[It's impossible to miss the sound of that blast; wide and shifting though it might be, this is an enclosed chamber, and Carmen's spending roughly as much time staying out of the way of friendly fire here as she is at avoiding the enemies themselves. By and large, she's been doing all right with it, given the general weirdness of people all around her drawing swords out of thin air and turning into giant robots and throwing all manner of elemental energy at the massive shadow monster in their midst. But there's something about an explosion that draws her attention like a signal — some innate reflex that demands she pay attention to this sound, this threat.
She's mid-swing on her grappling hook when she starts to look around for the originator of that blast, and it doesn't take her long to pick out Nietzsche on the Escher ledge, hands aloft and head back and laughing.
The words that come to mind are ones she would never be able to repeat aloud on children's educational television.
Her first priority, of course, is to get the blazes out of his way; that's just sheer common sense, and if he's going to be blasting, she wants to be well outside the reach of it. But as she alights on a platform of her own and stands there (oddly, sideways on the wall, feeling a bit like a fly with the way she can perch there with such ease) watching him, she finds herself pausing — not moving to stop him, not yet. Just watching.
If this is his alchemy, what he's doing here, like this...
It catches in her throat that there's something beautiful in it. Something savage, cruel, and beautiful.
And it's important, somehow, that she watch. That she understand. She may never get the chance to see him like this again — lit up with blue energy in his hands and fire in his eyes.
A sensible person would run from a man like this. But she can't; she's got to get up there, stop him, something. Whether that's for his sake or everyone else's, she doesn't know.
Her monsters have all been creatures of fire, and this is another. But this time, she's drawn in, just as she somehow unconsciously knew she'd be — again, as always, a moth to the flame.]
no subject
She's mid-swing on her grappling hook when she starts to look around for the originator of that blast, and it doesn't take her long to pick out Nietzsche on the Escher ledge, hands aloft and head back and laughing.
The words that come to mind are ones she would never be able to repeat aloud on children's educational television.
Her first priority, of course, is to get the blazes out of his way; that's just sheer common sense, and if he's going to be blasting, she wants to be well outside the reach of it. But as she alights on a platform of her own and stands there (oddly, sideways on the wall, feeling a bit like a fly with the way she can perch there with such ease) watching him, she finds herself pausing — not moving to stop him, not yet. Just watching.
If this is his alchemy, what he's doing here, like this...
It catches in her throat that there's something beautiful in it. Something savage, cruel, and beautiful.
And it's important, somehow, that she watch. That she understand. She may never get the chance to see him like this again — lit up with blue energy in his hands and fire in his eyes.
Считаете ли вы, живы, Nietzsche?
A sensible person would run from a man like this. But she can't; she's got to get up there, stop him, something. Whether that's for his sake or everyone else's, she doesn't know.
Her monsters have all been creatures of fire, and this is another. But this time, she's drawn in, just as she somehow unconsciously knew she'd be — again, as always, a moth to the flame.]