justonetruth | (no subject)

(no subject)

Walking through the hallways slowly, though not without a destination in mind, Hakuba Saguru was deep in thought. Obviously many years older than another Saguru, this one was in his late thirties and using a cane to support his left leg as he walked. His dress was reminiscent of an english professor; tweed jacket, tan pants and a shirt set off by a dark brown tie. And a mostly hidden bulge under his left arm, from a gun in a shoulder holster.

Someone perceptive (or intrusive) enough to notice the ragged scar tissue on his right wrist, mostly hidden by his sleeve, might connect this Saguru to the one who used to wander the mansion attached to 1412.

Disturb? >_

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Only when it rains." Saguru shifts his weight to stand more comfortably, putting more of his weight onto his cane. "And of you? What occurred to put you in this chair?" Direct questions are suitable when the conversation leads that way. And Saguru has noticed the slurring, and slight slowness to this one's answers and speech. Drugs of some kind, obviously.

"There was a guy who didn't like me. He brought twelve friends." That has the chirpy, speedy delivery of a canned answer- it's certainly not the truth, at any rate. No, the truth is, Eight mangled his legs while chasing down yet another alternate black org, and was rather lucky to get in and out of the hospital without extra injury.

The scarred, wheelchair-bound man smiles up at Saguru some more, wondering when the man will notice that his hair has turned a violent shade of pink, with equally loud stripes of green, orange, and yellow through it.

Not yet, apparantly, as there's no visible reaction. Or it could be that this Saguru is much better at hiding his reacitons that any other you might encounter.

Though that was intruiging. Saguru hadn't been sure whether Eight held the scruples against violence he had found in other Kaito during his time here. Apparantly not.

"The man seems to have dealt you quite a blow," he states, raising an eyebrow at Eight's battered form.

"He brought twelve friends," Eight repeats, settling further back in the wheelchair. "I still won, though." No, he's not bragging- he's establishing that he is Just That Good when it comes to hand-to-hand combat.

"Against thirteen men? You must be skilled." Talking to a Kaito again, any Kaito, no matter how different from his own, is warping the rules he set for himself. He thought he missed the assassin as sharply as he had the day he was killed, but the ache is much more intense now he finds himself across from a Kaito that is so different from the one he remembers. He has to school himself against a foolish action.

"What style of fighting do you employ?" Because it had obviously not been a gunfight, and Eight's musculature spoke of experience in hand-to-hand.

"Hand-to-hand. I don't use guns that often- don't like 'em. They've killed me a couple times 'afore." Admittedly, he didn't mean to let that last part slip... but oh well.

Killed him before? How interesting. Now, was it letting loose information he'd meant to keep hidden, or misspeaking himself?

"Wise choice," says Hakuba instead of querying. "I would follow your example but..." he gestures to his knee. "I am somewhat hampered.""

"A winner in a world championship of savate had both his arms broken and still won," Eight chides. "Jus' because you have a little bit of a physical weakness doesn't mean you can't. Just means you have to try harder than those of us who have able bodies."

"Ah, but I am old, and not as flexible as I used to be." A pleasant negation. "It's not really for me."

"Bet you anything I'm older'n you," Eight chirps brightly, far too brightly. It's the tone of someone who knows they've won a bet before they even made it.

"I'm afraid I'll have to decline that bet, Kaito-kun." Hakuba uses the name as something fo a gift to himself; to know his assassin's true name, to use it properly, is something he's wanted to do ever since he found it out. Not that it was ever possible.

Eight makes a particularly sour face at the use of his real name. "You're not my Saguru-kun, so could you not call me Kaito? Or for that matter, Kuroba? You can call me Eight, instead."

Saguru knows that name - or rather, the number. He remembers 1412 hissing about him often through the time he'd had his leg broken. And that was odd, the seepage of forgotten memories about this place. He remains silent on that, no hint that he knows who Eight is better than he might for a first meeting.

"Eight, then."

He shifts a little uncomfortably; standing for long is always awkward for him, and moves a few steps to a nearby door in the corridor, utilising the mansion's properties to open a door into a comfortable sitting room. Plus, a comfortable setting might make Eight more ameanable to talking about himself.

"Would you care to join me?"

Eight nods. "And you're Saguru-guru, but not my Saguru-guru." Because his Saguru-guru would have seen through the bullshit about a man and his twelve friends in a heartbeat. The wheelchair-bound former thief nods again, smiling brightly.

"This thing gets uncomfortable after a while anyway. It's a good thing they didn't go for my arms, too."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only