[ His actions in subduing Silco aren't rooted in emotion. Does he gain pleasure from hurting the man? Of course, but pain and pleasure have been enmeshed in his mind for decades. Is he angry? Of course. It's satisfying, but his motive is far simpler: give into the increased sense of self-preservation that the poisoned air is engendering within him, harmlessly incapacitate a threat, and then ensure Voryn has done his job.
It's the last of these that distracts him from Silco for those key moments, watching Voryn's movements that are distinct from the mania of death throes that he knows so well. Hysterical and delusional, predictable enough when it's this thick in the atmosphere around them without any direct communion with the source. ]
Hey, we need you to pull it together! Can you hear me?
[ But now Silco is speaking again, poison into his ear, and he's barely turned his head back before his thoughts are starting to swirl, indistinct, and flatten into a long line that pierces the front of his skull. That touch on his wrist is like fire and it sears its way into his brain, fingers loosing their grip by no will of their own as he stumbles back and shakily sinks to a knee to balance himself out.
His breaths are ragged but again he can't hear them, instead only picking up a scrap of a lovingly hated word: "control". He doesn't have control; he is a child in a cold facility, raised by Russian tapes and in code words. He does have control; he is an adult with his hand on the switch, ready to up the voltage being forced into another man's body under the guise of getting him to talk, but really, truly, he just likes it. His ears are full of the whirring of helicopter blades as they slice through air and now he is motivated by emotion. He wants to slice. He wants to torture, he wants to hurt others, and that steel will that was holding him back has now been dealt a critical blow.
And perhaps that was a terrible mistake.
He doesn't need increased strength or speed to suddenly lunge himself at Silco, his true, uncontrolled nature being one that demands he strike at him. An arm snaps like steel around his middle as he throws them both to the ground, so close now to Voryn, and he's barely crawled overtop him before another violent swing is causing his fist to collide with that makeup-smeared, corroded face. Another hit follows when he grunts, hands soon closing tight around his throat to squeeze. ]
this is a disaster, please let me know if this is okay and I'll edit if not!
It's the last of these that distracts him from Silco for those key moments, watching Voryn's movements that are distinct from the mania of death throes that he knows so well. Hysterical and delusional, predictable enough when it's this thick in the atmosphere around them without any direct communion with the source. ]
Hey, we need you to pull it together! Can you hear me?
[ But now Silco is speaking again, poison into his ear, and he's barely turned his head back before his thoughts are starting to swirl, indistinct, and flatten into a long line that pierces the front of his skull. That touch on his wrist is like fire and it sears its way into his brain, fingers loosing their grip by no will of their own as he stumbles back and shakily sinks to a knee to balance himself out.
His breaths are ragged but again he can't hear them, instead only picking up a scrap of a lovingly hated word: "control". He doesn't have control; he is a child in a cold facility, raised by Russian tapes and in code words. He does have control; he is an adult with his hand on the switch, ready to up the voltage being forced into another man's body under the guise of getting him to talk, but really, truly, he just likes it. His ears are full of the whirring of helicopter blades as they slice through air and now he is motivated by emotion. He wants to slice. He wants to torture, he wants to hurt others, and that steel will that was holding him back has now been dealt a critical blow.
And perhaps that was a terrible mistake.
He doesn't need increased strength or speed to suddenly lunge himself at Silco, his true, uncontrolled nature being one that demands he strike at him. An arm snaps like steel around his middle as he throws them both to the ground, so close now to Voryn, and he's barely crawled overtop him before another violent swing is causing his fist to collide with that makeup-smeared, corroded face. Another hit follows when he grunts, hands soon closing tight around his throat to squeeze. ]