[Nero's hands go up in surrender at the snap. Okay, he wouldn't call Wanda sunny in the best circumstances, but she's not really gone around biting his head off much, either. So. Not great. Got it.] Okay, okay. Sor --
[As if the power of a half-hearted apology can hurt, Himeka grabs her head. It's a nearly too-quick succession of instances:
Himeka drops the bread (he catches it, tossing it so it balances on the side of Agatha's pen.)
Both women grab each other, falling to the ground. Nero manages to catch one and then the other, scruffed like kittens, so he can lower them gently onto the hay with a:] What the hell?
[The back of his hand goes to Wanda's forehead, then Himeka's, the same way he's seen Kyrie with the kids. They're warm, but not fevered. Hearts still beating, though there was a hell of a spike there, huh? Something in the air? But he can't smell anything. She'd mentioned the Horizon, but --
Well, fuck, he barely knows much about it. Memories?] Hey, come on. Wake up. [He gently wiggles Himeka's shoulder. Breathing. That's. That's a good sign, right?] Hey, you gotta wake up. Hear me? The bread's getting cold.
[There's only a small edge of worry. But the longer the seconds go on, the more he gets they're not waking up, the harder his eyes go, the sharper his moving their shoulders.
Nero turns, and at the garage door stands a figure. "You, uh, need something? What is it, you hungry?"
Not a big deal to offer. Kyrie always makes way too much, and he says as much -- though it's worth warning any kind of company about the force of nature that is Nico. She really needs to come with a warning.
The figure steps in, stumbling into Nero's garage. A man, by the height. And though Nero can't see his face, he can feel the stare. He shifts, uncomfortable, an old instinct in him moving his right arm behind him, just out of view. "You see something you like?"
And then a pulse, like that static feeling of a limb going numb, moving like a wave through his arm. The static turning to popping, then a burst of heat. Lines of blue light up through the devil bringer, his right arm, demonically twisted with scales, his fingers ending in claws. He stares at it, heart going cold. T"What the hell?" And then his head shoots up, body going tight, defensive. That reaction only means one thing. But why here? And what the hell does he want? "You a demon?"
Kyrie's voice. White-hot panic pierces through the memory like a bolt of lightning. The next few seconds are even too fast for Nero to keep up with: he screams for Kyrie to go back inside -- then he's flying -- crashing into tools and paint cans. It's not hitting the wall that hurts. He fucking knows that. That's nothing. But the pain is so much that, for a blinding moment, he feels nothing at all.
Then he hears, feels, sees the blood splatter. Spurting out of where his arm was, splashing the wall. Staining the floor. Ripped off of him like wet paper. Hot knife through butter. There's so much fucking blood, filling his nostrils, coating his skin. But the pain. It's everywhere and focused all at once, stealing his breath. His thoughts. It even gets in his eyes, where his vision blurs, and he collapses. He doesn't even remember saying it, watching space ripping open as easily as his arm did. "Wait. Wait!"]
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[As if the power of a half-hearted apology can hurt, Himeka grabs her head. It's a nearly too-quick succession of instances:
Himeka drops the bread (he catches it, tossing it so it balances on the side of Agatha's pen.)
Both women grab each other, falling to the ground. Nero manages to catch one and then the other, scruffed like kittens, so he can lower them gently onto the hay with a:] What the hell?
[The back of his hand goes to Wanda's forehead, then Himeka's, the same way he's seen Kyrie with the kids. They're warm, but not fevered. Hearts still beating, though there was a hell of a spike there, huh? Something in the air? But he can't smell anything. She'd mentioned the Horizon, but --
Well, fuck, he barely knows much about it. Memories?] Hey, come on. Wake up. [He gently wiggles Himeka's shoulder. Breathing. That's. That's a good sign, right?] Hey, you gotta wake up. Hear me? The bread's getting cold.
[There's only a small edge of worry. But the longer the seconds go on, the more he gets they're not waking up, the harder his eyes go, the sharper his moving their shoulders.
A shadow falls over the sunlight peeking in the garage, which, thanks to Nico, has started getting stained with the scent of cigarettes. Since it's outside, he's agreed to not bitch about it. For now.
Nero turns, and at the garage door stands a figure. "You, uh, need something? What is it, you hungry?"
Not a big deal to offer. Kyrie always makes way too much, and he says as much -- though it's worth warning any kind of company about the force of nature that is Nico. She really needs to come with a warning.
The figure steps in, stumbling into Nero's garage. A man, by the height. And though Nero can't see his face, he can feel the stare. He shifts, uncomfortable, an old instinct in him moving his right arm behind him, just out of view. "You see something you like?"
And then a pulse, like that static feeling of a limb going numb, moving like a wave through his arm. The static turning to popping, then a burst of heat. Lines of blue light up through the devil bringer, his right arm, demonically twisted with scales, his fingers ending in claws. He stares at it, heart going cold. T"What the hell?" And then his head shoots up, body going tight, defensive. That reaction only means one thing. But why here? And what the hell does he want? "You a demon?"
Kyrie's voice. White-hot panic pierces through the memory like a bolt of lightning. The next few seconds are even too fast for Nero to keep up with: he screams for Kyrie to go back inside -- then he's flying -- crashing into tools and paint cans. It's not hitting the wall that hurts. He fucking knows that. That's nothing. But the pain is so much that, for a blinding moment, he feels nothing at all.
Then he hears, feels, sees the blood splatter. Spurting out of where his arm was, splashing the wall. Staining the floor. Ripped off of him like wet paper. Hot knife through butter. There's so much fucking blood, filling his nostrils, coating his skin. But the pain. It's everywhere and focused all at once, stealing his breath. His thoughts. It even gets in his eyes, where his vision blurs, and he collapses. He doesn't even remember saying it, watching space ripping open as easily as his arm did. "Wait. Wait!"]