She lets her hand slide along Archangel's shoulder as her turns, up to cup his face. They're at work, sure, but these small fry don't matter. Not compared to way he'd pounced, the rage in his voice, and she knew too the need to see that she was alright. Nobody threatened either of they two without arousing the other to battle, everybody knew that.
Or, if they didn't, they soon learned.
"Easy," she says, gentle soothing, but also an acknowledgement. Looking down, at their feet, is a whimpering mess. Shepard bends down and holds out her hand— he flinches back.
"Do you want to do this the easy way or Archangel's way. Because if you're going to be a coward, I'll let him kill you. I doubt he's forgiven you, just yet."
Trembling, eyes bloodshot and wild, tears streaming down his face, the man sent a trembling plea upwards— to no avail. Still shaking, he put out his hand, still charred black, offering it—
"The other one."
Raise your hand, whether to harm a god or to take their power, and what do you get for it? Justice says an eye for an eye, a hand for a hand. He offers his good hand now, shaking, and then choked on the scream as she took it. Shepard has always had a firm handshake, but now her touch maims with fire, smoke and char until he'll never hold a weapon again. He falls back, unconscious, before Shepard lets go. Then she stands, puts that same hand on Archangel's shoulder, simple touch, as much to reassure herself as anyone else.
"I want that mark outside gone before sunrise," She says. Their audience is a room of silent eyes, stiff and still and tense, cornered prey. Forget morning, they'll have it done before sundown. And then, Shepard steps forward, puts her hand onto the desk, and presses down. The wood steams up, paint curling, and the Secretary utters an unwilling squeak of fear...
...But the mark her hand leaves behind is indelible, glowing still even as she steps away. She might disapprove of the underling, but his loyalty had been honestly earned. She turns back, to face Archangel, and cocks her head as if to say; we done here?
no subject
Or, if they didn't, they soon learned.
"Easy," she says, gentle soothing, but also an acknowledgement. Looking down, at their feet, is a whimpering mess. Shepard bends down and holds out her hand— he flinches back.
"Do you want to do this the easy way or Archangel's way. Because if you're going to be a coward, I'll let him kill you. I doubt he's forgiven you, just yet."
Trembling, eyes bloodshot and wild, tears streaming down his face, the man sent a trembling plea upwards— to no avail. Still shaking, he put out his hand, still charred black, offering it—
"The other one."
Raise your hand, whether to harm a god or to take their power, and what do you get for it? Justice says an eye for an eye, a hand for a hand. He offers his good hand now, shaking, and then choked on the scream as she took it. Shepard has always had a firm handshake, but now her touch maims with fire, smoke and char until he'll never hold a weapon again. He falls back, unconscious, before Shepard lets go. Then she stands, puts that same hand on Archangel's shoulder, simple touch, as much to reassure herself as anyone else.
"I want that mark outside gone before sunrise," She says. Their audience is a room of silent eyes, stiff and still and tense, cornered prey. Forget morning, they'll have it done before sundown. And then, Shepard steps forward, puts her hand onto the desk, and presses down. The wood steams up, paint curling, and the Secretary utters an unwilling squeak of fear...
...But the mark her hand leaves behind is indelible, glowing still even as she steps away. She might disapprove of the underling, but his loyalty had been honestly earned. She turns back, to face Archangel, and cocks her head as if to say; we done here?