Kyoko thinks she's lost her voice. She doesn't know what to say to Yondu -- doesn't have any reassurances for him, no way to act like she's going to be able to shrug it off, whatever it's going to be. Why is she just going along with this, with no defenses? She knows what led her here, but she doesn't know if she could explain it to him.
If this goes bad, in a dangerous way kind of bad... If the worst comes to it... What will she do?
The expression on her face when she looks over her shoulder, back at Yondu, is... layered. At its base, there is something that can't be called anything other than trust. If this goes bad, she knows he'll be there, watching her back. Then, there's a degree of lost child -- No, she doesn't really know what she's doing, even if she's not about to say so. And over that, a hint of something like her usual bravado -- trying to play it tough, despite her fear. Fear -- Fear makes up the high notes. This is a wound that's never healed properly. A badly aligned bone that she's walked on until she was used to the pain. And now she knows she has to brace herself to be broken open again.
Her father leads -- drags -- her into the church, its walls almost completely lined with stained glass. And inside, there is a sea of people. Some of them, maybe, are civilians from the city. But they all have a faint glow of magic in their eyes, visible even to Yondu as a soft red light. They turn to stare as Kyoko's father marches them straight up to the platform at the top.
He lets go of her hand to step up to the podium. Kyoko stands, as if immobilized, at his side just a couple steps back. He begins to speak.
The words themselves aren't important. All high-handed in flourish, but instead of preaching love or forgiveness or community, it's hateful. Violent. Looking down upon others. Praising the Devil, not God. And yet, strangely, they're difficult to hold on to, as if filtered through a struggling memory.
And Kyoko is paralyzed. She's struck numb. This -- Of all the things she expected to see here -- Reliving this moment was not something she'd predicted.
There is some words that rings out stronger, clearer, than the others. "Witch. This witch. She is a witch."
no subject
If this goes bad, in a dangerous way kind of bad... If the worst comes to it... What will she do?
The expression on her face when she looks over her shoulder, back at Yondu, is... layered. At its base, there is something that can't be called anything other than trust. If this goes bad, she knows he'll be there, watching her back. Then, there's a degree of lost child -- No, she doesn't really know what she's doing, even if she's not about to say so. And over that, a hint of something like her usual bravado -- trying to play it tough, despite her fear. Fear -- Fear makes up the high notes. This is a wound that's never healed properly. A badly aligned bone that she's walked on until she was used to the pain. And now she knows she has to brace herself to be broken open again.
Her father leads -- drags -- her into the church, its walls almost completely lined with stained glass. And inside, there is a sea of people. Some of them, maybe, are civilians from the city. But they all have a faint glow of magic in their eyes, visible even to Yondu as a soft red light. They turn to stare as Kyoko's father marches them straight up to the platform at the top.
He lets go of her hand to step up to the podium. Kyoko stands, as if immobilized, at his side just a couple steps back. He begins to speak.
The words themselves aren't important. All high-handed in flourish, but instead of preaching love or forgiveness or community, it's hateful. Violent. Looking down upon others. Praising the Devil, not God. And yet, strangely, they're difficult to hold on to, as if filtered through a struggling memory.
And Kyoko is paralyzed. She's struck numb. This -- Of all the things she expected to see here -- Reliving this moment was not something she'd predicted.
There is some words that rings out stronger, clearer, than the others. "Witch. This witch. She is a witch."