[It doesn't entirely surprise Nero that his attempts to find Dante -- or the guy who apparently smells like him -- are failures. He wasn't sure what he was thinking, believing some random weird dude on a mountain. A guy who, he emphasizes, indicated familial relations by how he smells.
Weird shit.
The lack of movement on whatever clue that was supposed to be leaves some sort of pit in his chest, where a ball of emotions rings around it like a coin funnel. Is it better he isn't here? Or is he, and he just doesn't bring his ass into the Horizon? Jetting over to Thorne might've been an option in the past, but something keeps him uneasy about trying. Not just leaving Himeka and Wanda in the dust, but the emphasis on how no one crosses over. Not between here and Thorne, not between here and the Free Cities. Not like getting shot outta the sky is a big threat, but he's also not getting his ass magically fried on a vague hint.
So Nero keeps trying the Horizon. Between work that he's distracted by, by these bouts of -- of things he doesn't even have names for, rising up in him. Some sick cocktail of anger and grief that he hasn't ever had a place to throw; he's just been swallowing it down for weeks.
And yeah, there's the mind messages, whatever the fuck those are. Whatever they are, Nero is not throwing one into the wind to try to grab Dante. It just doesn't sit with him. Wanda's bad enoughm, telling him plants have thoughts. What gets into your head when you throw your shit out like that based on the good will of a giant rock?
It's weird enough he gets one himself, but at least this one's got the keyword -- demons.
Nero might work alone, but it's not like the Order was the only demon slayers around.
So he finds the bar. Sort of run-down. Old. A shiny black car sitting outside. He walks in with a swagger, only because if he belongs anywhere, it's gotta be here.
And there he is. Mountain Hermit himself. Nero doesn't waste time walking over, donned in the outfit he'd left behind at home: worn sweater (sewed up by Kyrie several times), boots, blue coat, necklace swinging with his movements. The coat's hood is pulled up over his head.
He collapses into a seat across from Geralt, feet thumping down on the floor from the impact.] I'm startin' to think you led me on a wild goose chase, gramps.
[The question of what kind of hunter he is pops up in Nero's head, considering he's here. It's not exactly the most surprising news -- guy's stacked, got gold fucking eyes, and didn't blink when Nero tore part of the booth clean off. Course, it could just be Horizon bravado, but he doesn't get that feeling.
It's too still. All of him. Like an undisturbed pond.]
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Weird shit.
The lack of movement on whatever clue that was supposed to be leaves some sort of pit in his chest, where a ball of emotions rings around it like a coin funnel. Is it better he isn't here? Or is he, and he just doesn't bring his ass into the Horizon? Jetting over to Thorne might've been an option in the past, but something keeps him uneasy about trying. Not just leaving Himeka and Wanda in the dust, but the emphasis on how no one crosses over. Not between here and Thorne, not between here and the Free Cities. Not like getting shot outta the sky is a big threat, but he's also not getting his ass magically fried on a vague hint.
So Nero keeps trying the Horizon. Between work that he's distracted by, by these bouts of -- of things he doesn't even have names for, rising up in him. Some sick cocktail of anger and grief that he hasn't ever had a place to throw; he's just been swallowing it down for weeks.
And yeah, there's the mind messages, whatever the fuck those are. Whatever they are, Nero is not throwing one into the wind to try to grab Dante. It just doesn't sit with him. Wanda's bad enoughm, telling him plants have thoughts. What gets into your head when you throw your shit out like that based on the good will of a giant rock?
It's weird enough he gets one himself, but at least this one's got the keyword -- demons.
Nero might work alone, but it's not like the Order was the only demon slayers around.
So he finds the bar. Sort of run-down. Old. A shiny black car sitting outside. He walks in with a swagger, only because if he belongs anywhere, it's gotta be here.
And there he is. Mountain Hermit himself. Nero doesn't waste time walking over, donned in the outfit he'd left behind at home: worn sweater (sewed up by Kyrie several times), boots, blue coat, necklace swinging with his movements. The coat's hood is pulled up over his head.
He collapses into a seat across from Geralt, feet thumping down on the floor from the impact.] I'm startin' to think you led me on a wild goose chase, gramps.
[The question of what kind of hunter he is pops up in Nero's head, considering he's here. It's not exactly the most surprising news -- guy's stacked, got gold fucking eyes, and didn't blink when Nero tore part of the booth clean off. Course, it could just be Horizon bravado, but he doesn't get that feeling.
It's too still. All of him. Like an undisturbed pond.]