Dream | 10
[Privacy: Largely open. Those who know Allelujah will see everything as written; those who do not will simply fail to see Hallelujah, and instead see Alle talking to himself in a somewhat less literal fashion.]
It had only been a quick run, executed with cautious haste, but his heart is still pounding in his chest. It is a struggle to stay attentive through the technical debriefing, words drowning in echoing thumps and hands that tremble in the remembrance of full-bodied vibration, and when he curls his fingers in to still them, the emptiness feels wrong.
Something must show despite it all, because the technician finishes his run-down with a gruff, "But hey, it was good, Haptism," and a sharp, awkward clap on the shoulder.
It’s enough to jolt him back, to realise there is attempted reassurance in those eyes, but by the time he says, “No, I’m not-” they are halfway down the corridor and the walls don’t care much for misunderstandings. He sighs, and the self-conscious wryness of his smile broadens into something more genuine as he turns his gaze to the glass window. The mobile suit sits quiet and still beyond it, betraying no hint of the power that had propelled it between asteroids only minutes before, skimming across space faster than mankind had believed - still believed - was possible.
"Kyrios," he murmurs, and each syllable holds a new weight to it, new respect for what this machine can do. "Gundam Kyrios."
His reflection cants its head, golden eye lit with the remnants of fierce delight and a brush of smugness, and the whisper of a chuckle floats in the air. "Glad to be alive?"
"Today I am." He shifts his gaze and says, “Today I am grateful," and almost laughs to see rare surprise mirrored back at him.
It had only been a quick run, executed with cautious haste, but his heart is still pounding in his chest. It is a struggle to stay attentive through the technical debriefing, words drowning in echoing thumps and hands that tremble in the remembrance of full-bodied vibration, and when he curls his fingers in to still them, the emptiness feels wrong.
Something must show despite it all, because the technician finishes his run-down with a gruff, "But hey, it was good, Haptism," and a sharp, awkward clap on the shoulder.
It’s enough to jolt him back, to realise there is attempted reassurance in those eyes, but by the time he says, “No, I’m not-” they are halfway down the corridor and the walls don’t care much for misunderstandings. He sighs, and the self-conscious wryness of his smile broadens into something more genuine as he turns his gaze to the glass window. The mobile suit sits quiet and still beyond it, betraying no hint of the power that had propelled it between asteroids only minutes before, skimming across space faster than mankind had believed - still believed - was possible.
"Kyrios," he murmurs, and each syllable holds a new weight to it, new respect for what this machine can do. "Gundam Kyrios."
His reflection cants its head, golden eye lit with the remnants of fierce delight and a brush of smugness, and the whisper of a chuckle floats in the air. "Glad to be alive?"
"Today I am." He shifts his gaze and says, “Today I am grateful," and almost laughs to see rare surprise mirrored back at him.