The door to the Sorting Room creaked open, and a dark haired young adolescent peaked around the corner. He paused, blinked, waited a while, then stepped in and closed the door behind him
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Anger against the gods? Far more appealing and promising than apathy toward the gods. Anger meant emotion. Emotion was far closer to belief.
"What'd the gods do to you?" asked the affable gentleman in the Armani suit. He took a sip of Irish coffee as he waited for the angry young man to answer.
Something Mello had said earlier made Aoi go still and voiceless. Not because of shock, or anger, but because he simply didn't want to talk to him. He'd play deaf-mute once again to avoid talking to those he had issues with. That sick bastard of a god, or any god, was one of them.
As such he merely glared at him. Shouldn't he be able to know this kind of shit?
Wednesday raised an eyebrow. A twinkle in his good eye gave away his amusement. "Going to hold your breath until your face turns blue? Or stick your thumbs in your ears and sing the Star-Spangled Banner?"
He quoted, since it wasn't technically talking to him, "I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn't have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something, they'd have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They'd get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I'd be through with having conversations for the rest of my life."
He knew every passage of Catcher in the Rye off by heart. It was his favourite book. He tended to incorporate it into his speech more often than not.
"Pity you haven't gone away," he muttered. Again, he was more talking to himself.
He'd been accused of youthful ignorance once before, only it had manifested in a much grander scale (taking the CEO of a corporation at gun point to a TV news crew and demanding he tell the world about the corporation's lies) and he hated it. He narrowed his eyes at him.
Unimpressed as he was, Wednesday was enjoying this exchange. A strong emotion directed toward the gods was certainly juicier than the apathy and the forgetfulness that fogged so many millions of modern people.
And childish as Aoi might be in Wednesday's eyes, the gods themselves were like children in this respect: Any attention was good attention.
"As long as you hate the gods," said Wednesday cheerily, "they aren't going anywhere. So, how about that local sports team of yours?"
"Books," he said. As a librarian in Japan's National Library (the only library these days that actually had hand held copies instead of digital ones), he'd read almost everything within it.
"What'd the gods do to you?" asked the affable gentleman in the Armani suit. He took a sip of Irish coffee as he waited for the angry young man to answer.
The mug's side bore the legend #1 Grandpa.
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As such he merely glared at him. Shouldn't he be able to know this kind of shit?
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He knew every passage of Catcher in the Rye off by heart. It was his favourite book. He tended to incorporate it into his speech more often than not.
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He'd been accused of youthful ignorance once before, only it had manifested in a much grander scale (taking the CEO of a corporation at gun point to a TV news crew and demanding he tell the world about the corporation's lies) and he hated it. He narrowed his eyes at him.
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And childish as Aoi might be in Wednesday's eyes, the gods themselves were like children in this respect: Any attention was good attention.
"As long as you hate the gods," said Wednesday cheerily, "they aren't going anywhere. So, how about that local sports team of yours?"
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He blinked and looked down to his hands. "I don't like sports, it seems redundant." Professional sporting anyway, fun and games were fine.
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That said, there was a fine line between genius and insanity.
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