[The mess covering the boy's hand is black. No hint of red when the light hits it - no scent of rotting blood. No polychromatic sheen - it isn't oil. There's no telling whether the slop is organic or artificial.
But none of that matters.
It's strange. Impossible, and yet they're both marked with it.
Takasugi brushes his thumb over the substance on his leg, smearing it like ash across fabric.
Already fading... though he doubts the boy's pain has abated any, judging by the strain ever present in his voice.] Hmm- [An accusatory look, as if the boy only has himself to blame.]
no subject
But none of that matters.
It's strange. Impossible, and yet they're both marked with it.
Takasugi brushes his thumb over the substance on his leg, smearing it like ash across fabric.
Already fading... though he doubts the boy's pain has abated any, judging by the strain ever present in his voice.] Hmm- [An accusatory look, as if the boy only has himself to blame.]
Did anyone else, [anyone real] help themselves?