"Huh? Your uncle?" Arthur's off, but if he's hallucinating the voice of his uncle, it's not like Nero would be sharing it. Unless this place is -- what? Drugged? Gas, or something? He sniffs. He doesn't smell anything. Doesn't feel weird, either. He's not even sure if that kind of shit would affected him anymore.
Nero draws his sword, the tip scraping the ground.
"I dunno what the hell you're talking about, but he needs to learn to keep his trap shut."
He can't say what it is. Something about the voice feels off. Even worse -- what it's saying. It's not just weird, but it's. Unnerving. When people start saying weird shit and throw in a "other people are a threat," it never turns out.
Nero peers around them, but he can't see anyone nearby. But above -- what? A bunch of birds? His gaze narrows, grip tightening on the sword.
"I'm taking this back." The voice is deep, wet -- full of blood dripping from a dying mouth. Even now, it makes Nero's body go cold, his hackles raising. A snarl comes to his lip, and then he sees it -- the bird's beak moving as it screams.
His scream. The one that rang in his ears for days. Right after his arm got ripped off.
His knuckles on the sword go white. "Fuck off!" The moment he shouts it, he launches the sword like a spear -- pinning straight through the bird that was screaming. It cuts off, abrupt, and he expects some wet, satisfying crunch from the impact... but there's nothing. Just the sword burying into rock, and a wisp of smoke where the bird was. The others caw and swarm together, wings beating the air. "Go home, Nero!" they cry together, with others answering, "You don't get it! He's your father!"
They're picking out of his brain. Like it's open goddamn season.
If Arthur looks back, Nero's usually blue eyes are gone -- the whole eye now gold, glowing, as the air around him starts to waver from the heat blowing off his skin. As he's staring up at the birds with murder in his eyes, his hand starts to catch on fire.
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Nero draws his sword, the tip scraping the ground.
"I dunno what the hell you're talking about, but he needs to learn to keep his trap shut."
He can't say what it is. Something about the voice feels off. Even worse -- what it's saying. It's not just weird, but it's. Unnerving. When people start saying weird shit and throw in a "other people are a threat," it never turns out.
Nero peers around them, but he can't see anyone nearby. But above -- what? A bunch of birds? His gaze narrows, grip tightening on the sword.
"I'm taking this back." The voice is deep, wet -- full of blood dripping from a dying mouth. Even now, it makes Nero's body go cold, his hackles raising. A snarl comes to his lip, and then he sees it -- the bird's beak moving as it screams.
His scream. The one that rang in his ears for days. Right after his arm got ripped off.
His knuckles on the sword go white. "Fuck off!" The moment he shouts it, he launches the sword like a spear -- pinning straight through the bird that was screaming. It cuts off, abrupt, and he expects some wet, satisfying crunch from the impact... but there's nothing. Just the sword burying into rock, and a wisp of smoke where the bird was. The others caw and swarm together, wings beating the air. "Go home, Nero!" they cry together, with others answering, "You don't get it! He's your father!"
They're picking out of his brain. Like it's open goddamn season.
If Arthur looks back, Nero's usually blue eyes are gone -- the whole eye now gold, glowing, as the air around him starts to waver from the heat blowing off his skin. As he's staring up at the birds with murder in his eyes, his hand starts to catch on fire.