[At first, Fugo doesn’t entirely understand what Trish means by that gesture. Why is she patting her comforter? It’s not until she shoots him an expectant look that it clicks. Oh. He’s supposed to sit beside her, while they talk. Because they’re going to continue to talk, apparently. About … Stands.

Fugo is stiff and a little awkward when he comes to sit next to Trish. Part of it is simply his limb situation; it’s a trial for him just to navigate normal living spaces, even if they’re large enough to accommodate larger Monsters. But his legs pull in close when he comes to sit, then twist around to settle largely behind him. His arms, too, fold over his chest. Without even thinking about it, he’s on the defensive.]

Whatever pretended to be Purple Haze this summer wasn’t entirely accurate. It never intentionally attacked me.

[He pauses, lips pressed together in a thin line, as he weighs how much he ought to tell Trish. He doesn’t like discussing it but, at the same time, knows he has no good reason to deny her. “I don’t want to” feels like such a shallow reason, especially for something that no longer exists.]

But I wasn’t immune to its ability. And I couldn’t control it, either. It had a mind of its own. [He sighs, bitterly, then rolls his eyes.] Not that it ever tried to think. That thing was a complete moron.