outside of the uwu dialect

500 Macca off the rip, Muu Shuwuu says. Chiaki, esteemed security detailer, has just recently become a millionaire, so parting with the sum is not only the amicable thing to do but also the pragmatic one. Who's to say how violent the quibbling could get - just based on how much the girlish raptor is purported to enjoy sucking brains with a truly manananggalesque alacrity - if they resisted, to no discernible environmental actors' gain?

Decarabia will continue to pinpoint steel-worthy Mitama of every clock-face variety no matter how dispassionately Chiaki ignores it and its Chiyoda gems. The vending machines will continue to glow, inexplicably, and Gustave's lipless teeth will continue to gleam as no decaying or richly preserved bone should. The sole value in this interaction is, in fact, the flicker of necessary rapport so swiftly engendered by the bloodless thrill of money laundering, pandemonic extortion.

They control her so methodically, through the shimmering crimson hum of the Magatsuhi frequency. Were its resonance to feel particularly dull, Muu Shuwuu's laugh would be unbearably shrill. As it is, Chiaki blinks at the thought that she is, basically, just like Amanozako or any other comparable Pixie.

That's odd. It can't possibly be true.

(Indeed, she prattles on and on about seduction and cerebellum suction from within her fine fur fashions.)

Whatever the reason for this de-misgiving's incidence, it's an indication that they've been set off kilter.

So, when Muu Shuwuu discovers the equivalent sum of Macca within the rotted-out Tamachi vending machine's relatively pristine coin chute, the Nahobino distractedly directs her not to pocket it. As if it's worth the trouble of passing the currency from muff-minded mittens, souring the fragile bond of a working relationship that is only intuitive to a human who doesn't scheme like the demons scheme.

Well. They're learning.