ɪ. ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ (ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʙᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ)

(This makes little to no sense. The smell of kerosene and burning hair still lingers in his nostrils as he descended, the sight of a man on fire running past his van's direction once he came to Mikado's aid - the same sweet-talking boy who had just set a fucker on fire. The same mellow dude who had stabbed his hand through with a pen, telling him to accept his fury. When he opens his eyes, this is the first thing Aoba worries about - where the fuck is Mikado? What is this place? Was he kidnapped that very instant? None of this sounded out of question with the life he leads.

It's a shock, but he reckons he deserves it somewhat; Aoba wasn't kind to anyone, and in fact, in his mind, the most effortless thought was of hatred. Hatred for humanity, disregard for people and their predicaments, seeing people as only means only hate hate hate hate... All tucked away in the front of a sweet, enthusiastic young boy. A mask that he keeps in place so efficiently when needed that it's the one the person who finds him will see, an apologetic smile as he looks around bewildered.)

Excuse me, I just got here, and I hate to say it, but I'm absolutely lost. Would you mind showing me around?

(All with the charm of a teenager. Aoba's features are delicate enough to pass as a girl, had it not been his style and voice, albeit his height doesn't exactly help him on that. All great to pass as an unassuming boy, which he has the feeling he'll have to play the part more often then not - it is Hell, after all.)

ɪɪ. ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ (ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴀɢᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴄʟᴜʙꜱ)

(Curfew? What is he, twelve? Aoba's eyes widen when he's rushed towards the first establishment close by for the night, being told that he cannot be roaming the streets of Hell so late at night - and it's not even that late to begin with, he'd like to argue. Most interesting things happen at night, and he's curious, willing to poke around and see how he can profit... Maybe a better room, some benefits, he's not asking much... There should be some prizes for someone who made to Hell with so little lifetime, no?

But instead, he finds himself in Club Penance, before the Anything But Clothes festivities start. One may catch a kid staring at the succubus with goggled eyes, mouth agape, completely unsure where to place his eyes. Hormones, etc. One may also notice how the same interested eyes seem to close every now and then, like he's in the midst of a very interesting lecture, but hasn't slept the night before. Help the child, he shouldn't even be here.)

ɪɪɪ. ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴜᴘ ʜɪɢʜ (ᴛᴏʀᴛᴜʀᴇ, ᴍᴜʟᴛɪʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ꜰᴇᴇᴛ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇʟʏ)

(A prank? Aoba tries his best to keep his cool as he takes his list to himself, rolling it so that there's no glancing on the words atop of it. He's trying to be nice, goddamnit, why must Hell unmask him like this? With frowned eyebrows, Aoba listens to the words that echo the room. At the very least, he's no stranger to pain, and there's no need to wait until it looks like he's been put through a blender for something that'd be faster and much less painful to just get it over with.

The only problem is the spot. There's a groan as Aoba removes his shoe, settles on the floor with his foot on his hand, and takes a deep breath. It's happening. He's going to carve the sole of his foot - nobody's going to see it there, probably.)

ɪᴠ. ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ

(Feel free to tag me with a surprise, or to discuss, boop me at newmeatjb!)