Zenkichi leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he regarded Akira’s polite-but-pointed response. The tight smile, the clipped words—he’d seen this act before. Too many times on experimented persona individuals.
He's been seeing patterns with the Akiras and Rens here from the various discussion posts online- save for a few exceptions. Tricksters of fate. Insanely capable Wild Cards who’d pulled off feats of absurdity: fighting gods, surviving cosmic calamities, tipping the scales of fate itself. And here he was, after over a dozen years wrestling with the Metaverse, barely scratching the surface of what they’d managed to accomplish. Damn it.
The memory of how Akira had slipped behind the wall the moment Zenkichi entered the shop surfaced again, sharp and vivid. If it weren’t for the heat signatures or the cognitive readings from his visor, he might’ve reacted a bit more… explosively. As it stood, Zenkichi knew better than to jump to conclusions, but he couldn’t deny what the whole setup implied.
This Akira wasn’t just aware. He was prepared.
When Akira called him “Mr. Wolf,” Zenkichi made a face, the corners of his lips twitching downward in faint irritation. In the back of his head, Akane snickered, her amusement clear.
“Well, isn’t that convenient,” Zenkichi muttered under his breath, lips twitching into a faint smirk. Tricksters, Wild Cards—whatever flavor of Akira or Ren this guy was, Zenkichi had been informed enough of them to know two things: they were absurdly capable, and they had a knack for turning situations sideways.
He hummed thoughtfully, letting the moment breathe before reaching up to remove his hat. With a casual motion, he set it down on the glass display beside him, his movements deliberate.
The sleek black hat rested on the counter, and without its shadow, his features came more clearly into focus past the long collar. Long, slightly wavy black hair framed his face, a sharp contrast to the stitched scar that began at the corner of his mouth and disappeared beneath the edges of his visor. The mask, cold and angular, seemed almost fused to his face, a permanent fixture of the man himself.
Releasing his own grasp on his gun, he rolled his shoulders as a slight whirring noise echoed. He would honestly like to get rid of his coat for a bit too but, maybe in a while.
He leaned slightly on the counter, eyes scanning the assortment of weapons with idle curiosity.
“Drake does have a good head on his shoulders,” he said at last, the words casual but thoughtful, as if he’d been weighing them carefully. “Smart kid. Intense, though, if I’m being honest. Had this... drive about him that caught me off guard at first.” Zenkichi glanced at Akira, his eyes sharp but not unkind. He had heard small tid bits from Akane after the two of them talked. “Helpful, too. Even if he comes off a little strong at first, you can tell he means well. Atleast on texts. I don't know in person.”
If they treat Akane like a person...maybe I could-
Oh right, the guy didn't have a cellphone on him. Not like anything he could detect anyway and if he was a sailor then he's from a different timeline. He could just force himself in to take a look.
In due time, he supposes.
He paused, letting the words hang between them for a moment before shrugging, a faint grin returning to his face. “But hey, you seem to get along with him just fine, so who am I to say?”
As he was preparing how to ask what timeline the guy is from-
Still wearing his mask btw (1/2)
Zenkichi leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he regarded Akira’s polite-but-pointed response. The tight smile, the clipped words—he’d seen this act before. Too many times on experimented persona individuals.
He's been seeing patterns with the Akiras and Rens here from the various discussion posts online- save for a few exceptions. Tricksters of fate. Insanely capable Wild Cards who’d pulled off feats of absurdity: fighting gods, surviving cosmic calamities, tipping the scales of fate itself. And here he was, after over a dozen years wrestling with the Metaverse, barely scratching the surface of what they’d managed to accomplish. Damn it.
The memory of how Akira had slipped behind the wall the moment Zenkichi entered the shop surfaced again, sharp and vivid. If it weren’t for the heat signatures or the cognitive readings from his visor, he might’ve reacted a bit more… explosively. As it stood, Zenkichi knew better than to jump to conclusions, but he couldn’t deny what the whole setup implied.
This Akira wasn’t just aware. He was prepared.
When Akira called him “Mr. Wolf,” Zenkichi made a face, the corners of his lips twitching downward in faint irritation. In the back of his head, Akane snickered, her amusement clear.
“Well, isn’t that convenient,” Zenkichi muttered under his breath, lips twitching into a faint smirk. Tricksters, Wild Cards—whatever flavor of Akira or Ren this guy was, Zenkichi had been informed enough of them to know two things: they were absurdly capable, and they had a knack for turning situations sideways.
He hummed thoughtfully, letting the moment breathe before reaching up to remove his hat. With a casual motion, he set it down on the glass display beside him, his movements deliberate.
The sleek black hat rested on the counter, and without its shadow, his features came more clearly into focus past the long collar. Long, slightly wavy black hair framed his face, a sharp contrast to the stitched scar that began at the corner of his mouth and disappeared beneath the edges of his visor. The mask, cold and angular, seemed almost fused to his face, a permanent fixture of the man himself.
Releasing his own grasp on his gun, he rolled his shoulders as a slight whirring noise echoed. He would honestly like to get rid of his coat for a bit too but, maybe in a while.
He leaned slightly on the counter, eyes scanning the assortment of weapons with idle curiosity.
“Drake does have a good head on his shoulders,” he said at last, the words casual but thoughtful, as if he’d been weighing them carefully. “Smart kid. Intense, though, if I’m being honest. Had this... drive about him that caught me off guard at first.” Zenkichi glanced at Akira, his eyes sharp but not unkind. He had heard small tid bits from Akane after the two of them talked. “Helpful, too. Even if he comes off a little strong at first, you can tell he means well. Atleast on texts. I don't know in person.”
If they treat Akane like a person...maybe I could-Oh right, the guy didn't have a cellphone on him. Not like anything he could detect anyway and if he was a sailor then he's from a different timeline. He could just force himself in to take a look.
In due time, he supposes.
He paused, letting the words hang between them for a moment before shrugging, a faint grin returning to his face. “But hey, you seem to get along with him just fine, so who am I to say?”
As he was preparing how to ask what timeline the guy is from-