( for a long, silent moment, he studies set. and then he breaks the tension all at once, dipping his head and sighing uproariously, as long-suffering as a tutor whose pupil entirely missed the point of the assignment. )
Let me tell you what I have learned about power, over my four chances at life.
( he looks back up to set, and his eyes are as pitiless as ice, as cutting as diamond, wild yet resolute. ) If it's not something you were not naturally blessed with, it is non-transferable. Not a single ounce of the wealth or prestige I worked tirelessly for in Hell did me any good, not here nor in the place I was in before. A place where I am told I was given significant power, ( at the cost of himself, his agency, everything he is, but he's not going to into that right now — )none of which followed me here.
( once again hurt, desperately furious at how unfair it all is, how much the weight of his wasted effort crushes down on his narrow shoulders, his mask slips. hatred seeps into his eyes; it's not necessarily personal. he hates set for exactly what he says he is, what he says he has, what he says he does. strength. utility. significance.
makoto has never had any of that, not in any way that lasted. not after all he's suffered, and how much he has sacrificed and given away.
he laughs, harsh and mocking and ever-so-slightly broken (if one knew how to detect the sound). )Power is a mirage that I'm done spending myself trying to reach. ( especially when it's a moving goalpost. he is, despite his relatively few years, so profoundly tired. ) And choice is the same damn thing.
( the momentary flare of his anger and his bitterness fades, leaving him once again inert and cold, something barren and remote hurtling through space. his words resemble the same, ) Try again. (or leave, thinking perhaps it had been a mistake to ask others to highlight their inequities, on top of how sick both Meridian and Zenith make him feel in his soul. )
(2/2)
Let me tell you what I have learned about power, over my four chances at life.
( he looks back up to set, and his eyes are as pitiless as ice, as cutting as diamond, wild yet resolute. ) If it's not something you were not naturally blessed with, it is non-transferable. Not a single ounce of the wealth or prestige I worked tirelessly for in Hell did me any good, not here nor in the place I was in before. A place where I am told I was given significant power, ( at the cost of himself, his agency, everything he is, but he's not going to into that right now — ) none of which followed me here.
( once again hurt, desperately furious at how unfair it all is, how much the weight of his wasted effort crushes down on his narrow shoulders, his mask slips. hatred seeps into his eyes; it's not necessarily personal. he hates set for exactly what he says he is, what he says he has, what he says he does. strength. utility. significance.
makoto has never had any of that, not in any way that lasted. not after all he's suffered, and how much he has sacrificed and given away.
he laughs, harsh and mocking and ever-so-slightly broken (if one knew how to detect the sound). ) Power is a mirage that I'm done spending myself trying to reach. ( especially when it's a moving goalpost. he is, despite his relatively few years, so profoundly tired. ) And choice is the same damn thing.
( the momentary flare of his anger and his bitterness fades, leaving him once again inert and cold, something barren and remote hurtling through space. his words resemble the same, ) Try again. ( or leave, thinking perhaps it had been a mistake to ask others to highlight their inequities, on top of how sick both Meridian and Zenith make him feel in his soul. )