He watches the glass slowly succumb to the pressure, he plans to ring the bartender back in, get the man another glass, watch him slip into his own grief.. Perfect, perfect.. But..
Suddenly, his plan has slipped his mind. He’s engrossed in his story.
He nods slowly once or twice as he follows his lament, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward.
He watches the strength drain from the glass, from his body, and give way to a melancholy form.. Something about his demeanor changes. He briefly wonders, out of sheer distrust, if this whole fictitious sob-story was meant to secure the job offer.
..However, when his eyes are met by HABITS, woeful eyes seem to bore into him, pierce the shell, and suddenly.. He’d like to embrace HABIT, put an arm over his shoulder, spoil him, something. He’s been met with the eyes of a wounded soul and lost man. He freezes a moment.
“... You’ve been dealt a horrible hand, you know that..?” A beat. “I’m.. Proud you’re still here, paisan. For what it’s worth.” He looks over at him. “..I’m not terribly sure what I’d have done myself.”
..He looks back at the counter a moment, the fingers of a hand digging into the fabric of his sleeve.
“.. Listen... You know this job comes with a hefty set of terms, but. I’ve come to a conclusion. I think you’re more than capable.”
Unfolding his arms, he turns to face him, resting his hands on his knees.
“.. When someone asks you about your job, you say you’re the royal scientist’s right-hand man, errand-boy, assistant, whatever. It doesn’t matter who asks, doesn’t matter if it’s the damn king, but here’s the truth.”
His voice is low and hushed.
“I don’t need an errand-boy. I needed a hit-man. A fighter. Someone as cutthroat as yourself, someone to test my arsenal at will, home-brew weapons suited for the humans above. I’m certain you’ll enjoy my toys.” He almost smirks.
“... You see, it’s my personal belief that research holds priority over ethics. As you can figure, such a controversial belief is more than a crime in itself. Thus, you cannot breathe word of such matters. You are sworn to an oath of secrecy; what is done and known on the job is between you and I..”
..Aster looks through HABIT.
“... Failure to keep this oath, or general insubordination will cost you your life. Don’t make me have to do that to you, HABIT; I don’t want to hurt you, too. But this isn’t a job you can back out of and resign, that to is a punishable offense. Consider it a contract binding you to the end of your days; what you know now is plenty secret enough.”
He reclines a bit.
“.. But I will see to it this job is one you won’t want to leave behind. Whether this cold world likes it or not.. HABIT, you are on a tier of royalty, effective immediately.” He offers a warm smile, as well as his hand. “It will be a pleasure to work alongside you, and with your communication, I will do all I can to make your experience just as well, you know, the whole nine-yards.. Aha, if you’d so like, I could arrange living quarters for you in the castle as soon as tomorrow..! Wanted to let you know you’d had it made.” A soft laugh.
He hopes the success brings his mood back up, in truth, gives him life again. Give him rest, hope, something. Anything.