soldier boy
Icarus finches a little as the brittle, writhing thing separates into the air, just an unimpressive collection now of frosted detritus floating in front of them like a bad approximation of an abstract snowman. The flinch comes less from the actual reaction itself, which is significantly less loud and fiery than many things he’s seen even this afternoon, but from the incredible impact his simple tendril of water has on his wild and unknown thing.
Still, even with the fantastical and strange reaction and the whoops surrounding him, the young soldier keeps his gaze on the only person whose reaction really matters to him here. The celebratory cheers and slaps on the back don’t even register as sensory input, nor does the feeling of his spell dissipating and the water turning back into nothing; his eyes stay curious and just a hint hungry on Deimos.
That look, that quick glance and curt nod of implied approval, perhaps even with that rare undertone of pride, never arrived, the commander's solid gaze evenly distributed across the soldiers in the unit, and Icarus tries not to think much of it. Really, he tells himself, he was just following an order, and there's nothing particularly special about a soldier following an order. Deimos has already moved on, asking another scholarly questioned designed to lead his soldiers towards smart instincts that hopefully won't get them squashed-killed-frozen-dismembered in the brutal clime of Halo, and Icarus also has a vested interest in not ending up as any of those things, so he steps quietly back into the line and lets his spine straighten again. He'd be better next time, whatever better meant.
A different soldier pipes up with the answer, saying something rationally well-collected like reactivity to external stimuli and defense mechanisms but it sounds like an over-explained way of saying it defends itself by exploding if you hit it with something and talk shit, get hit, and a wiseass soldier snarks that when the first egghead is done. Icarus isn't sure what answer Deimos is looking for, or if the man is even looking for a particular answer, so he only lets the curve of his mouth quirk up ever-so-slightly as the company titters, keeping his dark eyes trained on Deimos. The cold is starting to seep through his boots, but frostbite is as common as seasonal allergies in Halo so he's certainly not going to be the one that whines to the warden about something as unimportant as losing a toe.
Still, even with the fantastical and strange reaction and the whoops surrounding him, the young soldier keeps his gaze on the only person whose reaction really matters to him here. The celebratory cheers and slaps on the back don’t even register as sensory input, nor does the feeling of his spell dissipating and the water turning back into nothing; his eyes stay curious and just a hint hungry on Deimos.
That look, that quick glance and curt nod of implied approval, perhaps even with that rare undertone of pride, never arrived, the commander's solid gaze evenly distributed across the soldiers in the unit, and Icarus tries not to think much of it. Really, he tells himself, he was just following an order, and there's nothing particularly special about a soldier following an order. Deimos has already moved on, asking another scholarly questioned designed to lead his soldiers towards smart instincts that hopefully won't get them squashed-killed-frozen-dismembered in the brutal clime of Halo, and Icarus also has a vested interest in not ending up as any of those things, so he steps quietly back into the line and lets his spine straighten again. He'd be better next time, whatever better meant.
A different soldier pipes up with the answer, saying something rationally well-collected like reactivity to external stimuli and defense mechanisms but it sounds like an over-explained way of saying it defends itself by exploding if you hit it with something and talk shit, get hit, and a wiseass soldier snarks that when the first egghead is done. Icarus isn't sure what answer Deimos is looking for, or if the man is even looking for a particular answer, so he only lets the curve of his mouth quirk up ever-so-slightly as the company titters, keeping his dark eyes trained on Deimos. The cold is starting to seep through his boots, but frostbite is as common as seasonal allergies in Halo so he's certainly not going to be the one that whines to the warden about something as unimportant as losing a toe.
Icarus
oh my little soldier boy
