One rock hit another, leaving sparks in its light. Flame hit cloth, and lit up the face of one Revolver, as people came to know him. Wasn't a name he chose, but it was he wore with pride. A badge, almost, of his skills, as a soldier, as an assassin, a teacher. He took a drag, cigarette floating up to his mouth seemingly on its own, the orange light dim, brightening only as he sucked the nicotine into him. It felt good, doing this after so long. His paws weren't shaky and his aim wasn't off or anything, but still, it steadied his nerves. Kept him from going crazy.

Lots of people he knew hadn't been so lucky as he, even the ones that survived. From his point of view, he wasn't really that worse off after everything had ended. Sure, sometimes he had to have a smoke, but that was nothing. Some people he knew, some people he had trained, froze at a loud noise - couldn't shake it out of them for shit. Shell shock, they called it - though there was probably a new name for it now. He called it liable to get you killed. The ocelot looked up at the sky, leaves blocking most of it, but the moon in clear sight. He was seated in the clearing he trained in - a forest for if he needed to practice climbing and jumping, clear space for routine exercises, and he had those logs set up for throwing knives. All he needed were some dummies and he'd be all set. Reminded him of his old HQ, almost, back when he was a major.

A grimace stretched across his face, barely noticeable if not for the cigarette. He probably shouldn't be thinking of old war stories. All that did was get him down, thinking about comrades he'd lost, and he didn't have the luxury of grief. Just keep moving forward until his goals were achieved, and at that point, he could drop dead a fulfilled man, and never even consider mulling over his emotions.

He breathed out smoke from the gap in his teeth, looking over the course, low-light vision kicking in. He still had a knife in one of the boards, he realized - never actually picked it up. Had to remember to get it later, lest someone walked up and snatched it. The knives he carried on him had seen more shit than most people, and he'd be damned if he was letting some smug сука come and snatch it up from him. Another drag. What little anger he had settled into a nice calm. He looked back up at the moon, full tonight. Always up there, looking down, no matter what happened here on earth. He just had to be as the moon was - immovable, yet exerting force on the rest of the world. He just had to have that image in his head.

His meditation stopped suddenly when he heard the snap of a twig from nearby. He jumped up, head swinging to the direction of the noise, waiting with intense eyes. "Who's there?" He asked, voice steely, unrecognizable for any who had talked to his normal self; a brick wall to his normally breezily cocky self.

tags - "speech"

The cig in his mouth lights up again, his muscles relaxing, eyes falling shut.

He opens them again, and this time, his smile is on his face, that smarmy grin that he plasters on himself whenever he talks to someone else. He doesn't talk immediately, though, just lets the kid talk, even if he doesn't manage to get out basically any information in the few sentences he speaks. "Sorry t'give you a fright there, парень. Just didn't expect anyone else to be here this late." The assassin looks back up at the moon, as if gauging something, then returns his gaze to the green child. About midnight, by his reckoning - quite late for anyone that young to be up and wandering about. He narrows his eyes ever so slightly, but doesn't ask yet. There'd be a better time later, after he answers a few questions. Plus, he really doesn't want to suspect anyone as seemingly anxious as this (even though his mind already throws in words like "seemingly," already casting suspicion upon him). The cigarette floats from his lips, and he breaths out the smoke, looking away from the kid out of courtesy and out of not wanting to look anyone in the eyes right now. It was hard to do that for him, sometimes, when it was late at night like this and he was left alone with his thoughts.

He took a drag.

He looked back at Izuku then, sitting down on his haunches, and began to speak once more. "Anyways, I was just... blowing off some steam. Cigs help take the edge off, y'know?" He sincerely doubted the young one understood that fact, but continued regardless. "Didn't want t'pollute anyone else's air - I know most don't take kindly to smokers - so I came back here. How 'bout yourself, парень? Can't imagine a kid's just up and wandering around so late at night without a reason." Wisely, he kept any suspicion out of his voice, framing it as a simple, innocent question.

To give the anxious child time to respond, he reached out with his mind and pulled the knife back to him, turning it over in the dark, moonlight glinting dangerously off the blade, his expression that of someone in careful contemplation as if examining it for flaws - his eyes, however, were still on Izuku.

tags - "speech"

He's almost taken aback, really, when he sees that small change in demeanor, the little shift in the muscles in his face, that slightest hint of mistrust. Must've misjudged the kid, then - it was a damn smart move to be suspicious of anyone as friendly as he was right off the bat. Eased his worries, at least, because any assassin trained enough to pull off the anxious personality would be trained enough to not break that facade at any cost. He kept his eyes on him, though, past the end of the already half-finished cigarette sticking out the side of his maw, now out of curiosity more than anything else.

Christ, the smile he gives could light up a room.

He lets out a small chuckle, gives a small shake of his head, lets the knife he had held in front of his face slip into its sheathe. "You're a smart kid, huh." He says, a small compliment, as he takes in the fumes once again. "I'm sure they'd be able to smell the smoke regardless. I just don't want to push it, y'hear?" The cigarette leaves his mouth just before the puff of smoke. A tired routine to watch, by now, but one that helped settle his mind, kept it from firing off at that nerve-induced rapid pace he got into whenever he wasn't in danger.

So the kid didn't sleep well. He considered that for a moment, rolled it over in his head, but decided it checked out as an excuse - he seemed jittery enough to suffer from nightmares or whatever, and even if his understanding of psychology mostly came from war tactics and torture, he figured that it was easy to link those two facts to a trauma of some kind. Nothing he could ask about - that was kind of a second "night spent in solidarity from being unable to rest" thing. "Explorin, huh," he muttered, repetition a helpful trait for memorizing information. He was sure he picked that habit up from someone, but he couldn't remember for the life of him who. He didn't stay in his thoughts for long, though, soon continuing the dialogue. "Can't say there's much around here, unless you're looking t' throw some knives." An offer made mostly in jest, but he was kind of curious as to how the youth would respond. His gaze finally ripped from his conversational partner to look over in the distance, where his logs were set up, but he'd offer no further comment. Just the sound of gentle breathing, if you listened hard enough.

tags - "speech"

The kid seemed to light up at his offer, which would throw anyone else off. Sure, it was unusual - not just that someone so young was so interested in combat in general, but that someone so young and so anxious could suddenly shift gears into a more natural sort of child-like curiosity. Not the curiosity that he seemed afraid of having, the one that stuttered (more often at least) and constantly self-justified as if he was about to get hit for asking a simple question, but something more akin to a socially adjusted kid, which was good to see. Couldn't go about training someone that was like that at all times.

Training, huh? The thought almost snuck up on him, a gate-crasher, naturally sliding into his processes without so much as an invitation. He supposed it could be arranged - anyone could be useful, and the kid seemed smart enough, which he had even gone ahead and mentioned (not that he had said anything smart so far, but something about how he looked around appealed to Revolver's sense of talent; he could spot an analytical mind when he saw one). Plus, it was about time he started building up some sort of group. Couldn't go about with his plans on his own. Not easily, at least.

"Alrighty then," he said, glancing at the kid, taking in that big smile with slightly raised eyebrows. Perhaps he was just interested in learning a new talent? That would resonate better than some sort of sadistic angle, and from the questions he had asked earlier in the day, he did seem one that just... investigated things. The ocelot pulled out one of the knives from his bandolier with his mind, a smaller affair, slimmer, more suited to throwing than some of his combat knives. The edge was straight, the blade thin, small, not like a butcher knife (those things were unwieldy as hell), and it lacked the serrated edge of some of his other blades, but one could tell just by looking at it that it got the job done. He kept the knife in front of him, though, just for a moment, clearly about to preface what was about to happen. "Now, if you're gonna do this, keep in mind that this thing's sharp as - I don't want you getting me in trouble with your parents if ya cut yourself on accident. Also, you'll have to throw by mouth, if you want the best results, unless you're holding out on some power ya happen t'have." The last part was said without an accusatory tone, a simple little statement, because frankly, Revolver didn't peg the kid as the type to have many powers. Anxiety conditions, sure, but powers were another thing altogether.

Not that anyone truly looked like they had powers.

"Now, with all that out of the way," he said, floating the knife towards Izuku hilt first, "we can begin."

tags - "speech"