[ While they hadn't completely come out of the hunt empty-handed, Samatoki isn't thrilled - and makes it known, when they don't locate a source or a dealer. One or the other would be perfect, because the former cuts to the root of it where the latter gives them a more concrete trail. But at least they know the range better, he supposes. And they do get some information.
It's not a complete wash. But it's not enough to satisfy either of them, and the fact that they're on the same page there appeases him somewhat. At least Asato is willing to see it to the end.
They make... a shockingly decent team. They're certainly cut from a similar cloth, where finesse is thrown out the window in lieu of following instinct, getting to the point of what they need with fewer flowery words. A threat is a threat, and while the lengthier ones can be fairly efficient, well. Going right for the throat eliminates a need for it.
Eyes lit and burning with the dying light, matching the embers of his cigarette as he takes a drag, Samatoki considers the building in front of them. While not placid, nor necessarily calm, he's still in a way that suggests a tightly wound coil that's prepared for action. With a slow, heavy exhale of smoke, he flicks the cigarette off in a note of finality and reaches with his other hand to pull his mic out of his waistband. ]
Before the lights kick on in the street. [ Because they can move quick in the cover of the oncoming night - Asato, he realizes, will have an easier time than even the people who call this place their turf.
His fingers flex around his mic, and he thumbs the switch. The familiar noise of it activating is a comfort in a foreign place, even with a situation he knows from years of experience, and he adjusts his grip to go from holding a simple microphone to cradling the skull of the old-fashioned stand. Better safe than sorry, after all. ] Let's go.
no subject
It's not a complete wash. But it's not enough to satisfy either of them, and the fact that they're on the same page there appeases him somewhat. At least Asato is willing to see it to the end.
They make... a shockingly decent team. They're certainly cut from a similar cloth, where finesse is thrown out the window in lieu of following instinct, getting to the point of what they need with fewer flowery words. A threat is a threat, and while the lengthier ones can be fairly efficient, well. Going right for the throat eliminates a need for it.
Eyes lit and burning with the dying light, matching the embers of his cigarette as he takes a drag, Samatoki considers the building in front of them. While not placid, nor necessarily calm, he's still in a way that suggests a tightly wound coil that's prepared for action. With a slow, heavy exhale of smoke, he flicks the cigarette off in a note of finality and reaches with his other hand to pull his mic out of his waistband. ]
Before the lights kick on in the street. [ Because they can move quick in the cover of the oncoming night - Asato, he realizes, will have an easier time than even the people who call this place their turf.
His fingers flex around his mic, and he thumbs the switch. The familiar noise of it activating is a comfort in a foreign place, even with a situation he knows from years of experience, and he adjusts his grip to go from holding a simple microphone to cradling the skull of the old-fashioned stand. Better safe than sorry, after all. ] Let's go.