He absorbs Set's barb, because sticks and stones and he already knew. Amos is someone who grew up broken beyond repair, stunted and incapable of more. He will never blossom flowers like some of their counterparts down here have begun to; his fate is only to exist as a callused outer shell, layered over and over to protect the very meagre insides he has, the barely-there semblance of the person that he is.
The person who right now hates, and wants to dominate, and feels so much more alive than he has since this all started. Nevermind the bullshit Meridian was trying to poison him with, nevermind the Zenith he was able to absorb back into his system; this is him, and amidst that anger and hate there is the spark of life. Set's shock isn't enough to drown it out, his cold isn't enough to dampen it — because sometimes, when you've lived through something, you can build a tolerance.
It's a familiar blip of a feeling, and Amos chooses anger and hatred and life instead.
For all he can do with it, because now he has one busted shoulder on the ground and one hand suddenly forced to let go as Set digs into his flesh, blood-sap welling up as he loses his hold on him, Set's hair no longer attached to anything useful. Amos' face scrunches at the realization, teeth bared. ]
Tell me something I don't know.
[ It's a sarcastic thought biting across communion, impulsive and pithy, and then he jerks his upper half up with as much force as he can to try to headbutt Set. ]
no subject
He absorbs Set's barb, because sticks and stones and he already knew. Amos is someone who grew up broken beyond repair, stunted and incapable of more. He will never blossom flowers like some of their counterparts down here have begun to; his fate is only to exist as a callused outer shell, layered over and over to protect the very meagre insides he has, the barely-there semblance of the person that he is.
The person who right now hates, and wants to dominate, and feels so much more alive than he has since this all started. Nevermind the bullshit Meridian was trying to poison him with, nevermind the Zenith he was able to absorb back into his system; this is him, and amidst that anger and hate there is the spark of life. Set's shock isn't enough to drown it out, his cold isn't enough to dampen it — because sometimes, when you've lived through something, you can build a tolerance.
It's a familiar blip of a feeling, and Amos chooses anger and hatred and life instead.
For all he can do with it, because now he has one busted shoulder on the ground and one hand suddenly forced to let go as Set digs into his flesh, blood-sap welling up as he loses his hold on him, Set's hair no longer attached to anything useful. Amos' face scrunches at the realization, teeth bared. ]
Tell me something I don't know.
[ It's a sarcastic thought biting across communion, impulsive and pithy, and then he jerks his upper half up with as much force as he can to try to headbutt Set. ]