( endearments are not often heard from mila, but when they are, it's exactly like this: dry as the earth salted by apocalyptic warfare, delivered under pressure and carrying the implication that it might be the last goddamn thing you hear. maybe her father wasn't really her father, in the end, but she'll always be his awful daughter.
--though the explosion of graphic expletives that follows is something she picked up somewhere else. hawke probably doesn't need an explanation for that when the other hovercraft - the one she nailed with friendly fire when it joined the fray from her blindspot - draws up alongside them in, presumably, an effort to coordinate visually and not get shot again.
they're a little busy to talk, a while, and then, eventually-- )
Did you see who that was?
( --is an unnecessary question, actually, because the jammed comms crackle as if on cue and although the signal is too poor to get any real idea of what's being said (shouted) to (at) them, the feelings gwisin is experiencing upon his beautiful machine sideswiped by bullets transcend, somehow, both language and technical problems.
there is no time for a contemplative pause. the sentiment of one somehow hangs in the air. )
( with mod permission. )
( endearments are not often heard from mila, but when they are, it's exactly like this: dry as the earth salted by apocalyptic warfare, delivered under pressure and carrying the implication that it might be the last goddamn thing you hear. maybe her father wasn't really her father, in the end, but she'll always be his awful daughter.
--though the explosion of graphic expletives that follows is something she picked up somewhere else. hawke probably doesn't need an explanation for that when the other hovercraft - the one she nailed with friendly fire when it joined the fray from her blindspot - draws up alongside them in, presumably, an effort to coordinate visually and not get shot again.
they're a little busy to talk, a while, and then, eventually-- )
Did you see who that was?
( --is an unnecessary question, actually, because the jammed comms crackle as if on cue and although the signal is too poor to get any real idea of what's being said (shouted) to (at) them, the feelings gwisin is experiencing upon his beautiful machine sideswiped by bullets transcend, somehow, both language and technical problems.
there is no time for a contemplative pause. the sentiment of one somehow hangs in the air. )
Nevermind.