fluttering movement, like he’d notice the sudden spark aflame after addition of gas. A voice rising, demanding him to stop; his breath gets caught in his lungs and lets shallow coughs burst from an irritated throat. Irritated, is what he is himself, he had accounted his undisturbed wanderings as favours of his luck. But he swallows down whatever surprise entangles him in the current moment, raises arms whilst spreading a smile on deft facial features.} 

    ^{「 Ah, seems I have been caught— right on time— care to help a lost soul on its way? The outside is chaos, you see, I’m sure you’ll agree— 」}

[ The gun trembles in unsteady fingertips. This is certainly an unusual circumstance, and he’s left with a couple of choices. The first choice is that he can stick with his instinct, and let this lonesome traveler go. That’s what he’d do in any other circumstance; he’d play the part of the hero and save them, advise them against coming to this hideout ever again. Unfortunately, he’s not the only one out on patrol, and it’s really only a matter of time before a comrade finds him.

The second choice–and it’s a disgusting, immoral, cowardly choice–is to kill him right here. Albeit it would technically be sparing him from the monstrousities of the people within, it would still be murder, and the blood on his hands would never fade. Makoto is silent for another minute, gun trembling ever more violently…

before he lowers it. It’s only slightly, though, and his finger’s turning white pressed up against the trigger. ]

“Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you want? I can’t help you, you know; you’re stuck here.”

[ The four sentences come out so quickly it sounds like one giant mesh of words. Despite his growing fear and nausea in the pit of his stomach, impatience rings out through dulcet tones like a bell, sounding grating against the brick walls that surround the two.]

[ It’s cold out, which is the first thing Makoto notices. He pulls his jacket closer against the biting chill, shivering slightly. The gun holster feels heavy on his hip; it’s the first time he’s really ever carried one outside the Court. Of course, it’s not loaded. Like he’d dream of ending someone’s life. He leans against the rough bricks and listens to the quiet of the night. Crickets and the soft hum of nearby machinery. It’s a bittersweet noise, sans the usual buzz of civilization. Reminiscent of home. A breath escapes chapped lips. In any other situation, it’d be a sob.

The stillness of the moment is ruined by the second thing he notices; the sound of footsteps rounding the corner right next to him. Makoto jumps, whirling around, gun out and trembling violently in his hands. A member of the Court? A trespasser? Who in their right mind would be out this late, anyways? Especially considering the state of the world. He takes a shuddering breath, unable to see through the darkness entirely. Shit. What does he do? ]

“H-Hey! You there! Stop right now, or I’ll shoot."