[ Fenris's lip curls. He doesn't know what disgusts him more--the way Giovanni exults in violence, or the way Fenris himself cannot quite deny the same. He would not fight this way if he hadn't been made to do it, would he? A moot question. He had been made; he had been deliberately carved and taught and crafted. Giovanni was no different, and he was at least honest about it.
He catches a woman with a match and a broken bottle of alcohol; he knocks the bottle to the street, where it shatters into countless glittering shards. He kicks the woman in the stomach, and she crumples, but she's still cradling the match, still trying to light it all the same. ]
I don't do this because I like it.
[ He shoves the woman down, wrenches the match from her fingers, perhaps breaking a few in the process--if the sickly crunch of bone is any indication. He crushes the match between his fingers. ]
We were sent to mediate this madness. The people dictate the terms, and we must respond accordingly.
[ It's their own fault, in other words. He doesn't fully believe that, but he's sure it's what the Company would say. He stares up at Giovanni, thinking about the casual, even jovial way he attacks the Westerlyns. There is something more familiar in him than just his eagerness for battle. Something about the style. Something about the movement. Something about the collar.
Fenris shuts his eyes, and the woman keeps struggling. ]
no subject
He catches a woman with a match and a broken bottle of alcohol; he knocks the bottle to the street, where it shatters into countless glittering shards. He kicks the woman in the stomach, and she crumples, but she's still cradling the match, still trying to light it all the same. ]
I don't do this because I like it.
[ He shoves the woman down, wrenches the match from her fingers, perhaps breaking a few in the process--if the sickly crunch of bone is any indication. He crushes the match between his fingers. ]
We were sent to mediate this madness. The people dictate the terms, and we must respond accordingly.
[ It's their own fault, in other words. He doesn't fully believe that, but he's sure it's what the Company would say. He stares up at Giovanni, thinking about the casual, even jovial way he attacks the Westerlyns. There is something more familiar in him than just his eagerness for battle. Something about the style. Something about the movement. Something about the collar.
Fenris shuts his eyes, and the woman keeps struggling. ]