Ā Ā Ā When Tres came back online after the traumatic incident at Garibaldi's headquarters, all he saw was shrapnel. Not like it had been in the throes of battle; here at the Vatican, there are no bodies of decommissioned androids, no thick and sticky vital fluid on his hands. He had wandered he halls emptily, devoid of purpose, aimless and confused. He hadn't known how to choose a ripe pear from the garden; instead of thinking about how smooth it would be out with Cardinal Caterina or Father Nightroad later, he thought about how similar it was in weight to a grenade, how light it was compared to a gun.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā āĀ āĀ ā
Ā Ā Ā Under the Cardinal's orders, Father Nightroad is supposed to consider all options before using Crusnik. Apparently, without Tres's knowledge, Father Nightroad had done so. Tres hears it before he sees it, and turns his head just in time to see. Logically, he knows that the creature before him is Nightroad himself. Logically, he knows that Crusnik does not pose a threat to him in this environment, at this setting. And yet, as Tres watches the fangs lengthen, the fingernails sharpen, Tres finds himself-- unable to react the way he should.
Ā Ā Ā Ā [Ā ļ¼ļ¼ ļ¼“ļ¼”ļ¼²ļ¼§ļ¼„ļ¼“: ļ¼¬ļ¼Æļ¼£ļ¼«ļ¼„ļ¼¤ļ¼
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā ļ¼ļ¼ ļ¼“ļ¼Øļ¼²ļ¼„ļ¼”ļ¼“ ļ¼¬ļ¼„ļ¼¶ļ¼„ļ¼¬: ļ¼„ļ¼øļ¼“ļ¼²ļ¼„ļ¼ļ¼„ļ¼
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā ļ¼ļ¼ ļ¼©ļ¼®ļ¼©ļ¼“ļ¼©ļ¼”ļ¼“ļ¼©ļ¼®ļ¼§ ļ¼¢ļ¼”ļ¼“ļ¼“ļ¼¬ļ¼„ ļ¼ļ¼Æļ¼¤ļ¼„. ]Ā
Ā Ā Ā Entirely against his will (malfunction-- he will have to address that at a later point, recalibration may be necessary), his eyes widen, the whirr of his battle mode being engaged seems to overpower the rest of the noise in the area.
Ā Ā Ā He had been informed, of course. Abel Nightroad is not dangerous at a low capacity. And yet somehow, memory playbacks are flooding his system. Dark red vital fluid drenching the floor; his brother HC units in pieces surrounding him; Nightroad's blade halving him, the sharp noise of metallic slicing. The cut had been clean. The mess it had left had certainly not been.
Ā Ā Ā He is trapped in the playback. He cannot stop rewinding and playing it again. Again. Again. Considering his lack of adrenaline, Tres should not be feeling fight-or-flight syndrome. His gun is already out, his eye glaring bright red, Crusnik the target. Stay away from me, his posture is saying.
" -- If you come any closer, I will fire."
Ā Ā Ā Ā Voice pitch: low. Unintentional. He is trapped. He is trapped, and he is defensive, and he is remembering the carnage Crusnik had left behind, the destruction, and he is afraid. He should not be afraid, but he is afraid, and his eyes are wide, and his feet take a step-- back, away from the threat.
" -- Step away," he repeats. He is afraid. He is afraid. He is afraid.
kianamaiart
jbbartram-illu
andulkaphoto
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
stormborns
