Aoba could hardly be said to be called a natural, but he took to the field better than most ordinary civilians probably would have. Desire was not immune to fear, seeing as that too was a very basic human emotion, but it couldn’t consume his thoughts the way it might have if Reason were driving. The things he most strongly embodied were desirous and destructive, and though the latter part had been docile lately, the violence of the Sparrow races had reminded him. The danger Declan was in was fuel upon the sparks, and the ignition upon it all was how fucking tired he was of being baggage.

Center shots were easier than headshots, ironically. He missed from misunderstanding his gun’s ability to auto-target, mostly. He still had to focus, had to aim enough to catch the targets in the gunsights. It wasn’t spray-and-pray or fire-and-forget. He had to sight them himself.

Their inhumanity helped, in that regard. Reason could find little to dwell on, guilt-wise at least, when the creatures in his crosshairs were machines with cyclopic faces—and very much out to kill them, first.

The adrenaline quickening his blood was heady, addicting. He might have even been a little turned on. But he was also getting all the angrier. This wasn’t just a random handful of enemies, like crossing paths with a rival gang. Declan was alone out here against what seemed to be a small army.

He gave Mac a thumbs up, acknowledging the instructions. Jokes aside, he had no intention of dying.