[He meets all Sephiroth's intensity, and doesn't blink; his mouth has twisted, and his hands have gone into fists, inside their black gloves. A boy, for sure; the scraped-out shell of the pretty killer he was, definitely. But he chose death, in the end, rather than give his puppet strings to another keeper—no matter how tempting. And then he woke here, with the strings still wired into his wrists and feet. And those new keepers?
They could be anywhere. Anyone. They could intend anything; they could mean to make him do anything. Again.
His stare has turned very cold; the feigned life has drained from his face, to leave only emptiness facing Sephiroth. That tiny chink in the armour is already more than he was ever able to land on his father's impenetrable ego, and without a single shot. Shido's eyes, yes, and Shido's voice, albeit with a bit more hair than Shido had been able to produce—but not as oblivious, and not nearly as stupid....]
That's quite some optimism you have. If you bite so hard, why not just leave?
[Emptiness, for sure. And, rather than delusion, a certainty behind the shards of glass: I decide what I'll do, from now on to the end.]
no subject
They could be anywhere. Anyone. They could intend anything; they could mean to make him do anything. Again.
His stare has turned very cold; the feigned life has drained from his face, to leave only emptiness facing Sephiroth. That tiny chink in the armour is already more than he was ever able to land on his father's impenetrable ego, and without a single shot. Shido's eyes, yes, and Shido's voice, albeit with a bit more hair than Shido had been able to produce—but not as oblivious, and not nearly as stupid....]
That's quite some optimism you have. If you bite so hard, why not just leave?
[Emptiness, for sure. And, rather than delusion, a certainty behind the shards of glass: I decide what I'll do, from now on to the end.]