The distress Sunday puts off rings through Federico’s halo, reverberating through his skull, driving him forward. He hears him—through sound, through the link, through sheer force of will. He’s not too late.He’s not too late. ((Let'ssss be glad he wasn’t close enough to get caught in Sunday’s desperate brain blast against his mirror self...))
The frantic rustle of feathers. The sharp grunt of pain. He’s in trouble. Federico is not leaving Sunday alone ever again in this strange, twisted mirror maze. Never again. He swears it.
Then—he sees it. The double. Hair slicked back, expression cold, judgmental. Wrong. Wrong.Wrong. His gun is already rising. Aim for the head. It looks like Sunday, but it isn’t. It’s hurting Sunday. It’s hurting his friend. Finger on the trigger—
The thing moves. Drags Sunday into the line of fire.
Federico’s chest seizes, breath hitching. His finger locks. Don't shoot. Don't shoot. Don't shoot. He could make the shot. He can’t risk it. Won’t risk it. He has to get over there himself.
A snarl rips from his throat, emotions heightened by the storm of distress roaring through the link, pressing against his skull. The mirror in front of him shatters under his shot, shards biting into his skin. He doesn’t care.
“Sunday—!” He lunges forward, bursting through fractured glass, fingers stretching—just brushing metal (it's generally taboo to grab a sankta's halo, and is likely similar for halovians, but he has no time for propriety now, not when Sunday is being dragged away away away-), just so close—
Something slams into his throat.
A choking, gasping halt. The world lurches. What—
"The mission is to remove him. You are becoming too emotionally attached," says a cold, empty voice from behind. Monotone. Mechanical.
Metal presses against his throat. A gun. A second arm moving to pin him. No—
Federico yanks his head back, slamming into his assailant. His elbow drives into something that should be flesh, should be breath, should be human. But it isn’t.
It’s metal.
Circuits.
His own eyes, staring back at him—cold, dead, pinpointed with red.
A glance past—Sunday, being dragged away. Being taken. Being hurt. He's calling for help.
No time. No time.
Federico doesn’t think. He refuses to think about the twisted, clinical perfection of the thing gripping him. Refuses to process the crumbling halo, the unnatural veins of black where flesh and blood should be. Refuses to acknowledge how it looks at Sunday—not as a person, not as a friend, but as an obstacle.
“Negative—” Federico rasps, twisting, wrenching his arm back, gun scraping against metal. His barrel presses against the thing’s head.
“My mission is to protect all passengers.” He fires. "You. Are not one of them."
The thing’s head explodes. Quicksilver and circuitry splatter the floor. He doesn’t watch it fall.
Federico lurches forward, reaching for Sunday again, his heart slamming against his ribs. If he can just get ahold of something—anything—to keep his friend here.
Sir that's my friend please don't shove him in the locker
The frantic rustle of feathers. The sharp grunt of pain. He’s in trouble. Federico is not leaving Sunday alone ever again in this strange, twisted mirror maze. Never again. He swears it.
Then—he sees it. The double. Hair slicked back, expression cold, judgmental. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. His gun is already rising. Aim for the head. It looks like Sunday, but it isn’t. It’s hurting Sunday. It’s hurting his friend. Finger on the trigger—
The thing moves. Drags Sunday into the line of fire.
Federico’s chest seizes, breath hitching. His finger locks. Don't shoot. Don't shoot. Don't shoot. He could make the shot. He can’t risk it. Won’t risk it. He has to get over there himself.
A snarl rips from his throat, emotions heightened by the storm of distress roaring through the link, pressing against his skull. The mirror in front of him shatters under his shot, shards biting into his skin. He doesn’t care.
“Sunday—!” He lunges forward, bursting through fractured glass, fingers stretching—just brushing metal (it's generally taboo to grab a sankta's halo, and is likely similar for halovians, but he has no time for propriety now, not when Sunday is being dragged away away away-), just so close—
Something slams into his throat.
A choking, gasping halt. The world lurches. What—
"The mission is to remove him. You are becoming too emotionally attached," says a cold, empty voice from behind. Monotone. Mechanical.
Metal presses against his throat. A gun. A second arm moving to pin him. No—
Federico yanks his head back, slamming into his assailant. His elbow drives into something that should be flesh, should be breath, should be human. But it isn’t.
It’s metal.
Circuits.
His own eyes, staring back at him—cold, dead, pinpointed with red.
A glance past—Sunday, being dragged away. Being taken. Being hurt. He's calling for help.
No time. No time.
Federico doesn’t think. He refuses to think about the twisted, clinical perfection of the thing gripping him. Refuses to process the crumbling halo, the unnatural veins of black where flesh and blood should be. Refuses to acknowledge how it looks at Sunday—not as a person, not as a friend, but as an obstacle.
“Negative—” Federico rasps, twisting, wrenching his arm back, gun scraping against metal. His barrel presses against the thing’s head.
“My mission is to protect all passengers.” He fires. "You. Are not one of them."
The thing’s head explodes. Quicksilver and circuitry splatter the floor. He doesn’t watch it fall.
Federico lurches forward, reaching for Sunday again, his heart slamming against his ribs. If he can just get ahold of something—anything—to keep his friend here.
If he can just—
If he can—