[There's something predatory about the whole scene. As he stands in the middle of the crowd, listening to a man that makes him want to burn flags, Ronan crosses his arms over his chest, runs his tongue over his top teeth.]
You ask me, doesn't sound like we've got much of a choice.
[His words are low, growled more than spoken out loud, meant for himself, and maybe the people standing next to him, if they're close enough.
It's more of an impossible choice. Ronan's used to impossible things, but that doesn't mean he likes them. His eyes take in his surroundings, even though he knows he's alone in a sea of people. None of his friends are here, and if they are, their decisions might be extremely different than Ronan's. But he doesn't need approval; not from the Republican on his stage and not from the people around him. Ronan Lynch will make his own fate.
The speech ends, and Ronan doesn't hesitate; he walks over to the left, the pro-purge, the smile on his lips sharp and dangerous, and absolutely not reaching his eyes. An impossible choice, that barely feels like one at all. The real choices will come later, he knows, when there are weapons in his hands and opportunities ahead of him. Right now, even if his head rebels against it, this is the only choice. He looks around him at the people coming along with him, trying to determine the reasons behind their standing there. He barely refrains from spitting on the ground, keeping his venom at the back of his throat. For now.]
I do love being a puppet on strings. [It's, again, said to no one in particular, but the words drip with sarcasm. Ronan Lynch makes his own choices.]
II. Party
[The party reminds Ronan of the ones the Ganseys would throw - extragavant, boorish, ridiculous. Full of masks with too many teeth on perfectly pretty faces, hiding terrible truths and worse secrets. He picks at a scab under his leather bracelets, in between stealing tumblers of whiskey from passing trays. He's 18, he shouldn't be drinking alcohol, God Bless America.
He's uncertain when the purging process is supposed to happen. It reminds him of - the Hunger Games, Battle Royale, a series of unstoppable events, like a dream or a white Mitsubishi yards ahead on a ribbon of black road. The alcohol loosens the tension in his shoulders, and he rubs a hand under his jaw, stubble catching at his palm against the hard jut of bone. He smiles.]
So when is the fun supposed to start? [He doesn't mean the violence, but he doesn't care how people interpret it; it's none of his concern.]
III. Wildcard
[Hit me with anything! Also, if you prefer prose, I'm happy to switch!]
Ronan Lynch | The Raven Cycle
[There's something predatory about the whole scene. As he stands in the middle of the crowd, listening to a man that makes him want to burn flags, Ronan crosses his arms over his chest, runs his tongue over his top teeth.]
You ask me, doesn't sound like we've got much of a choice.
[His words are low, growled more than spoken out loud, meant for himself, and maybe the people standing next to him, if they're close enough.
It's more of an impossible choice. Ronan's used to impossible things, but that doesn't mean he likes them. His eyes take in his surroundings, even though he knows he's alone in a sea of people. None of his friends are here, and if they are, their decisions might be extremely different than Ronan's. But he doesn't need approval; not from the Republican on his stage and not from the people around him. Ronan Lynch will make his own fate.
The speech ends, and Ronan doesn't hesitate; he walks over to the left, the pro-purge, the smile on his lips sharp and dangerous, and absolutely not reaching his eyes. An impossible choice, that barely feels like one at all. The real choices will come later, he knows, when there are weapons in his hands and opportunities ahead of him. Right now, even if his head rebels against it, this is the only choice. He looks around him at the people coming along with him, trying to determine the reasons behind their standing there. He barely refrains from spitting on the ground, keeping his venom at the back of his throat. For now.]
I do love being a puppet on strings. [It's, again, said to no one in particular, but the words drip with sarcasm. Ronan Lynch makes his own choices.]
II. Party
[The party reminds Ronan of the ones the Ganseys would throw - extragavant, boorish, ridiculous. Full of masks with too many teeth on perfectly pretty faces, hiding terrible truths and worse secrets. He picks at a scab under his leather bracelets, in between stealing tumblers of whiskey from passing trays. He's 18, he shouldn't be drinking alcohol, God Bless America.
He's uncertain when the purging process is supposed to happen. It reminds him of - the Hunger Games, Battle Royale, a series of unstoppable events, like a dream or a white Mitsubishi yards ahead on a ribbon of black road. The alcohol loosens the tension in his shoulders, and he rubs a hand under his jaw, stubble catching at his palm against the hard jut of bone. He smiles.]
So when is the fun supposed to start? [He doesn't mean the violence, but he doesn't care how people interpret it; it's none of his concern.]
III. Wildcard
[Hit me with anything! Also, if you prefer prose, I'm happy to switch!]