Makoto hadn’t seen the moment when Silco had pushed an infusion of Shimmer into Gen’s body, lacing his veins with the overwhelming chemical power that animated him now. If he had, perhaps he might have been more cautious in reaching out to Silco.
Or perhaps he would have entreated him for it.
Either way, the shard passes from his hand and into the scarred man’s, but before Makoto’s arm can fall and he slowly resumes his inexorable slouch towards unconsciousness, a jolt of something indescribable passes from Silco’s fingertips and into the palm of Makoto’s hand, passing through the thin barrier of skin where the symbol of the Firebrand was carved into pale scar tissue. He gasps again, but this time it’s less to drag air into his starving lungs but instead out of shock, out of pain. “What —” It feels like lightning lancing from his hand up to his shoulder, through his chest, radiating through every nerve and capillary with the slow, voracious, searing sensation of a chemical burn. His breathing grows fast and ragged, its edges textured with a low growl as his shoulders bow. For a moment all he can think of is that moment when Dextera grabbed his arm and scorched the surface of his soul — he had thought in that moment that he might die, and he thinks the same for a split second now, his defenses overwhelmed by what was now inside of him, flowing through his veins, and which he couldn’t escape.
But it was only for that second. Because in the next, something else begins to flow in, chasing after and nipping at the heels of confusion and pain.
Power.
It’s something Makoto’s never had, not with his sleight build and unadorned human body — it’s something that he had only wielded metaphorically in hell, weaving verbal tapestries with a silvered tongue to entreat others to do what he couldn’t for him. The only strength he had ever had had been given to him or stolen, just like the wings that he wore now, which he had torn from the body of a man he had strung along just so he could take them for himself. So when Shimmer burns through his veins like purple fire, visible beneath thin and pale skin, and brings with it strength and energy that allow him to get to his feet once more, he almost doesn’t know what to do with it. He feels like he’s been given a tempest with no further instructions but to control it with his very hands.
He doesn’t know how well he will be able to do that, but — he’s eager to try. His eyes still burn pale, but the sclera around them are now a bright purple to match the spiderweb of pulsing veins beneath his skin, a network which extends to backlight the diamond weave of the scales along the backs of his wings and cross through their leathery membranes. Not even Shimmer can make much of a hulk out of this scrap of a boy, but his thin limbs thread with rangy muscle he’d never come by naturally, the deep gouges in his torso temporarily forgotten even as they continue to ooze neon blood. The growling sound grows louder, then tearing away into a snarl — and then worse. He starts laughing, the sound both exhilarated and trimmed in mania.
At some point he’d dropped his dagger — perhaps when he had scooped up Kaeya’s shard instead — but it didn’t matter. Call it the effects of Shimmer or his own perceived ineffectiveness on his psyche, but his hands now curl with sharp claws, his lips peeling back from teeth sharpened into a feral grin. In the thrill of the moment, he doesn’t care what sort of negative repercussions he might face with the Shimmer rioting through his body, what further damage he might receive charging into the lion’s den. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care — it’s worth it, just so he can feel like this...!
With one last laugh, his wings power him off of the ground and forward, intent on launching himself back into the fray.
no subject
Or perhaps he would have entreated him for it.
Either way, the shard passes from his hand and into the scarred man’s, but before Makoto’s arm can fall and he slowly resumes his inexorable slouch towards unconsciousness, a jolt of something indescribable passes from Silco’s fingertips and into the palm of Makoto’s hand, passing through the thin barrier of skin where the symbol of the Firebrand was carved into pale scar tissue. He gasps again, but this time it’s less to drag air into his starving lungs but instead out of shock, out of pain. “What —” It feels like lightning lancing from his hand up to his shoulder, through his chest, radiating through every nerve and capillary with the slow, voracious, searing sensation of a chemical burn. His breathing grows fast and ragged, its edges textured with a low growl as his shoulders bow. For a moment all he can think of is that moment when Dextera grabbed his arm and scorched the surface of his soul — he had thought in that moment that he might die, and he thinks the same for a split second now, his defenses overwhelmed by what was now inside of him, flowing through his veins, and which he couldn’t escape.
But it was only for that second. Because in the next, something else begins to flow in, chasing after and nipping at the heels of confusion and pain.
Power.
It’s something Makoto’s never had, not with his sleight build and unadorned human body — it’s something that he had only wielded metaphorically in hell, weaving verbal tapestries with a silvered tongue to entreat others to do what he couldn’t for him. The only strength he had ever had had been given to him or stolen, just like the wings that he wore now, which he had torn from the body of a man he had strung along just so he could take them for himself. So when Shimmer burns through his veins like purple fire, visible beneath thin and pale skin, and brings with it strength and energy that allow him to get to his feet once more, he almost doesn’t know what to do with it. He feels like he’s been given a tempest with no further instructions but to control it with his very hands.
He doesn’t know how well he will be able to do that, but — he’s eager to try. His eyes still burn pale, but the sclera around them are now a bright purple to match the spiderweb of pulsing veins beneath his skin, a network which extends to backlight the diamond weave of the scales along the backs of his wings and cross through their leathery membranes. Not even Shimmer can make much of a hulk out of this scrap of a boy, but his thin limbs thread with rangy muscle he’d never come by naturally, the deep gouges in his torso temporarily forgotten even as they continue to ooze neon blood. The growling sound grows louder, then tearing away into a snarl — and then worse. He starts laughing, the sound both exhilarated and trimmed in mania.
At some point he’d dropped his dagger — perhaps when he had scooped up Kaeya’s shard instead — but it didn’t matter. Call it the effects of Shimmer or his own perceived ineffectiveness on his psyche, but his hands now curl with sharp claws, his lips peeling back from teeth sharpened into a feral grin. In the thrill of the moment, he doesn’t care what sort of negative repercussions he might face with the Shimmer rioting through his body, what further damage he might receive charging into the lion’s den. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care — it’s worth it, just so he can feel like this...!
With one last laugh, his wings power him off of the ground and forward, intent on launching himself back into the fray.