@dainsleit , cont. “You don't belong here.” They speak quiet as the grave, a hundred hands unfurling from their head. They reach for @ilstar, grasping, as eyes bear into him. The emanator's wrist is twisted to near fracture in her grip. The vessel of Destruction pins him down on a sunless planets soil (the grass long dried up,) face to face.
“ of course i don't, ” confirmatory as though it was something to be modest about – acknowledgment of a great achievement that he will shirk away from, politely, before relinquishing the formality : because here he is, all the same, expression contorted with indecision between the grimace their force commands and a smile, smug and complacent, exposed only through the ugly twist of a mouth corner. more up his sleeve than the futile writhing against her restraint … though the pained grunt is real when they slam him back, down against brittle ground, delorean settles into his trap again all too easily. “ what could ever survive here? ”
an unknown accusation, a shot in the dark, because they speak with too much conviction, deny him with such certainty. this is a stroke of luck.
