[ smoke still rises clean off the rifle’s nozzle, the shell of the bullet used thumping into the dirt below. he knew the dropping relief he felt when scanning over a lack of harm done to the body, to cassandra no less. the boy’s hands still grip the weapon, turn the tip away, but it’s shivering. his lips have pulled down and the rifle’s body held securely close to his chest, sideways— he wouldn’t shoot it again.
falco’s lips part open but nothing verbal comes of it. not yet. there’s something else that bubbles from inside of him, like boiling water. he remembers how upsetting it was to be forgotten. he had understanding of how that worked since the beginning, it was never a problem. now— it felt like it was.
there’re so many things wrong with this, causing the boy’s apparent discord; what else did it feel like? right. that he was right.
which voice does he listen to—? ]
Miss . . . [ he swallows tight, and his voice thins into a ripe crack. ] C-Cassandra.
[ he should check on her. he should apologize to her. he should let the gun go, now, like he’s done with others not so lucky.
falco does none of these things. the silence is irritable, to have not gotten a single crack of blood or panic. its frustration trickles into its host, something he feels aware of but doesn’t seem to have the upper hand to discard. he only feels something that feels like his, right then and there, even if he couldn’t pinpoint why. ]
no subject
falco’s lips part open but nothing verbal comes of it. not yet. there’s something else that bubbles from inside of him, like boiling water. he remembers how upsetting it was to be forgotten. he had understanding of how that worked since the beginning, it was never a problem. now— it felt like it was.
there’re so many things wrong with this, causing the boy’s apparent discord; what else did it feel like? right. that he was right.
which voice does he listen to—? ]
Miss . . . [ he swallows tight, and his voice thins into a ripe crack. ] C-Cassandra.
[ he should check on her. he should apologize to her. he should let the gun go, now, like he’s done with others not so lucky.
falco does none of these things. the silence is irritable, to have not gotten a single crack of blood or panic. its frustration trickles into its host, something he feels aware of but doesn’t seem to have the upper hand to discard. he only feels something that feels like his, right then and there, even if he couldn’t pinpoint why. ]