[the transitory period of listening to his new companion talk ("brute", what a compliment) is filled with a slowly-comprehending green-eyed stare and a few idle gestures; fingers swiping fluid off of his face, swallowing a stale taste of blood from his mouth, touching a piece of fabric wrapped around his forehead and skull -- the half-attention clearly doesn't give the hubris before him the attention it needs to thrive]

[hatched... he looks back at the great sac gaping with the wound he's carved out of it from his own 'birth' with disbelief and disdain on equal footing]

"Angels"? Haa... so you're crazy. Good to know. [it's more dismissive than it is judgmental, which is certainly a good sign]

[he glances back just in time see him break away, only one step in a quick follow him before he watches him slouch, center clearly off and something obviously ailing him... that he says nothing about it garners his own sense of grudging appreciation, and to honor it he calls no attention to it]

[doesn't ask if he's okay, doesn't offer a hand out, doesn't pick him up and carry him -- just lets him get through his own struggles without the shame of intervention]

You look like a punk so I don't know how you get to j-judge anyone. [responds through clicking teeth, finally, turning the tide of the conversation] Glie, Haibane, nest... hn.

So you're new here too. From a... hah-hatch. [gestures to the perforated cavity they're leaving behind even if the smaller one won't see it] What are they calling you? Y-your new name.