He's been bracing his hand against the back on the bus seat in front of him. Now, it draws itself into a fist. His answer is immediate, staccato against the humming of the bus.
"It's not the end," he says, as if it should be obvious, and he knocks his fist into the bus seat to punctuate his point. (There are a few muffled complaints from the occupant, drowned out by the noise of the bus and by the focus of his declaration. He ignores them.) He says it with conviction, like he believes every word of it.
And now—now there's something creeping into his eyes that's worthy of being called violent. Sharp and hard like the edge of a blade, and edging toward mad with determination. But that's just what it is. Mad. Angry. There's nothing happy about it.
"We're not finished yet. We'll put a stop to all this. We'll wipe out the kaiju for what they've done."
And then they'll live. Free and without fear. That's why they're fighting.
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"It's not the end," he says, as if it should be obvious, and he knocks his fist into the bus seat to punctuate his point. (There are a few muffled complaints from the occupant, drowned out by the noise of the bus and by the focus of his declaration. He ignores them.) He says it with conviction, like he believes every word of it.
And now—now there's something creeping into his eyes that's worthy of being called violent. Sharp and hard like the edge of a blade, and edging toward mad with determination. But that's just what it is. Mad. Angry. There's nothing happy about it.
"We're not finished yet. We'll put a stop to all this. We'll wipe out the kaiju for what they've done."
And then they'll live. Free and without fear. That's why they're fighting.