Forge could hardly suppress a smirk. Oh he was interesting. Timid, he looked like a limping pup, begging to be either scooped up and pampered or kicked again. Personally, Forge preferred a tactic which combined both of those. The boy could be a project, he decided. And such a pretty project, too. Those lips were something, and the way he hid behind his hair whispered promises of being well versed in the art of both shame and begging. Something stirred in Forge's pants at the thought, but he willed it down. This was not the place and he first needed to assure that the boy was as amusing as he was hoping.
Still, he felt the eyes on him, and made a show of his careful steps and the stiff movement of his damaged arm. While he may have been missing a few limbs, he was far from a cripple, and Forge had every intention of coming back stronger than before. When he felt eyes upon him, he pointedly bent over, catching a piece of garbage in the pinching hook which lived where his right had once had. Eyes cold but a hard, tight-lipped smirk on his face, he quickly turned, letting Nate see the crude prosthetic and stared. He did not take his eyes off the boy, waiting to see his reaction, wanting to see how the boy reacted to intimidation and shame. With any luck, the kicked puppy would come slinking up to him later, whimpering an apology and ready to do whatever favors were necessary to get it.