soldier boy
Icarus watches carefully as the bright, jovial cast of Deimos' face morphs into that of the soldier and warrior he knows so well. He knows not to be worried about the strange, writhing mass of vines and thorns floating through the air until he can see the gleaming whites of panic in his commander's face, and that rarely occurs (or, the legendary fighter is just rather proficient at hiding it). Still, the the twisting ball is unnerving as it hovers there, a facsimile of a child's drawing of a sun as it hangs in the sky, and Icarus' gaze narrows in on the white tendrils of its makeup.
His gaze shift, just slightly, over to the cast of Deimos' face. It's so easy to forget that the man who commands the unit with a casual nonchalance and a friendly curve to his mouth hides depths of deadly precision carved from years of battle and hardened by the harshness of Halo's land. Under his hand thrums the faint sense of raw power as the mass floats in the air, reminding Icarus of how deadly this man he idolizes really is under the skin of a man.
Icarus' spine curves straighter at Deimos' question, himself transforming into the soldier he'd been for so long at the sight of this potential threat, boyish mirth and joking disappearing from the lines of his face. As his shoulders set back, tense and ready to jump to Deimos' command, his eye reevaluate the unknown thing and try to puzzle it out the way Deimos did. It didn't seem to be conscious, no more writhing against Deimos' floating hold as it would if it were trapped instinctually anywhere, and the bleached white of its colors match the bleak landscape of Halo. It does not hiss and spit curses, or call upon the Gods to smite these ants in front of it. That's good.
The soldiers all stay quiet as they study the thing, pondering the answer to Deimos' scholarly question: What first? The commander doesn't ask it as if he has a specific answer in mind, as he would sometimes during drills to confirm knowledge, but Icarus aches to give the correct one anyway. What first? Deimos' desired answer may be to light it on fire, as it so often was, but in the case of an unknown specimen, Icarus didn't want to be the that suggested it in case it was something highly explosive. Instead, he juts his head up slightly, the curve of his jaw set into settled sincerity, his voice no holding the lighthearted lilt from earlier.
"We should determine if it's a threat, sir," He ventures, forcing certainty into his voice because he didn't want to seem like he was waffling in front of Deimos and no one else was speaking up so he might as well give it a go. "Will it attack, or just defend?"
His gaze shift, just slightly, over to the cast of Deimos' face. It's so easy to forget that the man who commands the unit with a casual nonchalance and a friendly curve to his mouth hides depths of deadly precision carved from years of battle and hardened by the harshness of Halo's land. Under his hand thrums the faint sense of raw power as the mass floats in the air, reminding Icarus of how deadly this man he idolizes really is under the skin of a man.
Icarus' spine curves straighter at Deimos' question, himself transforming into the soldier he'd been for so long at the sight of this potential threat, boyish mirth and joking disappearing from the lines of his face. As his shoulders set back, tense and ready to jump to Deimos' command, his eye reevaluate the unknown thing and try to puzzle it out the way Deimos did. It didn't seem to be conscious, no more writhing against Deimos' floating hold as it would if it were trapped instinctually anywhere, and the bleached white of its colors match the bleak landscape of Halo. It does not hiss and spit curses, or call upon the Gods to smite these ants in front of it. That's good.
The soldiers all stay quiet as they study the thing, pondering the answer to Deimos' scholarly question: What first? The commander doesn't ask it as if he has a specific answer in mind, as he would sometimes during drills to confirm knowledge, but Icarus aches to give the correct one anyway. What first? Deimos' desired answer may be to light it on fire, as it so often was, but in the case of an unknown specimen, Icarus didn't want to be the that suggested it in case it was something highly explosive. Instead, he juts his head up slightly, the curve of his jaw set into settled sincerity, his voice no holding the lighthearted lilt from earlier.
"We should determine if it's a threat, sir," He ventures, forcing certainty into his voice because he didn't want to seem like he was waffling in front of Deimos and no one else was speaking up so he might as well give it a go. "Will it attack, or just defend?"
Icarus
oh my little soldier boy
