Hope is the antithesis of perseverance and of what is good. Where one forces action in the face of what's clearly about to go wrong the other convinces a person to stand still and watch, and wait, and do nothing and feel justified in it- until it's too late and the harm has been done.
This is where Robin dies and where Tim drives forward. Knowing that he has made the wrong decision in hoping. Hoping Little would will himself to stop, hoping Kate would see through the veil and run. Tim had waited and hoped for a miracle, knowing damn well that wasn't how lives were saved. But later is for the scorn and wretched hate for his shortcomings and right fucking now is the time for making sure this doesn't go from bad
to worse.
There's a
[pfuph]
dull and short. And it's game on, and Timothy will not rest until he knows the warmth on his face that comes with a mist of blood. That man is going to be breathing through a tube. If he's going to be breathing at all. That man is going to feel this- an impact on his shoulder, a driving forward from behind the metal rod that's from both a bull of hate and the calculated need to create distance between the monster and the girl. Tim might be a small man but years ago he made himself a soldier and greater still, he made himself a victor. The fighting staff, like a blunted lance Tim has thrust forward into Little's right clavicle, finds its purchase in his anger, in his unyielding hold. With strength Tim should not have, with rage, he feels it: the sense of needing to right what had went so wrong
and hunger.
All Tim needs is for the lumbering ghoul to be forced a step back.
Because there, a step back, between legs of two pews, is the high tensile wire ready to catch. And snap. Not snap broken, but ready to give from the irregular hold the cold steel hooks have found in wooden grooves. The grappling gun is able to hold the weight of any man- and, when the wire reels wildly back into its chamber, it burns like a motherfucker and the cold steel hooks hit like a truck. It shreds flesh: Tim knows.
Hunger is the agony of waiting yet again, although it's barely been a second.
When the vampire falls (and he will fall; Tim knows; he is in control), the lance and the boy will follow him down-- the staff now a true lance, having sprung a blade a forearm length's long- deadly, hardy, ready...
and having been maneuvered to slice into Little's coat, right through the stiff and high collar of the grand goddamn uniform, instead of pinning the son of a bitch into the wood of the floor by his heart like he deserves. Kate wouldn't bear it.
There's no words to say- this holy place has been sullied enough by the frightened sobbing of a girl whose only mistake has ever been to hope for the good of men to win. And yet
Tim hears himself, with that hoarse and raw anger that once was Robin's- is not anymore-
he's on this bastard of a man, one fist against his sternum and the other hand against Little's very throat-
Little had whispered his evil plan to Kate and now Tim will whisper only so Little can hear-
"I hoped you were a better man than that."
and Tim knows, somehow, that this is how a wolf feels like.
cw: stalking, violence, booby trapping
This is where Robin dies and where Tim drives forward. Knowing that he has made the wrong decision in hoping. Hoping Little would will himself to stop, hoping Kate would see through the veil and run. Tim had waited and hoped for a miracle, knowing damn well that wasn't how lives were saved. But later is for the scorn and wretched hate for his shortcomings and right fucking now is the time for making sure this doesn't go from bad
to worse.
There's a
[pfuph]
dull and short. And it's game on, and Timothy will not rest until he knows the warmth on his face that comes with a mist of blood. That man is going to be breathing through a tube. If he's going to be breathing at all. That man is going to feel this- an impact on his shoulder, a driving forward from behind the metal rod that's from both a bull of hate and the calculated need to create distance between the monster and the girl. Tim might be a small man but years ago he made himself a soldier and greater still, he made himself a victor. The fighting staff, like a blunted lance Tim has thrust forward into Little's right clavicle, finds its purchase in his anger, in his unyielding hold. With strength Tim should not have, with rage, he feels it: the sense of needing to right what had went so wrong
and hunger.
All Tim needs is for the lumbering ghoul to be forced a step back.
Because there, a step back, between legs of two pews, is the high tensile wire ready to catch. And snap. Not snap broken, but ready to give from the irregular hold the cold steel hooks have found in wooden grooves. The grappling gun is able to hold the weight of any man- and, when the wire reels wildly back into its chamber, it burns like a motherfucker and the cold steel hooks hit like a truck. It shreds flesh: Tim knows.
Hunger is the agony of waiting yet again, although it's barely been a second.
When the vampire falls (and he will fall; Tim knows; he is in control), the lance and the boy will follow him down-- the staff now a true lance, having sprung a blade a forearm length's long- deadly, hardy, ready...
and having been maneuvered to slice into Little's coat, right through the stiff and high collar of the grand goddamn uniform, instead of pinning the son of a bitch into the wood of the floor by his heart like he deserves. Kate wouldn't bear it.
There's no words to say- this holy place has been sullied enough by the frightened sobbing of a girl whose only mistake has ever been to hope for the good of men to win. And yet
Tim hears himself, with that hoarse and raw anger that once was Robin's- is not anymore-
he's on this bastard of a man, one fist against his sternum and the other hand against Little's very throat-
Little had whispered his evil plan to Kate and now Tim will whisper only so Little can hear-
"I hoped you were a better man than that."
and Tim knows, somehow, that this is how a wolf feels like.
Ravenous.