Normally he'd meet her eyes. It is proper social etiquite to make eye contact with people you are speaking to no matter how uncomfortable it is. He knows this. He's studied it. But it's...extra difficult now...
He bows his head in respect, in shared grief, when he notices her tears forming. But her breathing...a panic attack? "Signora..." he says, soft, tentative. Not the voice of a soldier or an Executor. It's just a man, who's lost someone important, trying, trying to comfort those left behind. "You must breathe."
He looks up again when she speaks, then freezes. Her eyes...is she going to use Arts?
She speaks of his failure. Robin is...not his superior in any sense. And yet he knows what she says to be true. And the statement still hurts. "I did." No excuses. He did fail.
He winces when those eyes bore into him once again, as if searching his very soul. His head hurts. It's been hurting so much.
He does not fear his own death. Not even as some...unseen force claws through and wrenches his pain and fear to the forefront. No. What he fears is continuing to fail...
His breath shudders. A report...he forces himself to straighten up, to look right at her, at the eyes, even as it makes the world spin slightly-
"By the time I found Sunday, he was being accosted by a...reflection of himself. Its goal was to put him...in the mirror, it seems. I tried to stop it." His fingers brush at his firearm. "It used him as a shield. I could not fire. Not at the risk of hurting Sunday." He swallows, feeling nauseous having to recall this in such a setting. "There were other reflections lying in weight. They hindered my progress. I couldn't...reach him." He forces his voice to remain steady.
"Sunday ordered me to depart. To protect myself and the others. Those were his last words. His final request before...before the mirror consumed him."
Welp she asked
no matter how uncomfortable it is.He knows this. He's studied it. But it's...extra difficult now...He bows his head in respect, in shared grief, when he notices her tears forming. But her breathing...a panic attack? "Signora..." he says, soft, tentative. Not the voice of a soldier or an Executor. It's just a man, who's lost someone important, trying, trying to comfort those left behind. "You must breathe."
He looks up again when she speaks, then freezes. Her eyes...is she going to use Arts?
She speaks of his failure. Robin is...not his superior in any sense. And yet he knows what she says to be true. And the statement still hurts. "I did." No excuses. He did fail.
He winces when those eyes bore into him once again, as if searching his very soul. His head hurts. It's been hurting so much.
He does not fear his own death. Not even as some...unseen force claws through and wrenches his pain and fear to the forefront. No. What he fears is continuing to fail...
His breath shudders. A report...he forces himself to straighten up, to look right at her, at the eyes, even as it makes the world spin slightly-
"By the time I found Sunday, he was being accosted by a...reflection of himself. Its goal was to put him...in the mirror, it seems. I tried to stop it." His fingers brush at his firearm. "It used him as a shield. I could not fire. Not at the risk of hurting Sunday." He swallows, feeling nauseous having to recall this in such a setting. "There were other reflections lying in weight. They hindered my progress. I couldn't...reach him." He forces his voice to remain steady.
"Sunday ordered me to depart. To protect myself and the others. Those were his last words. His final request before...before the mirror consumed him."