their world is overthrown by hate, by hope crumbling to pieces all around them, and the people's foundations are shaking with all the broken promises that there could've ever been a better life than this. the dirt-water sloshes under their military-grade boots, and the smell of blood clots thick in the air, and nothing makes sense in those crowded instants where screams curdle the stagnant atmosphere, where triggers are pulled, and sion's barrier shines like the only bright thing in all this darkness.
sion tells him all the right words to say to the audience. shiro's a military man. he's been bred to follow orders. whatever grievances he might have with the company do not belong in this moment, with his blood running hot on adrenaline, a split-second decision charging every nerve-ending to action. he doesn't have the proper authority to order an immediate withdraw, but it doesn't matter, he could care less.
companymen and citizens alike have fallen in the mayhem. if it means he could prevent another unnecessary death, another goddamn bloodbath, a city burned down by bombs, then overstepping his bounds is worth it. ]
Under the authority of Director Sion Astal -
[ there's volume enough in his lungs to shout above the angry voices, and he's booming over the screech of the crowd, the people pushing through their lines and pounding their fists against sion's screen, the shields that their men are holding. his tone is steady, so loud it rips his throat to shreds, but -- sion is right, at least, that shiro's likable enough, that his speech doesn't earn the dismissal of his peers. or perhaps this faction has been looking for an excuse to withdraw from the very start. it's insane. ]
We're pulling back, right now. Men! Regroup at the Old Town checkpoint.
[ the rush is strange, the split-second pause of hesitation. there are black armored bodies already turning around at his order, driven by the authority in his voice, the credentials that come with the name, sion astal.
but he's reaching out for sion in the end. come on, he says -- and doesn't quite realize that his hand's grabbed for the nearest part of him, that his knuckles are grazing something sickeningly warm, grotesquely familiar, blood, his mind frantically puts two and two together.
. . .
what the fuck, it's not fucking red, or even blood orange, what the actual fuck - ]
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their world is overthrown by hate, by hope crumbling to pieces all around them, and the people's foundations are shaking with all the broken promises that there could've ever been a better life than this. the dirt-water sloshes under their military-grade boots, and the smell of blood clots thick in the air, and nothing makes sense in those crowded instants where screams curdle the stagnant atmosphere, where triggers are pulled, and sion's barrier shines like the only bright thing in all this darkness.
sion tells him all the right words to say to the audience. shiro's a military man. he's been bred to follow orders. whatever grievances he might have with the company do not belong in this moment, with his blood running hot on adrenaline, a split-second decision charging every nerve-ending to action. he doesn't have the proper authority to order an immediate withdraw, but it doesn't matter, he could care less.
companymen and citizens alike have fallen in the mayhem. if it means he could prevent another unnecessary death, another goddamn bloodbath, a city burned down by bombs, then overstepping his bounds is worth it. ]
Under the authority of Director Sion Astal -
[ there's volume enough in his lungs to shout above the angry voices, and he's booming over the screech of the crowd, the people pushing through their lines and pounding their fists against sion's screen, the shields that their men are holding. his tone is steady, so loud it rips his throat to shreds, but -- sion is right, at least, that shiro's likable enough, that his speech doesn't earn the dismissal of his peers. or perhaps this faction has been looking for an excuse to withdraw from the very start. it's insane. ]
We're pulling back, right now. Men! Regroup at the Old Town checkpoint.
[ the rush is strange, the split-second pause of hesitation. there are black armored bodies already turning around at his order, driven by the authority in his voice, the credentials that come with the name, sion astal.
but he's reaching out for sion in the end. come on, he says -- and doesn't quite realize that his hand's grabbed for the nearest part of him, that his knuckles are grazing something sickeningly warm, grotesquely familiar, blood, his mind frantically puts two and two together.
. . .
what the fuck, it's not fucking red, or even blood orange, what the actual fuck - ]