It is so wonderfully soft. The white strands fall through your hands like fresh, puffy snowfall, equipped with the same subtle coldness. Each time you snip off a dead end, the tiniest smell of gasoline fills the air right by your nose. While this could have been a laid back session, Don refuses to sit still. He trails about the room, sitting in one spot for a couple minutes, before rushing to his new target of interest. He rambles on about abstract plans, pointing at maps and showing you volatile weaponry.
Don cradles a loaded ballistic missile launcher in his arms while he points at a map projection on the wall. The room is slathered in darkness save for the screen, which bounces off his skin and armor. You reach your arms up, tending to some dead ends at the back of his head.
"Scarr and I are prepared to overtake the Piazza within the following week. Our patrols have gathered intel about the surrounding residencies, which are currently unarmed. There are bunkers with weaponry, though. I don't worry about the civilians, nor pushback from Hope or Brite Raider. All they have shown to be are nuisances." Don turns to look back at you, pulling a chuck of hair through and away from your scissors. "Thoughts?"
"I need you to sit down."
Don sighs catatonically and pulls a chair up. He promptly flops down into it, his posture slouched. You finish up your thoughts in the longer segments of his hair before putting a razor to his skin. It makes an understated crushing sound as it slices through the stubble of hair on the back of his neck.
"We need to empty the bunkers," you reply. "How many are there?"
"Nine. All are rather small, with only about six weapons and miscellaneous supplies per bunker. Not nearly enough to support an army, if that is what Hope is looking to unleash. This island is riddled with hippies; not a single ounce of resistance is in any of them."
You brush off some stray hair strands with your hand, watching them float through the air. The nape of his neck is beautifully warm, and each time your fingerprints brush over his thick skin, a flurry of excitement rushes up from your core.
"Why do we want to kill them?" you inquire.
The chair beneath Don creaks hauntingly as he leans forward, resting his large hands on his knees. "Why? What else do we do with them? This is my kingdom."
"If you want to promise the longevity of the kingdom, then I would advise you to let them live. And let them live freely. Let them celebrate their religions and speak their languages. Less uprisings occur in conquered lands when people can keep their cultures. Like the Mongols, their empire lasted long because -"
"Enough of your shit!" Don throws the launcher across the room, and it clatters to the floor with a thunderous bark. He grabs the back of the chair and jerks his arm, letting it sail through the air with unbelievable, bubbling rage. "I am God! I don't want soirees of spiritualists and pacifists infecting this island that I have transformed into my utopia. Their monuments to dead gods will fall, and their pitiful weapons will be smelted. And I don't need a foolish grunt like you mistaking yourself as greater-than!"
Don leans against a table, his hip pushing into the ledge. The nitro tubes spreading around his body glow bright as his blood pressure rises, forcing the fiery fluid to slip faster through his flesh. He runs a hand across his neck, wiping away the beads of sweat spawning across his reddened skin.
You stand, frozen in shock. You've seen these outbursts from afar, but you would never help those on the receiving end. It is known about the Leviathan to never, ever intervene. But now you are trapped in his famished desire for anger.
"Get out of here, Y/N."
You remain planted.
"Why are you so stupid?!" Don shoulders past you and slides the door open. The wheels squeal as they rip over the track, dragging the heavy door along with them. Don points into the pale sunlight. "Get...out."
You slip by him and stand in the doorway. You gaze at Don, watching his shoulders move up and down as deep, predatory breaths invade his trembling body.
"Go." Don pushes you through the doorframe, and the concrete promptly greets your cheek. You grunt and get yourself to your feet as the door shudders shut. A long, wild scream emits from the room as you watch the honey sun settling behind the syrupy ocean. The tantrum happening won't end any time soon, so you dismiss yourself to your quarters.