[ The impact shocks him into stillness, short-circuits the panic and leaves something empty in its wake. It's a bad impulse, a dangerous one. A last resort for when things get knotted so tight he forgets how to breathe. He only did it once around his family, after a bad jump, and the sergeant had grabbed him before he could try really tell if it had worked or not. Grabbed him and sat him down and even then, his head ringing, he'd known how badly she'd wanted to yell at him. Shake him, maybe. Dress him down like the rookie he was, just like she had when she'd been his jump instructor.
Instead, she'd put her hand on the back of his neck, right over his implant, and sat there with him for a long time. No words. She just sat there with him, waiting it out until they were both calm enough to look each other straight on. And then she'd told him not to do that again, not to her, and he hadn't. Not for years. She and Hunter had been the first real family he'd ever known, and there are days he thinks the loss will break him, or already has. If it weren't for the mission, if it weren't for the rage he cultivates like a beloved friend, there would be nothing left of him.
He expects Gene to be gone, or at least retreated out of striking distance like any sane person would, and startles at the touch. Goes for the knife before he remembers he set it aside. In case something like this happened.
There ought to be tension now, a heathy distance because he fucked up, he fucked up real bad and did the one thing he's been trying so desperately to avoid. He let someone into his head, he took the offered hand, he did that despite knowing what it would cost him, and other person saw him. Knows him, now, in ways that cannot be undone or explained away.
It's over. He'll always be a threat to these people now. It's just like with the mercs only worse because these people have no use for someone like him, and no reason to overlook what he is.
Except that Gene isn't yelling at him or calling him a psychopath. He's just there. Talking, but slowly, like it hurts.
Sharkface — Ephemera — takes a shuddering breath. It hurts. ]
My squad. My family.
[ They were a part of him, as essential as bone marrow, and now they're gone. And he's told people that, he's spelled out why he needs his mission to more than a few people because that had felt important, to say the words and make people understand what had been taken and why it was so essential he avenge them. His brothers, his sisters. The thing they'd built together, a family out of the war. Most of them had been alone in some fundamental way, even if they weren't all orphans like Ephemera was. But they were a family, and he'd had that and then they were taken from him. They died in pain. He's said all of that before, but never to someone who seemed like they were actually listening.
Silently, he pulls the hand wraps from his knuckles. Lets the rags drop. Black rings are tattooed around his fingers, one for each of the people he lost. He added one for Connie, too, though she hadn't been one of them. But she could have been, if things had been different. He'd liked her. Admired what she'd tried to do, even though it got his family torn to pieces. She'd been kind, despite everything. And he'd wanted to be kind like her, too. ]
They were torn to pieces.
[ It feels better to get angry about it, to cling to that shard of rage because that, at least, has direction. He can blame someone. He can hurt them for it, if only he can find them. It lessens the enormity of it, the way he'd loved them. Rage is direction, focus. A path forward. He needs that. He thinks he'd drown without it. ]
no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 12:40 am (UTC)Instead, she'd put her hand on the back of his neck, right over his implant, and sat there with him for a long time. No words. She just sat there with him, waiting it out until they were both calm enough to look each other straight on. And then she'd told him not to do that again, not to her, and he hadn't. Not for years. She and Hunter had been the first real family he'd ever known, and there are days he thinks the loss will break him, or already has. If it weren't for the mission, if it weren't for the rage he cultivates like a beloved friend, there would be nothing left of him.
He expects Gene to be gone, or at least retreated out of striking distance like any sane person would, and startles at the touch. Goes for the knife before he remembers he set it aside. In case something like this happened.
There ought to be tension now, a heathy distance because he fucked up, he fucked up real bad and did the one thing he's been trying so desperately to avoid. He let someone into his head, he took the offered hand, he did that despite knowing what it would cost him, and other person saw him. Knows him, now, in ways that cannot be undone or explained away.
It's over. He'll always be a threat to these people now. It's just like with the mercs only worse because these people have no use for someone like him, and no reason to overlook what he is.
Except that Gene isn't yelling at him or calling him a psychopath. He's just there. Talking, but slowly, like it hurts.
Sharkface — Ephemera — takes a shuddering breath. It hurts. ]
My squad. My family.
[ They were a part of him, as essential as bone marrow, and now they're gone. And he's told people that, he's spelled out why he needs his mission to more than a few people because that had felt important, to say the words and make people understand what had been taken and why it was so essential he avenge them. His brothers, his sisters. The thing they'd built together, a family out of the war. Most of them had been alone in some fundamental way, even if they weren't all orphans like Ephemera was. But they were a family, and he'd had that and then they were taken from him. They died in pain. He's said all of that before, but never to someone who seemed like they were actually listening.
Silently, he pulls the hand wraps from his knuckles. Lets the rags drop. Black rings are tattooed around his fingers, one for each of the people he lost. He added one for Connie, too, though she hadn't been one of them. But she could have been, if things had been different. He'd liked her. Admired what she'd tried to do, even though it got his family torn to pieces. She'd been kind, despite everything. And he'd wanted to be kind like her, too. ]
They were torn to pieces.
[ It feels better to get angry about it, to cling to that shard of rage because that, at least, has direction. He can blame someone. He can hurt them for it, if only he can find them. It lessens the enormity of it, the way he'd loved them. Rage is direction, focus. A path forward. He needs that. He thinks he'd drown without it. ]