I didn't ask anyone to save my li- [But then Kon's gone and cut the connection, and Dixon's left grasping at smoke. It's true, he didn't know about Brainiac. He also doesn't particularly care, because he has no evidence of it. The concept of a debt that heavy can't be introduced to him in a minute, without context, without a chance to absorb it. He can't so quickly reform his idea of Brainiac as the kind of snotty green guy who did one thing nice for him and then has been condescending ever since.
But how Kon finishes the lecture burns. It burns real bad, and he doesn't know how to handle it. He's never known how to handle emotions, always been prone to extremes that sometimes get his body to outright shut him down. As a kid he would scream himself hoarse and cry until he puked; as an adult he drinks himself into a stupor and puts his fists through walls and sometimes people.
And he knows right now that that's what's happening, that he's riding a wave of anger that he can't get a grip on, digging himself a hole, sabotaging himself. He can't help but think that that's just how he is, some immutable fact about his character, some defect incapable of being righted.
You can be better than that. Some deep part of him wants to hold onto that, but he holds onto it like he's holding a hand over a flame. But right now he's not, and that gap is what hurts. He doesn't know how to bridge the gap. He doesn't even know how to start. He grasps around for someone, anyone, to blame and keeps coming up with nothing, backed into this corner with all his goodwill squandered.
He finally tosses the mirror aside and goes to have that cigarette and listen to some music. He's shaking hard enough that it takes him nearly a full minute to get the lighter going.]
no subject
But how Kon finishes the lecture burns. It burns real bad, and he doesn't know how to handle it. He's never known how to handle emotions, always been prone to extremes that sometimes get his body to outright shut him down. As a kid he would scream himself hoarse and cry until he puked; as an adult he drinks himself into a stupor and puts his fists through walls and sometimes people.
And he knows right now that that's what's happening, that he's riding a wave of anger that he can't get a grip on, digging himself a hole, sabotaging himself. He can't help but think that that's just how he is, some immutable fact about his character, some defect incapable of being righted.
You can be better than that. Some deep part of him wants to hold onto that, but he holds onto it like he's holding a hand over a flame. But right now he's not, and that gap is what hurts. He doesn't know how to bridge the gap. He doesn't even know how to start. He grasps around for someone, anyone, to blame and keeps coming up with nothing, backed into this corner with all his goodwill squandered.
He finally tosses the mirror aside and goes to have that cigarette and listen to some music. He's shaking hard enough that it takes him nearly a full minute to get the lighter going.]