[ How was it, that Silco so often found himself in these positions?
Lack of control, perhaps, lack of loyal types. Without Zaun as a motivator, Silco didn't have people who saw him as their one way out, the only way they could live a life without their fingers digging through garbage and breathing poisoned air. Silco, and by extension shimmer, were the only thing they had in Zaun, or at least that anyone under the chembarons had. Even they had needs -- Renni's son had been working in the shimmer factories, after all -- but without that, Shimmer is... uncontrolled.
With Zenites, it's a touch better, they find themselves on the same side in a battle, but their motivations are all... messy. Complicated. Silco's own fury at an existence that he hates, that he wants to see ended is certainly a motivator, but at the end of the day, are they truly even trustworthy? Silco didn't trust anyone, but at least he could bank on Zaunites being desperate enough to want to pull themselves from the muck.
He'd been hoping to instill chaos, but he had not considered that the chaos might aim towards him. He'd been backing off, trying to slip deeper into the cavern that bore the scorch marks and chaos that he could look at fondly, a reminder, but --
He found himself slammed to the ground, and the wind rushed out of him. He gasped, an automatic reaction, trying to get as much as possible, but then he felt a fist to his face, and his fingers trembled, before he pulled free another knife with his other hand, he'd thought to aim it at the man's neck when he felt it -- His breath went frantic -- what little he could take in and his eyes went wide -- near feral. This wasn't the first, or even the second time he'd been choked, of course -- something about Silco just inspired choking -- but His fingers dropped the knife he'd held, and he started to scrape his hands, ineffectively, against the fingers on his neck --
It wasn't cold, or wet, but in Silco's mind, it was. Fingers on his neck, his other hand slipped -- the one that dropped the knife -- and he started feeling for it, his wide-eyed stare looked Ocelot in the eye, and even if the man couldn't comprehend it with that pollution-toxic zing of Shimmer in him, Silco could only look at him with fury. ]
aaah gosh sorry for the slowness!!
Lack of control, perhaps, lack of loyal types. Without Zaun as a motivator, Silco didn't have people who saw him as their one way out, the only way they could live a life without their fingers digging through garbage and breathing poisoned air. Silco, and by extension shimmer, were the only thing they had in Zaun, or at least that anyone under the chembarons had. Even they had needs -- Renni's son had been working in the shimmer factories, after all -- but without that, Shimmer is... uncontrolled.
With Zenites, it's a touch better, they find themselves on the same side in a battle, but their motivations are all... messy. Complicated. Silco's own fury at an existence that he hates, that he wants to see ended is certainly a motivator, but at the end of the day, are they truly even trustworthy? Silco didn't trust anyone, but at least he could bank on Zaunites being desperate enough to want to pull themselves from the muck.
He'd been hoping to instill chaos, but he had not considered that the chaos might aim towards him. He'd been backing off, trying to slip deeper into the cavern that bore the scorch marks and chaos that he could look at fondly, a reminder, but --
He found himself slammed to the ground, and the wind rushed out of him. He gasped, an automatic reaction, trying to get as much as possible, but then he felt a fist to his face, and his fingers trembled, before he pulled free another knife with his other hand, he'd thought to aim it at the man's neck when he felt it -- His breath went frantic -- what little he could take in and his eyes went wide -- near feral. This wasn't the first, or even the second time he'd been choked, of course -- something about Silco just inspired choking -- but His fingers dropped the knife he'd held, and he started to scrape his hands, ineffectively, against the fingers on his neck --
It wasn't cold, or wet, but in Silco's mind, it was. Fingers on his neck, his other hand slipped -- the one that dropped the knife -- and he started feeling for it, his wide-eyed stare looked Ocelot in the eye, and even if the man couldn't comprehend it with that pollution-toxic zing of Shimmer in him, Silco could only look at him with fury. ]