He knew that benign smile- that indulgent, hovering asana. He'd seen them in his dreams, ever since he was a child, though never so clearly as this.
Ever since the first man he'd killed, at the tender age of nine.
It didn't occur to him to wonder where the voice had come from, or whether it had been there all along, right beside he and the Fury, subsonic to the cacophony of their petty altercation.
It was a voice of quiet reasoning and resonance, and it didn't seem outlandish that it might be drowned altogether in the clash of egotism and insanity. Neither he nor the Fury were particularly inclined toward hearing the voice of reason, regardless of its metaphysical affiliation.
This man looked like a self-effacing type. The Glasses of Passivism, the pallid hair of mildly receding blond. The vest, for fuck's sake.
Man. This wasn't a man.
Men didn't float with their legs dangling like crane flies.
Until now, the image of the man had coalesced only slightly, out of focus like a blurred daguerrotype, like an impatient Victorian couldn't sit still long enough for the exposure to take. Enough for him to see, but still amorphous, diaphanous. Overexposed, and doubled down.
Open your eyes, and see.
Suddenly, it was as if someone had indulgently reached across him and adjusted the tracking on a channel full of snow, then kicked up the tint for good measure.
Ocelot's eyes bloomed open, blue like the sky above the taiga, unconsciously mirroring the apparition's, though he was unaware of the fact.
no subject
He knew that benign smile- that indulgent, hovering asana. He'd seen them in his dreams, ever since he was a child, though never so clearly as this.
Ever since the first man he'd killed, at the tender age of nine.
It didn't occur to him to wonder where the voice had come from, or whether it had been there all along, right beside he and the Fury, subsonic to the cacophony of their petty altercation.
It was a voice of quiet reasoning and resonance, and it didn't seem outlandish that it might be drowned altogether in the clash of egotism and insanity. Neither he nor the Fury were particularly inclined toward hearing the voice of reason, regardless of its metaphysical affiliation.
This man looked like a self-effacing type. The Glasses of Passivism, the pallid hair of mildly receding blond. The vest, for fuck's sake.
Man. This wasn't a man.
Men didn't float with their legs dangling like crane flies.
Until now, the image of the man had coalesced only slightly, out of focus like a blurred daguerrotype, like an impatient Victorian couldn't sit still long enough for the exposure to take. Enough for him to see, but still amorphous, diaphanous. Overexposed, and doubled down.
Open your eyes, and see.
Suddenly, it was as if someone had indulgently reached across him and adjusted the tracking on a channel full of snow, then kicked up the tint for good measure.
Ocelot's eyes bloomed open, blue like the sky above the taiga, unconsciously mirroring the apparition's, though he was unaware of the fact.
"I see you," he declared.