rupert was in the simulations room, so he gets to see the real time reaction - the look on strohl's face, because he doesn't read the announcement. he doesn't have to. vi was right next to him.
he doesn't even move, at first. just stares at his phone, the entire world narrowed down to nothing but ringing in his ears, to tunnel vision, to nothing, and before everyone else has even properly processed what happened he's up, storming out of the room. as the rest of the room begins to react, there's a noise - a scream like a feral animal, and the sound of glass shattering.
he's definitely not taking it well, but not as poorly as strohl - honestly, he's mostly distracted by that reaction, quickly slipping his phone away so he can follow after him. he doesn't quite know what to say even when he gets there, though, so he's just looking to see what caused that noise and whether he's hurt at all.]
[ the good news is he not hurt, no! the bad news is that one of the screens that shows the departures has been destroyed. there's shattered glass everywhere - strohl stands there, clearly the culprit of it, his greatsword in both hands and down into the ground, the landing point of a strike.
he's breathing hard, shoulders heaving, trembling. and perhaps as distressingly, rupert can now see the tattoo of the week in sharp clarity. the text is massive, thick black brushstrokes, repeated over and over, dark enough to cover the proud crest of halia.
YOU FAILED HER AGAIN YOU FAILED HER AGAIN YOU FAILED HER AGAIN YOU FAI ]
[ you remember how i played someone last game who was normal abt things like this if sad, and the game before that i played rondo who was a wreck 80% of the time we're back to the latter baby
anyway. it sounds like rupert's voice is coming through water - he doesn't say anything, but he tenses, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. ]
[ he doesn't stop him - just kind of stands there, frozen to the spot, still white knuckling his sword.
it doesn't look like he has any glass on his hands - his greatsword is a twohander, and he was far from the spot of impact, and his gaze finally lifts from the floor to look at him, just a maelstrom of emotions. fury. grief. fury, all over again. something lost. there are tears falling from his eyes, down his cheeks, straight down to the ground below, but it's hard to tell if he even realizes. ]
[ he doesn't say anything, but he doesn't resist it - rupert can feel his arm shaking, the tense muscles in every winding cord. he can guide him to sit, if he wants. ]
[ half snarled, but at least it's not like. at rupert.
the answer is no, he has no idea what he needs. he needs vi to be alive. he needs anders to be alive. he needs to stop being such a fucking failure. none of those things seem to be in the cards anytime soon. ]
[ all he does to that is scoff, which is not the reaction that sweet and wonderful rupert deserves. because it is his fault. what sort of a noble can't protect his own?
his tattoo, that ugly black ink mess, curls over his shoulder again. Broke his promise. ]
.... eventually, after a long moment, he - shakes his head. no. no, he doesn't. his foot jitters a little where he's sitting, the gesture just to shake energy free, and he rubs a hand over his face.
and after a longer pause, says, gruff, miserably: ] Sorry.
[ he shouldn't yell, is the thing. the hand on his face remains - fat, hot tears drip through his fingers, down his cheeks. frustration and exhaustion. ]
[he knows, but it doesn't seem too important to say that right now - instead, he looks towards the tears for another moment before shifting to put his arms around him. get hugged idiot!!!!]
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week 1 friday
rupert was in the simulations room, so he gets to see the real time reaction - the look on strohl's face, because he doesn't read the announcement. he doesn't have to. vi was right next to him.
he doesn't even move, at first. just stares at his phone, the entire world narrowed down to nothing but ringing in his ears, to tunnel vision, to nothing, and before everyone else has even properly processed what happened he's up, storming out of the room. as the rest of the room begins to react, there's a noise - a scream like a feral animal, and the sound of glass shattering.
wuh oh ]
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he's definitely not taking it well, but not as poorly as strohl - honestly, he's mostly distracted by that reaction, quickly slipping his phone away so he can follow after him. he doesn't quite know what to say even when he gets there, though, so he's just looking to see what caused that noise and whether he's hurt at all.]
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he's breathing hard, shoulders heaving, trembling. and perhaps as distressingly, rupert can now see the tattoo of the week in sharp clarity. the text is massive, thick black brushstrokes, repeated over and over, dark enough to cover the proud crest of halia.
YOU FAILED HER AGAIN YOU FAILED HER AGAIN YOU FAILED HER AGAIN YOU FAI ]
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...Strohl.
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anyway. it sounds like rupert's voice is coming through water - he doesn't say anything, but he tenses, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. ]
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...Let me see your hands?
[to make sure they aren't hurt, after that strike.]
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it doesn't look like he has any glass on his hands - his greatsword is a twohander, and he was far from the spot of impact, and his gaze finally lifts from the floor to look at him, just a maelstrom of emotions. fury. grief. fury, all over again. something lost. there are tears falling from his eyes, down his cheeks, straight down to the ground below, but it's hard to tell if he even realizes. ]
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[gently, again - because he's unharmed but also deeply not unharmed. at the very least, he moves to put a hand on his arm.]
Sit with me?
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...I got you. Do you know what you need?
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[ half snarled, but at least it's not like. at rupert.
the answer is no, he has no idea what he needs. he needs vi to be alive. he needs anders to be alive. he needs to stop being such a fucking failure. none of those things seem to be in the cards anytime soon. ]
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[hesitating for another moment, because there's not really anything he can say to make this better and he knows that, but at the very least:]
This wasn't your fault. Neither of them would think that.
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his tattoo, that ugly black ink mess, curls over his shoulder again. Broke his promise. ]
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Sorry, I - do you want space?
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.... eventually, after a long moment, he - shakes his head. no. no, he doesn't. his foot jitters a little where he's sitting, the gesture just to shake energy free, and he rubs a hand over his face.
and after a longer pause, says, gruff, miserably: ] Sorry.
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[sincerely!!]
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[ he shouldn't yell, is the thing. the hand on his face remains - fat, hot tears drip through his fingers, down his cheeks. frustration and exhaustion. ]
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She wouldn't blame you, either.