Dokugamine Riruka can be very overtly affectionate.
It's normal for someone to like things, and want things. It's normal, it's predictable, and in a way it's part of what defines humanity - the vice of every human being, of…well, anything, with a bit of a soul. But Riruka never just 'likes' things. She never just 'wants' things. She sets her eyes on an adorable plushy, a whimsical little dollhouse, and she loves them. Just like that. Instantly and unconditionally.
To Riruka, the world can be easily divided into two simple categories: things she likes, and things she doesn't. She loves the things she likes with all her heart, and hates the things she doesn't with a burning passion.
There's no transition from minimal to moderate; there's never a second thought, or even a double-take. It's pure unadulterated affection right off the bat, and each and every time the attraction is just different enough to have its own special moment of happiness: that magical second, that fleeting instant when she knows exactly why she loves a thing that she sets her eyes on. Desire for possession of the coveted object is an obligatory follow-up, after that; and although there are times when she simply can't have one thing or another, Riruka nonetheless keeps a tab of every single one of her newfound affections in her heart. After that, no matter how much time passes, she'll always be quietly yearning for that object she just couldn't have, consciously or no.
To have two such polarized extremities in the department of opinion is far from stable, all the same - and she knows it. She can't not know it. It instantly becomes a complicated thing, when relationships with other people are thrown into the mix. And her vain, domineering façade is something of a counter-measure against the inclinations of her volatile heart, in a way; the last thing she wants or needs is for other people to figure it out, and use it to their advantage. Other people, normal people who can just 'like' things and 'dislike' things or even have no opinion at all…yes, it's so much easier to act with blunt uncaring on all fronts, in the face of such a thing as that. Sometimes she even enjoys it a bit more this way: she can be as scathing as she likes towards the things she hates, and love the objects of her instant adoration completely without being judged or mocked, protected behind her veil of indifference and scorn.
It's not foolproof, by any means. But it's enough, she thinks. Enough to last her as long as she wants it to.
And in the end, it's the 'want' that troubles her the most. Because 'want' is what Fullbring is fueled by, more than anything else - 'want', and the concept that enough 'want' of something can make impossibilities a reality, in order to get it. Her pure unadulterated affection for the things she loves and desires is what drives her Fullbring. And Riruka knows that the stronger her Fullbring gets, the more powerful her love will have to be - is going to be - because it's a part of her soul, and who she is, and Fullbring extracts the pure essence of all of that.
Too much love just isn't a good thing. Too much love can blind you completely, and cloud your judgment utterly, and leave you wide open to a world of pain, with just the right barb aimed in just the right place of tender affection. And if that love is blown out, the deepest black of hatred is all that can possibly fill in the void, in the wake of something so far up the other end of the opinion spectrum.
Dokugamine Riruka can be very overtly affectionate…and for as long as she's been aware of her Fullbring powers, there are times that she has hated that core of her nature more than anything else in the whole wide world.
Too much of anything can be bad for you, and she's doesn't know what moderation is.
Yukio is the player, and his life is a game to be won.
Or at least, that's how the idea can be surmised in a nutshell. He'd never say that outright himself, after all - in fact, he'd be more likely to remark upon how incredibly corny that line is - but in the end that's exactly how it falls into place, whether he's really aware of it or not. The player is the one with greatest influence upon the things around him, after all. To be able to make decisions without the interference of others, and carry them through into action exactly when you feel like it: this is control, the player's ultimate weapon, the stepping stone that puts him one vital level above the realm he's in charge of steering to victory.
Yukio is happiest when he's in control; he honestly can't imagine not being in it. He's used to doing what he wants, and getting what he wants, without being challenged or overruled…because that's simply how he's always managed things, growing up. In an environment that would often bend to his whims both figuratively and literally, thanks to his financial status and his natural ability as a Fullbringer…being used to control is a given, a matter of fact.
And now it comes so easily to him that he all but takes it for granted.
In a way, it explains his discomfort and irritation when this sense of control is undermined: when someone tells him to do something he doesn't want to, or things don't go the way he expects them. He wouldn't be able to explain it himself, but Yukio's perspective on his goals in life tend to conform to almost videogame-esque structures: the main objective that requires fulfillment, the sidequests that give you optional bonuses, and the stretches of work in between to get from one point to the other…and it's only common sense that decisions concerning such matters as these are better left to the player's own personal judgment, not someone else's. The player knows what's going on better than anyone else, after all - and where would be the fun in it otherwise?
Then again, unfortunately, reality simply doesn't always conform by the strict standards of videogame domain - and though he can manipulate certain fabrics of reality by his simple circumstance of birth, Yukio is still as vulnerable as anyone to the whims of fate. He can't make things go exactly the way he wants them to all the time, because there are simply too many things and people scrabbling for their own goals at the same time - and, inevitably, those crisscrossing intentions clash against and even nullify his own efforts or expectations, becoming occasions that are very much all but out of his control.
Yukio hates those occasions, expected as they ought to be. He hates them, and the crushing uncertainty and helplessness that arrives with them hand-in-hand, even if only momentarily. They remind him about just how close he is to taking a false step, making a wrong decision, and being instantly denoted from the player to the victim. And because he hates these times so much, he likes to soften the blow of such unpleasant moments with the company of his videogame console.
True, Yukio plays games every day as it is - he's shared a fiercely faithful matrimony with his console for so long that the button markings have long worn out - but when he isn't doing it solely for fun or boredom, he's doing it for the small measure of consolation that playing a game brings. Directing around a person or several to fulfill goals to their best extent, and achieve 100% completion while button combos are mastered, bosses have their asses handed to them, and quality soundtrack blasts in his earphones…he doesn't really realize it himself, but Yukio takes a strong comfort from all of it. From the notion that he can still change something for the better, by his own power, even only on the mere small stage of a videogame.
Because he doesn't know it, but in the end? The thing Yukio is afraid of most is being rendered unable to control anything at all. To the point where his very presence simply doesn't matter; to the point that he might as well not exist.
And without a player to guide it, a game simply cannot be won.
Perhaps it's due to this, then, that his Fullbring has turned out the way it is now. And if Yukio said he disliked it, he would be lying, and he knows it - because he truly does take some enjoyment from the sheer blanket extent of his Fullbring's reach, and how faithfully reminiscent to videogames its effects are. In fact, when he finds himself thinking about it, Yukio can almost grasp how easy it would be, to use this new-found power to keep those dreaded occasions of helplessness from ever happening at all.
To have complete control all the time, over everything.
But even as he masters his Fullbring completely, and the days go by, and the thought arises ever more frequently and appealingly, he still shoves it down, and immerses himself in another game for another hour, or two, or three - whatever it takes, to drive the treacherous notion from his mind for a little longer, and keep it quiet. Under control.
Yukio is the player, and his life is a game to be won. And the blithely cynical part of him has to keep reminding him, insistently, that his life is the only game he has any business winning anyway - because trying to take control of other lives, to further his own, stands very firmly in a territory he's never treaded, and never planned to.
Yet.
Kutsuzawa Giriko is a punctual man.
Some people can't function without a clock near at hand, and some people could care less about the ever-cycling spans of time. But Giriko falls in neither category, because he always knows what time it is regardless of where the clocks are, and he cares about it so much that he measures everything he does down to the very second. Cleanliness is next to godliness for some, but timeliness is next to godliness for him.
Time is what makes the world go round, and he has always been the one to manage it.
Oh, he can't control Time - goodness no. Even if he were offered such a gift at no cost to himself, he wouldn't take it, because he wouldn't want it. He admires and respects Time with the volume that the bright-eyed child adores his wise and weathered grandfather: it's far better to simply sit back and listen to the tales and the lessons, transcended from infinite experience, because it's already so far beyond your ken.
Giriko knows his place is simply to give Time the respect it asks for - to hearken to what it has to say, and translate its will to those around him, the sad folk that simply cannot comprehend the concise, unstoppable river that flows all around them. And in the end that's where it all started - the mold that his Fullbring powers poured and hardened into. Because he always considered his place to be alongside the jurisdiction of Time…and now he has become its little mortal Arbiter. Setting the boundaries and the constraints the proper way, and faithfully purging those that dare to exceed them: that's his real duty now, and Giriko carries it out when he needs to. It's a greater honor than he could have ever dreamed of.
But it's hard. Very hard.
Humanity is simply not designed to correlate with time, after all - they have so little of it themselves, and they are like leaves in the rushing water; fleeting, brief, and utterly ineffectual in the grand scheme. Giriko's tenure with Time is, in this way, a fluke of nature: something that was never really meant to be, just as the Fullbringer's own general existence is a stroke of lucky curse. The sheer patient perseverance of his soul has sustained Giriko to a remarkable degree, as the long years go by and his service to Time continues. But it's still wearing away at the very seams of him - bit by bit, with every hour of every day.
Now he can mark the passing of every single second that goes by in his head, all the time - a steady ceaseless ticking that only he can hear, and never stops. And it's eaten away so much of him that, by now, it's extended to his own physical being, after all these years - the eyepatch he wears is a permanent testament. These things are far from pleasant, but he copes as best he can in the face of it, with the chronic comfort of redundant habit, and numbing drink, and detached serenity in relations to others.
It takes a toll on the heart, as well…which is, perhaps, the harshest part of the exchange, because it's so difficult to smother with the measures of coping that he possesses. Time is partial to no one, and no one is completely partial to staying within the concise limits and boundaries that Time might set for them; too many friends have been consumed by the flames of existence before him, because they just couldn't do it. And it's happened so many times that, by now, Giriko almost can't bring himself to really feel the pain of their failure anymore.
It is by far the worst and most absolute consequence of being Time's servant. And he knows it.
Kutsuzawa Giriko is a punctual man. He might have had a choice in the matter a long time ago, but now he doesn't. No, he's in it for life - until he can end his honored tenure with Time at last, and cede the burden of his Fullbring to someone that can hold it, and is truly willing to. The 'willingness' being somewhat of a requirement.
He wouldn't wish such a thing upon them otherwise.
Jackie Tristan is the sort that can never back down to trouble.
There is a term for these sort of things that is sometimes referred to as a 'snowball effect'. A very small ball of snow, rolled down a snowy hill and getting progressively larger and more troublesome the farther it's gone and the faster it's going - it can be somewhat comparable to Jackie's own situation. Sort of.
There just isn't any snow involved - or hills, either. In fact, it's all in a mental state of mind.
It could be said that Jackie is really one of the most stable members of Xcution as a whole - and there actually is some truth in that. Her priorities are solid, and her means of reaching them are quite practically sensible, especially compared to her teammates. In fact, in a way, she is the anchor that keeps the group as a whole from stepping into outright social outcast territory, and holds it merely on the questionable fringe. Hers is the voice of reason that falls into backdrop with Ginjo's or Riruka's as the occasion becomes necessary - and even if it doesn't always work, points for trying are always earned anyhow.
When a conflict comes into play, this factor is hardly diminished…but, unfortunately it's not completely immune, either. Be it physical or no - as soon as a clash occurs, the snowball of Jackie's reaction to it starts rolling its way down the hill.
For lack of a better way to word such things, Jackie is the exact sort of person that can take a licking and keep on ticking. Except that it goes beyond that - far beyond. The more hits she takes, the more stubborn she becomes, until it finally culminates to a point beyond return. It can be either figurative or literal, but the fact remains that she just can't cede from the source of any kind of dirt that's thrown at her…even if she wants to, or just knows better. She has to retaliate, she has to throw back something equivalent to the damage, until the problem is resolved or she's rendered incapable of trying anymore. There's no such thing as getting too hurt, or - as the analogy stands - too dirty.
Granted, it's simply the core of her personality, in the end. She's a dominant individual by nature, and trying to undermine her just gives Jackie more motivation to overwhelm. Cut her down, and she'll stand right back up, twice as strong; manage to cut her again, and you only end up with a more formidable enemy than you had before. It's a testament to the raw staunchness of her will as a whole - a will almost akin to a furnace. The more you throw in it or at it, the brighter it burns.
Her Fullbring reflects this to some degree, indeed; collateral damage and soiling is detrimental for most boots, but the same things just spur hers into aiding in supernatural feats. This is how Jackie functions in life as a whole, in the end: perseverance that strengthens exponentially in the presence of adversity, and doesn't wear away.
In fact, it can't wear away…even when she feels that it should.
Jackie Tristan is the sort that can never back down to trouble. And really, that's what always throws her off and worries her most of all - natural stability has always kept her road straight in the past, but sometimes she can't help but wonder if it's getting harder and harder to keep on track. Too much tenacity and too little common sense only lead to dead people, in her experience.
She doesn't plan to be one of them…if she can help it.
Ginjo Kugo is incapable of working with anything less than a double-edged blade.
Predictability might be a virtue for some people, but it's never been his. He's ambiguous by nature, and he holds onto that ambiguity as tightly as he possibly can, because…well. It's such an efficient way of getting things done, and less messy to boot. 'Getting things done' is always Kugo's main objective from day to day anyhow, and it's good to maintain a system for something like that. …As long as the system can be easily changed and modified, of course.
He wouldn't call himself trustworthy, by any means. He wouldn't call himself honest, either. He's shady, he's questionable, he's downright unreliable - and the sky is blue. Thusly he shrugs on the impression and wears it as fondly and casually as the coat on his back; there's no point in trying to shun it, and frankly he doesn't see why he should try to change who he is as a person, just for the comfort of others. It's more trouble and energy than the benefits it's supposedly worth; and so, in the end, it's up to the individual person as to whether to trust him or not. Kugo just goes about doing his own thing, and occasionally enjoys testing how far he can push at their limits.
Nothing shows a person's true nature better than pressure.
People are where all the action is, really - and they're where he gravitates, first and foremost. He works with them all the time, because they're necessary in the long run of things - and hey, it can be pretty fun, at the best of times. With an accumulation of experience and trial, Kugo has become very adept at manipulating folk to his own ends; that much is undeniable. It doesn't really matter whether he has their best interests at heart or not - it just arises so naturally that it's almost a chronic habit, whether he's interacting with a friend or a complete stranger. He's good at picking out the right words, putting on the right face, and implementing just the right nudges in the right directions…and he knows it. If asked, he wouldn't like to compare it to a puppeteer tweaking an array of strings or anything - it's a bit too whimsical and creepy for his tastes - but 'low-key manipulator' might be a bit of a closer fit. Or even con artist. Kind of.
…Yeah, in another life, he'd probably have the makings of an excellent con man.
But his goals far exceed the simple meager needs of a con man, by a long shot. And most of the methods he uses to reach those goals would likely be far too dicey for a con man's comfort anyway, all in all.
Kugo's very essence tends to revolve around the thrill of the risk - if something doesn't have ridiculously high stakes on both sides, it isn't worth partaking in. No pain, no gain, as the saying goes…and sometimes Kugo can't help but wonder just how literally he takes it, though he'd admit to himself that he's a firm believer in it either way. The more risk he puts on himself, the more rewarding the results tend to be - and if they backfire on him, then…well. He can handle it.
Most of the time.
This naturally extends to those around him - whether they like it or not. Just interacting with a man like Ginjo Kugo is all but a swan dive into the realm of personal gambling. Sure, he'll stand by you if you give him a good enough reason to, and he might even throw in a helping hand here and there; but Kugo simply works best as a scaffold, and he embraces the role with open arms…because that's simply who he is.
'Scaffold' is a term with dual meaning, depending on its use in context. Sometimes it's the framework that holds up anything set upon it. Sometimes it's the platform from which the condemned are hanged.
Sometimes it's both.
Ginjo Kugo is incapable of working with nothing less than a double-edged blade. He wouldn't have it any other way, because that's just how he rolls, and it makes getting to most of his objectives a bit more enjoyable.
Hell, it's one of the few remaining things in this whole business that's enjoyable at all.
There has always been a fine line of difference, that stands between a Hollow and a Shinigami.
A shinigami takes the time to learn and understand the emotions and motivations of their own soul, and adapts a means to defend themselves and others, using this newfound knowledge. A shinigami harnesses their very essence, and embraces it while remembering to conform to moderation: instead honing it into a razor-sharp blade that can cut through the darkness, and not through themselves.
Hollow are the polar opposite of shinigami, because they have chained themselves down to a plane in which they do not belong, with a chain made of their emotions and motivations. These emotions and motivations are too raw and strong for them to bear; they have consumed their hearts, and left them as shells of despair. Hollow have not channeled their essences into weapons, or points of strength - their essences has become them, and are now their masks, their sole drive of existence. Filling in the husk of their hearts with the feelings they could not let go; corrupting the original soul utterly, to the point of nonexistence.
Yes, the line of difference is very fine indeed. With the wrong step in the right direction, the line can be crossed - and has been. Shinigami that are not-quite-but-almost Hollow. Hollow that are not-quite-but-almost shinigami.
Living humans that get closer and closer to transcending their composition of being entirely.
It all depends on the quintessence of the soul - and how it is used. For the quintessence of a soul has many uses; Fullbring is just one of many things that harness it. But quintessence is a dangerous thing, because it can never be truly natural in occurrence or existence - quintessence is utter purity, and absolute embodiment.
The quintessence of a soul, if given the chance, will overtake and consume all else that deviates from itself, for better or worse, to maintain its complete virtue.
It just needs to be tapped into, and let out.