Chunks of the hall are ripped out and thrown, taking most of the bullets, other chunks hurtling along faster, all slamming forward with no regard for aim as Ilya looks around. The only way out is to shove himself through a hole in the wall, all the the while feeling reason slip away from him, panic coursing through him as he finds himself in another room, preemptively grabbing ahold of things to use to throw with telekinesis, a sort of choked feeling gripping him.
He never saw combat in Chukotka. His training at the Institute has been minimal and nonviolent. Ilya doesn't identify the sweat beading on his forehead as fear, but he knows he should be doing something instead of hiding.
His powerset could be very, very good at killing people. And that means he's looking at the furniture he's holding with his mind with frightened eyes. Don't make me kill you, he projects out, with what feeble telepathy he has. I don't want to do this!
But he will, if he has to. Because 1940's Chukchi morals demanded no less in defending those that have taken him in. And to be quite frank, this is really the last place to hide he has before they leave him no choice in the matter.
no subject
He never saw combat in Chukotka. His training at the Institute has been minimal and nonviolent. Ilya doesn't identify the sweat beading on his forehead as fear, but he knows he should be doing something instead of hiding.
His powerset could be very, very good at killing people. And that means he's looking at the furniture he's holding with his mind with frightened eyes. Don't make me kill you, he projects out, with what feeble telepathy he has. I don't want to do this!
But he will, if he has to. Because 1940's Chukchi morals demanded no less in defending those that have taken him in. And to be quite frank, this is really the last place to hide he has before they leave him no choice in the matter.