[ his hands are shaking in ways that they haven't in years, watching falco trying to return to someone he misses dearly. he's been too far away from his captain - too far away, and angelo is starting to feel it after days of having been stuck in this planet and weighed down by gravity. he can feel it sinking in his bones like lead, the back of his brain erupting in a ceaseless angry noise as angelo feels further and further from the pristine future.
angelo thinks of: a pure white sheet over the bed, impudently dirtied by human hands. he seethes as falco continues to defy reason. all humans are the same, angelo thinks in anger. selfish - impudent - stubborn to the end -
the doll climbs over the debris like a spider, treacherous and filthy as it leers before them and it shifts: to a voice he knows. to the echo of a the red comet. hilariously enough the uncanny features fit his face well considering full frontal is manufactured and forced into the mould of char aznable anyway, one of zeon's many sins. of course it is wrong. but it is more of an egregious sin here, when he here is, waiting to be saved again, wanting to see him again, how he adores him, and he is gone - ]
Lieutenant, I give you the following orders -
[ - his mind is loud.
angelo snarls. ]
Filth.
[ he's been in fights before. it's not the first time he has to kill to survive, and if not here, right now, in front of this boy who nearly gave up his life thinking it's his brother, then somehow, someday. but angelo knows it isn't his captain because he could not even silence the anger in his mind. the captain is perfect, angelo knows. the captain is beyond reproach. the captain is waiting to ascend, to become a god, king of the dispossesed. the captain is the picture of the void, the eternal emptiness that wraps around every crevice of his mind and possess it. the captain has shown him grace. the captain is everything. the will of the people, the vessel of spacenoids, liberation -
none of that is present here. he can't feel anything but the steady hammering of his heart, loud as if to surrender to the human in him that angelo keeps rejecting as the newtype that he is, and that is how he knows he is alone. the only orders he knows are these: to return to the mission, and to safeguard himself if that wasn't an immediate possibility.
so angelo lunges to kill. he looks absolutely manic as he does it. angelo kicks falco back, kneeing him to the side to make it difficult for him to move and be attracted to any other noise. he corners falco's escape by forcing him against the wall, where he kneels, aims, and fires. he will not stop until the mannequin quivers on the floor and croaks its words, in which case angelo will stomp on its head until it stops moving. it opens its wide mouth as if to laugh and angelo crushes its face again and again, fist against bone, blow by blow.
in the darkness: more of the dolls, attracted by the sound of violence. the smell of blood. angelo stares at falco in the aftermath; it's hard to catch his breath and he still feels like killing. he truly has a temper where his captain is concerned, imaginary or otherwise: it runs through his veins like lightning, a sweet siren song that tells him defend your captain they are sullying his memory his voice his face his legacy. all of his thoughts depend on one man. what difference does it make in the dark? if they insult him they have to pay. and angelo is well within his rights to mete out justice against all the injustices that are dealt against the red comet; he is his right hand man, his avenging angel, his sword and shield. he will tear the memory apart.
it's good that it's dark. he's covered in blood everywhere.
cw violence
angelo thinks of: a pure white sheet over the bed, impudently dirtied by human hands. he seethes as falco continues to defy reason. all humans are the same, angelo thinks in anger. selfish - impudent - stubborn to the end -
the doll climbs over the debris like a spider, treacherous and filthy as it leers before them and it shifts: to a voice he knows. to the echo of a the red comet. hilariously enough the uncanny features fit his face well considering full frontal is manufactured and forced into the mould of char aznable anyway, one of zeon's many sins. of course it is wrong. but it is more of an egregious sin here, when he here is, waiting to be saved again, wanting to see him again, how he adores him, and he is gone - ]
Lieutenant, I give you the following orders -
[ - his mind is loud.
angelo snarls. ]
Filth.
[ he's been in fights before. it's not the first time he has to kill to survive, and if not here, right now, in front of this boy who nearly gave up his life thinking it's his brother, then somehow, someday. but angelo knows it isn't his captain because he could not even silence the anger in his mind. the captain is perfect, angelo knows. the captain is beyond reproach. the captain is waiting to ascend, to become a god, king of the dispossesed. the captain is the picture of the void, the eternal emptiness that wraps around every crevice of his mind and possess it. the captain has shown him grace. the captain is everything. the will of the people, the vessel of spacenoids, liberation -
none of that is present here. he can't feel anything but the steady hammering of his heart, loud as if to surrender to the human in him that angelo keeps rejecting as the newtype that he is, and that is how he knows he is alone. the only orders he knows are these: to return to the mission, and to safeguard himself if that wasn't an immediate possibility.
so angelo lunges to kill. he looks absolutely manic as he does it. angelo kicks falco back, kneeing him to the side to make it difficult for him to move and be attracted to any other noise. he corners falco's escape by forcing him against the wall, where he kneels, aims, and fires. he will not stop until the mannequin quivers on the floor and croaks its words, in which case angelo will stomp on its head until it stops moving. it opens its wide mouth as if to laugh and angelo crushes its face again and again, fist against bone, blow by blow.
in the darkness: more of the dolls, attracted by the sound of violence. the smell of blood. angelo stares at falco in the aftermath; it's hard to catch his breath and he still feels like killing. he truly has a temper where his captain is concerned, imaginary or otherwise: it runs through his veins like lightning, a sweet siren song that tells him defend your captain they are sullying his memory his voice his face his legacy. all of his thoughts depend on one man. what difference does it make in the dark? if they insult him they have to pay. and angelo is well within his rights to mete out justice against all the injustices that are dealt against the red comet; he is his right hand man, his avenging angel, his sword and shield. he will tear the memory apart.
it's good that it's dark. he's covered in blood everywhere.
glory to the republic of neo zeon, indeed. ]