This isn't the hellscape they would have normally found themselves in, with a black sun and a dying planet. The sky's blue here, the sun is gold and warm and inviting, there's new and tasty things to hunt (even if most of those things disappeared when killed), the floating rocks are a curiousity to poke at, all that's missing was his comrades.
It's vibrant and alive in a way the Junkyard never was. How could it be anything else?
The wings nag at him. A coat of feathers that shouldn't be there. Varuna didn't have feathers. Five months.
This is about where Gale Would Not Comprehend and further explanation would be demanded, the byplay between him and Argilla teasing out answers and perspectives that wouldn't otherwise be spotted, Cielo and Sera preventing panic or blind hungry rage setting in in their very different ways. They would move forward together, unified.
For a handful of breaths Heat's fists clench white-knuckled, short pointless human nails digging into his palms before he suddenly reaches up to tear the ever present cloak off his own shoulders, crumpling the sturdy gray canvas in his hands, the orange paint-smeared brand vivid in the hospital's terrible lighting. Five months.
The cloak is thrown at the winged form of Serph, familiar and not. Serph but changed. "I don't want to hear another word from you about tribes not being here. As long as we are, Embryon is. I'm not gonna have our damn Leader running around like some raw rookie." He'd find something appropriate to update his cloakless status before he left the building, it's more important Serph be properly marked. He doesn't think Serph might reject it, reiterate that there are no tribes, no reason to be proud of who they were together, no reason to stay comrades. It's not Nirvana.
It's not that the rest isn't important. Five months, somewhere NOT where they were supposed to be--
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It's vibrant and alive in a way the Junkyard never was. How could it be anything else?
The wings nag at him. A coat of feathers that shouldn't be there. Varuna didn't have feathers. Five months.
This is about where Gale Would Not Comprehend and further explanation would be demanded, the byplay between him and Argilla teasing out answers and perspectives that wouldn't otherwise be spotted, Cielo and Sera preventing panic or blind hungry rage setting in in their very different ways. They would move forward together, unified.
For a handful of breaths Heat's fists clench white-knuckled, short pointless human nails digging into his palms before he suddenly reaches up to tear the ever present cloak off his own shoulders, crumpling the sturdy gray canvas in his hands, the orange paint-smeared brand vivid in the hospital's terrible lighting. Five months.
The cloak is thrown at the winged form of Serph, familiar and not. Serph but changed. "I don't want to hear another word from you about tribes not being here. As long as we are, Embryon is. I'm not gonna have our damn Leader running around like some raw rookie." He'd find something appropriate to update his cloakless status before he left the building, it's more important Serph be properly marked. He doesn't think Serph might reject it, reiterate that there are no tribes, no reason to be proud of who they were together, no reason to stay comrades. It's not Nirvana.
It's not that the rest isn't important. Five months, somewhere NOT where they were supposed to be--
Where was everyone else?