@apotheotica // slade asked: you have your own m.o., don't you?
DMITRI SMILES A CURT, CURDLING SMILE. The uneasy and uncanny natures of this expression are completely intentional; he is viscerally, obsessively aware of what he is doing with his face at any and all given moments. (Not that it matters much. The mask he dons at the Chameleon intentionally and effectively obscures just about every facial expression possible. And his eyes, well—those could belong to anybody.)
He wishes he possessed the same awareness of what was going on underneath Deathstroke's brutalist get-up. He likes being able to analyze the shifts in people's moods, the things they reveal without even realizing they're doing it.
All these Gothamites, their costumes and their dramatics and their ominousness—it's gotten him a bit testy. Gotten him smiling creepy smiles nobody can see.
"What I have and what I don't have are hardly any of your business." He lowers his gun.
"I'm certainly nothing like you, if that's what you're asking."