Notes

It’s Lee Jeno, in case you’re wondering. he’s the one who fires the first shot and causes the ensuing chaos.

And of course he does, of course it’s him, of course he cannot stand to watch his crew trade itself like batting cards, argent’s words ‘two for the price of one’ still floating around behind his eyes like petulant phantoms, sneering and snarling and scratching at every edge of him, the lilt in that tone still mocking him despite the five hours since they were spoken, despite the kilometers traveled since then, despite the tense atmosphere and all the guns in the room aimed at him. it’s those words that sit on his chest nasty like a goblin, like a snake, like a spider threatening to weave him inside an iron-webbed trap, and he watches sonmi and neo approach while kafka steps away, his skin a thin film to encase his fury.

But for all their time spent watching the solar flair captain, they haven’t seemed to learn anything, haven’t noticed the way he stomps over webs and coils, plunges headlong into the maelstrom, catapults his way into danger, big black combat boot thundering against the catastrophe of the whole verse around him; he knows that space is cold, space is spinning out of control, space is unforgiving and hungry and greedy for blood, willing to drink him dry if he lets even a single drop of himself fall. he is a whirlwind of scars and devastations, more battles between his fingers than the ages of his crew, more ghosts tied to his ankles than the populations of entire planets, and if he can survive being shot point-blank in the chest by a girl he once loved, then what is this triviality? what does this argent have, what is he made of? thin and wraith-like, a presence like the devil himself, the man burns in jaewon’s irises, all coy and smiling, but the captain already knows he’s going to win-- what is the devil in comparison to hell itself incarnate?