[ She says it like she truly hadn't considered, but Silco certainly doesn't believe that. Tezcatlipoca had said something about how there was nothing going on in the mind of his brother, but Silco... didn't think that was true. Couldn't. She'd stepped on too many of those carefully buried landmines Silco had buried in the sand between his mind and others, and Quetzalcoatl dropkicked onto every single one, like each was a target. She may not be smart, but she knew things, and she had used them to create an enemy of him. If she hadn't meant to, then it was too late, because Silco would kill her. He would crush her shard, and he would destroy her, rip her into pieces limb from limb from β
That violence, the intent is clear, in communion. Silco has no filter, no pretense, no body or action or ways to hide it. He is only thought and intention β and barely those. He is a soul laid bare to the world, a sharp, violent little thing. His shard is like a blade, really, a poisoned little stiletto that would cut the one who tried to wield it as they stabbed someone else.
Silco cut both ways, after all. Destroying what he tried to protect. ]
You have allies who tried to put you back in the ground as soon as they could, didn't they?
[ Sarcasm again, intention, in words Quetz could translate, but truly it was more the sensation of someone watching alone, as others worked together, to uplift one another. The sensation of being left behind, coupled with anger, determination, and that cold bite of revenge. ]
Souls do not need to sleep.
[ The sensation of being alone for long stretches of time, now. Silco has had nothing but rage and himself, plans, and thoughts. He wondered if anyone in Zenith had even bothered to notice. He spent most of his time in Kowloon, sure, but even his supposed allies were more interested in trying to kill him, than they were on their mission. (This is clearly not Silco's fault.)
The shard feels. Aware. Like it's just watching the void, knowing that there was a fact that had never changed, would never change. The story was the same, and it had never changed. It was always the same. There had only been one time that it wasn't, and that would always be taken from him.
As always, he understood that he was left behind. ]
just as planned... π
That violence, the intent is clear, in communion. Silco has no filter, no pretense, no body or action or ways to hide it. He is only thought and intention β and barely those. He is a soul laid bare to the world, a sharp, violent little thing. His shard is like a blade, really, a poisoned little stiletto that would cut the one who tried to wield it as they stabbed someone else.
Silco cut both ways, after all. Destroying what he tried to protect. ]
You have allies who tried to put you back in the ground as soon as they could, didn't they?
[ Sarcasm again, intention, in words Quetz could translate, but truly it was more the sensation of someone watching alone, as others worked together, to uplift one another. The sensation of being left behind, coupled with anger, determination, and that cold bite of revenge. ]
Souls do not need to sleep.
[ The sensation of being alone for long stretches of time, now. Silco has had nothing but rage and himself, plans, and thoughts. He wondered if anyone in Zenith had even bothered to notice. He spent most of his time in Kowloon, sure, but even his supposed allies were more interested in trying to kill him, than they were on their mission. (This is clearly not Silco's fault.)
The shard feels. Aware. Like it's just watching the void, knowing that there was a fact that had never changed, would never change. The story was the same, and it had never changed. It was always the same. There had only been one time that it wasn't, and that would always be taken from him.
As always, he understood that he was left behind. ]