[THE WAY THIS IS ALSO JUST A SATURDAY FOR SCIEN AND IT'S THE WORST TIME LUCAS HAS HAD IN A WEEK.
Well. He's right in saying that Lucas can't properly absorb anything. This simple act of putting this choice between helping or harming into his hands is enough to shred his shaky stability like wet tissue paper. He's on his feet again and it's a good thing that Scien is just a hologram, because there's the distant chant of a voice that is and isn't his own, a soft kill, kill, kill, kill that urges him to take this man's life, even though he quite literally can't.
So really, given that, is he a kind person? Is kindness what's at his core? He wants to be these things - patient and considerate and good, but is he? His hands are so bloody and he thought he never wanted to shed blood again, but here he is, palms itching with violent intent. It's funny; not unlike a form of possession, where he is both innocent host and vile monster, and the core of him chokes out I don't want to hurt anyone, but his thoughts and his heart are such a tangle that the words barely survive.]
Stop talking. [Sharp, biting. He can't tell where his own hurt anger ends and where the bloodthirst that is or isn't his begins, and he doesn't want to hear any of these painful words from a man who knows him far too well. Lashing out is easy. He speaks more as Bourreau than Lucas Proust, but the two are one in the same, aren't they?]
If you leave it in my hands, then I leave you to suffer. If you're waiting on my spoken word, then I'll say it clearly: don't take them. Carry on as you have been. Not even great pain would stop you, isn't that so? Does it even bother you? Can you really feel it? It hardly matters, anyway.
[At which point he just turns on his heel like he's going to leave. BITCHASS HOLOGRAM.]
no subject
Well. He's right in saying that Lucas can't properly absorb anything. This simple act of putting this choice between helping or harming into his hands is enough to shred his shaky stability like wet tissue paper. He's on his feet again and it's a good thing that Scien is just a hologram, because there's the distant chant of a voice that is and isn't his own, a soft kill, kill, kill, kill that urges him to take this man's life, even though he quite literally can't.
So really, given that, is he a kind person? Is kindness what's at his core? He wants to be these things - patient and considerate and good, but is he? His hands are so bloody and he thought he never wanted to shed blood again, but here he is, palms itching with violent intent. It's funny; not unlike a form of possession, where he is both innocent host and vile monster, and the core of him chokes out I don't want to hurt anyone, but his thoughts and his heart are such a tangle that the words barely survive.]
Stop talking. [Sharp, biting. He can't tell where his own hurt anger ends and where the bloodthirst that is or isn't his begins, and he doesn't want to hear any of these painful words from a man who knows him far too well. Lashing out is easy. He speaks more as Bourreau than Lucas Proust, but the two are one in the same, aren't they?]
If you leave it in my hands, then I leave you to suffer. If you're waiting on my spoken word, then I'll say it clearly: don't take them. Carry on as you have been. Not even great pain would stop you, isn't that so? Does it even bother you? Can you really feel it? It hardly matters, anyway.
[At which point he just turns on his heel like he's going to leave. BITCHASS HOLOGRAM.]