[Well, someone's a hot mess of emotions, isn't he?
All things considered, it'd be impossible to ignore the shrieking of that poor damn oversized bug...thing, even without the ability to tune in to its mental anguish on top of it. But even if it wasn't a nigh-impossible task, Schuldig probably would've ended up watching anyway, just because there's something undeniably fascinating in a sort of aquarium-like way about a grown man quivering and grabbing his mouth as he just burns and burns and burns some thing that, by all rules of this world they're in, ought to be under his protection and care — and more importantly, given the fact that it's a five-foot bug with a fucking guillotine on its head, that he's doing it to something that could snap him in half in about two seconds flat, and yet it's just sitting there screaming and taking it.
This, Schuldig reflects, is the real beauty of the human condition. It's poetry in motion.
(The Pokemon he's brought down to the arena with him today, however, are understandably anxious and apprehensive as hell about all this — hopefully the intent way their trainer is watching the spectacle doesn't mean he's getting ideas and taking notes.)
And so, once things die down (morbid pun intended), Schuldig cocks his head and applauds lightly, more to attract the pyromaniac's attention than anything else.]
You look like you could use a cigarette after that one.
action;
All things considered, it'd be impossible to ignore the shrieking of that poor damn oversized bug...thing, even without the ability to tune in to its mental anguish on top of it. But even if it wasn't a nigh-impossible task, Schuldig probably would've ended up watching anyway, just because there's something undeniably fascinating in a sort of aquarium-like way about a grown man quivering and grabbing his mouth as he just burns and burns and burns some thing that, by all rules of this world they're in, ought to be under his protection and care — and more importantly, given the fact that it's a five-foot bug with a fucking guillotine on its head, that he's doing it to something that could snap him in half in about two seconds flat, and yet it's just sitting there screaming and taking it.
This, Schuldig reflects, is the real beauty of the human condition. It's poetry in motion.
(The Pokemon he's brought down to the arena with him today, however, are understandably anxious and apprehensive as hell about all this — hopefully the intent way their trainer is watching the spectacle doesn't mean he's getting ideas and taking notes.)
And so, once things die down (morbid pun intended), Schuldig cocks his head and applauds lightly, more to attract the pyromaniac's attention than anything else.]
You look like you could use a cigarette after that one.