[ It's always disorienting, to be dropped into someone else's memory. Even moreso when the memory is violent and frantic, like this one appears to be. Ratio can hear the people's yells, murmurs of discontent, and a growing tension in the air. They bustle around him, suffocating in their presence. He's never liked crowds.
The air is smoky—unhealthy, carcinogenic—and it irritates Ratio's throat and eyes. He tries to blink away the tears forming in his eyes and comes to the conclusion that some sort of lachrymatory agent must be in use. And then—things explode. Literally and figuratively.
A molotov is thrown, and like a signal for war, a riot breaks out. Fists are thrown, bullets go flying, and bodies hit the ground. Ratio, completely clueless to the situation other than what context clues he can gather, is shoved left and right by people, but manages to wade through the crowd until he makes it to the wall nearby. Here, he's greeted by a familiar face. ]
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The air is smoky—unhealthy, carcinogenic—and it irritates Ratio's throat and eyes. He tries to blink away the tears forming in his eyes and comes to the conclusion that some sort of lachrymatory agent must be in use. And then—things explode. Literally and figuratively.
A molotov is thrown, and like a signal for war, a riot breaks out. Fists are thrown, bullets go flying, and bodies hit the ground. Ratio, completely clueless to the situation other than what context clues he can gather, is shoved left and right by people, but manages to wade through the crowd until he makes it to the wall nearby. Here, he's greeted by a familiar face. ]
Silco.