Penemue's question made White break into a rumbling, thunderesque laugh that rolled out across the night sky (ha ha ha ha ha ha). Having been parentless and rudderless and independent for so long, the image delighted him somehow: two abashed young-old monsters, dragged in by the ear, abashed and shuffling their feet in disgrace after mischief misplaced. Not so. Not fucking so.
"No goddamned idea who or what's behind it," Mr White shrugged. He dropped in the blasphemy, easy as pie, simple as breathing, on the mere off-chance that it might discomfit their uncle. He could love the angel in theory but still strive to make him squirm in his fine boots. "Frankly, I'd be thrilled as fuck if I could do half of this. Which I can't." One hand waved vaguely, gesturing to the city as it burned around them. "But--sadly, no, just some good old mayhem and brutality, just taking it all in, wishing I had a Polaroid on me for the beautiful Kodak moment--"
He was rambling again, as he did so often. But eventually White managed to cut himself off, teeth sinking into his lower lip.