Pheres looks like you've hit him, his eyes big and wounded, and the kid behind him looks ready to bawl. You feel like when they were bumping horns: like they're living in some crazy-ass world that you can't see or hear, and you're just stuck dealing.
(You might as well have hatched indigo, for all the sense these two are making.)
"What the fuck is your problem?" you demand, and you let go of the horn, because it's starting to feel weird, just standing here and holding it like that. You clamp a hand on his shoulder, instead, grip firm so he doesn't take off. If you have to keep an arm on him in front of the drones to keep him from doing something stupid, well -
Myrrha is going to owe you so fucking bad.
Pheres is looking at you like you've signed and stamped his own Imperial death notice, like you've done him some great wrong and he can't even muster up the energy to be distraught over it. Plenty of kids in the cullpits have looked at you like that, right before your hammer cracks them in the back of the pan, but coming from Pheres, it's unsettling as fuck.
"The hell do you two have against drones? They're not out here for population control." You're losing the thread of your anger: it's still there, boiling away like an unwatched pot, but it's hard to keep hold of it when there's bile rising at the back of your throat. (It's all these fuckers freaking out that's getting to you - the air's so thick with fear, you might as well be hearing chucklevoodoos.) It's a fucking health-check."
no subject
(You might as well have hatched indigo, for all the sense these two are making.)
"What the fuck is your problem?" you demand, and you let go of the horn, because it's starting to feel weird, just standing here and holding it like that. You clamp a hand on his shoulder, instead, grip firm so he doesn't take off. If you have to keep an arm on him in front of the drones to keep him from doing something stupid, well -
Myrrha is going to owe you so fucking bad.
Pheres is looking at you like you've signed and stamped his own Imperial death notice, like you've done him some great wrong and he can't even muster up the energy to be distraught over it. Plenty of kids in the cullpits have looked at you like that, right before your hammer cracks them in the back of the pan, but coming from Pheres, it's unsettling as fuck.
"The hell do you two have against drones? They're not out here for population control." You're losing the thread of your anger: it's still there, boiling away like an unwatched pot, but it's hard to keep hold of it when there's bile rising at the back of your throat. (It's all these fuckers freaking out that's getting to you - the air's so thick with fear, you might as well be hearing chucklevoodoos.) It's a fucking health-check."