Carlos, as a rule, is extraordinarily difficult to rile up. He is a scientist. As a scientist, he does his best to see things from different points of view, and understands that in the long run, few things actually matter.
But looking at Tom, and looking at Clara, and knowing Thor's corpse is just behind him -- hearing that this man was responsible for the bombing a month ago, hearing about whoever he had manipulated to kill someone he was referring to in a kind of uncomfortably sexist way -- and most of all, looking at the wires and chips and bits of metal that spilled with a clatter all over the floor...
Carlos feels rage bubble up inside of him, more anger than he thought he would ever feel again. He stalks forward, step by heavy step, lab coat billowing behind him, reaching over his shoulder to where, unused, the paintball gun he'd modified rested. His eyes are narrow behind his hideous glasses and his mouth is pressed thin.
"Yes," he says, and his voice is as dark and fierce as a nasally dweeb-voice can be. The anger in it almost, almost, makes it serious. "He was mine."
He pulls the paintball gun free, aims, and pulls the trigger.
Had it been a real gun, Carlos would not have been able to do it, not even now. There is a real gun strapped to his belt, hidden below the lab coat, but Carlos wouldn't have reached for it. Instead, he fires at Tom with the non-lethal weapon: the paintballs Carlos took painstaking hours several weeks ago to fill with bleach. His aim is good: compensating for air resistance, for gravity, for inertia -- it's all science, isn't it? Carlos sends three shots of science right at Tom Cassidy's face, and isn't even sorry.
no subject
But looking at Tom, and looking at Clara, and knowing Thor's corpse is just behind him -- hearing that this man was responsible for the bombing a month ago, hearing about whoever he had manipulated to kill someone he was referring to in a kind of uncomfortably sexist way -- and most of all, looking at the wires and chips and bits of metal that spilled with a clatter all over the floor...
Carlos feels rage bubble up inside of him, more anger than he thought he would ever feel again. He stalks forward, step by heavy step, lab coat billowing behind him, reaching over his shoulder to where, unused, the paintball gun he'd modified rested. His eyes are narrow behind his hideous glasses and his mouth is pressed thin.
"Yes," he says, and his voice is as dark and fierce as a nasally dweeb-voice can be. The anger in it almost, almost, makes it serious. "He was mine."
He pulls the paintball gun free, aims, and pulls the trigger.
Had it been a real gun, Carlos would not have been able to do it, not even now. There is a real gun strapped to his belt, hidden below the lab coat, but Carlos wouldn't have reached for it. Instead, he fires at Tom with the non-lethal weapon: the paintballs Carlos took painstaking hours several weeks ago to fill with bleach. His aim is good: compensating for air resistance, for gravity, for inertia -- it's all science, isn't it? Carlos sends three shots of science right at Tom Cassidy's face, and isn't even sorry.