[ Hands stuffed into her pockets, she trots casually at his side. The fact of the chair is all but disregarded. Someone more earnest and less awkward (Annie, for one) might offer to give his arms a break. Kimiko is too concerned about breaking it. It likely won't be cheap to replace.
She accepts the grape juice with great and pronounced gratitude in a booming voice.
Just kidding. She stabs the straw into the box and sucks at it quietly. It tastes good, if a bit warm.
Giving Charles her full attention over the top of her juice box, she can't help but smile a little. Asking if she knows martial arts is a very 1970s question of him. Kimiko is quiet for a moment in response—a different sort of quiet than her usual. Gathering intent in lieu of words. There's nothing resembling art in what she does. She doesn't even like who she is when she's deep in the thick of it: when good sense whites out, her hands feel like claws and only some thinning membrane between human and animal keeps her from ripping some poor fool's throat out with her teeth. She can fight, sure. She's martial. But even that feels like too small of a word for it.
Finishing her juice box with a noisy slurp, Kimiko crushes the thick packaging board into a crumpled little ball. She barely needs to wind her arm back as she summons her strength and throws. The air seems to ripple a little as the balled up wad of ex-juice box collide with a metal rubbish bin hard enough to leave a significant dent in its exterior casing.
It's showy, but what else can she do? That's Kimiko's best answer for what she is. ]
no subject
She accepts the grape juice with great and pronounced gratitude in a booming voice.
Just kidding. She stabs the straw into the box and sucks at it quietly. It tastes good, if a bit warm.
Giving Charles her full attention over the top of her juice box, she can't help but smile a little. Asking if she knows martial arts is a very 1970s question of him. Kimiko is quiet for a moment in response—a different sort of quiet than her usual. Gathering intent in lieu of words. There's nothing resembling art in what she does. She doesn't even like who she is when she's deep in the thick of it: when good sense whites out, her hands feel like claws and only some thinning membrane between human and animal keeps her from ripping some poor fool's throat out with her teeth. She can fight, sure. She's martial. But even that feels like too small of a word for it.
Finishing her juice box with a noisy slurp, Kimiko crushes the thick packaging board into a crumpled little ball. She barely needs to wind her arm back as she summons her strength and throws. The air seems to ripple a little as the balled up wad of ex-juice box collide with a metal rubbish bin hard enough to leave a significant dent in its exterior casing.
It's showy, but what else can she do? That's Kimiko's best answer for what she is. ]