[ Nicolas is used to feeling eyes on him, despite preferring silence as a conversation starter and avoiding being the center of attention. Ergastulum was like that, a place where you could fade into obscurity among the side streets and alleys but the second you stepped out of turn, came into contact with predominantly human areas or cocky high levels looking to throw their weight around, they made it clear you didn't belong.
This place isn't anything like that, he's pretty sure the words 'Tagged' or 'Twilight' don't mean shit to the people here. The residents had confiscated his dog tags and no remark was made, no vitriol spewed. To them, he was just like everyone else - assumed human, until proven otherwise. Still, it's instinctive to keep a watch when someone stares too long, to prepare himself for the worst.
It takes him longer than he'd care to admit to notice - about a minute - as he tries to absorb himself in the task of repairing the shitty place he's taken up as residence without making any sound. Tougher than he'd care to admit, considering he can't hear a thing, but he makes a point of keeping one hand on any materials he touches to feel for vibrations and go slowly. Still, when he turns, rubbing sweat from his eyes with the back of a hand, it's hard not to notice the stare of someone who isn't completely there focused on him. It's harder not to instinctively reach for his tags, where they should be around his neck, to flash them from across the way.
He takes the time to make a quick assessment - weird dye job, a towel on his lap, lanky, one armed with a look he's seen a thousand times - before crossing the street, no rush, no real need to.
By the time he's made his way over, the guy has snapped out of it and is pretending not to see him (also familiar, and it chafes his nerves just as much). Still, Nic just can't help but reach out his left hand, making a gesture like he's about to snap his fingers an inch away from this guy's ear - until he thinks better of it, and instead waves a large hand just in front of his nose.
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This place isn't anything like that, he's pretty sure the words 'Tagged' or 'Twilight' don't mean shit to the people here. The residents had confiscated his dog tags and no remark was made, no vitriol spewed. To them, he was just like everyone else - assumed human, until proven otherwise. Still, it's instinctive to keep a watch when someone stares too long, to prepare himself for the worst.
It takes him longer than he'd care to admit to notice - about a minute - as he tries to absorb himself in the task of repairing the shitty place he's taken up as residence without making any sound. Tougher than he'd care to admit, considering he can't hear a thing, but he makes a point of keeping one hand on any materials he touches to feel for vibrations and go slowly. Still, when he turns, rubbing sweat from his eyes with the back of a hand, it's hard not to notice the stare of someone who isn't completely there focused on him. It's harder not to instinctively reach for his tags, where they should be around his neck, to flash them from across the way.
He takes the time to make a quick assessment - weird dye job, a towel on his lap, lanky, one armed with a look he's seen a thousand times - before crossing the street, no rush, no real need to.
By the time he's made his way over, the guy has snapped out of it and is pretending not to see him (also familiar, and it chafes his nerves just as much). Still, Nic just can't help but reach out his left hand, making a gesture like he's about to snap his fingers an inch away from this guy's ear - until he thinks better of it, and instead waves a large hand just in front of his nose.
The fuck you lookin' at, dude? ]