[The feeling on his hands is alien; so much so, it throws his senses into disarray. He doesn't like it. It's filthy. He might've carried that out methodically and with surprising viciousness for his lack of strength and size, but he could feel this wasn't something he's done before. His hands were soft, well-kept. He was someone who kept his clean.

The sight before him, however, is beautiful.

Shoot watches the wings break through, with stomach turning and bones chilling, but in awe of it all the same. The blood dashes out and splatters like rain, only thicker, heavier. He thinks he prefers to see them this way, these wings coated in blood for what they've put them through, then clean and grey and dreadfully boring. The mess matched the grime of this dingy little place and suited it best. Suited him, maybe even suited them both? How presumptious of him.

If he weren't so exhausted, having fallen down from the force of the unfurling wings, hands and feet on the cold tiles, chest heaving, he would've been able to give his reply a bit more thought. Instead, he fell back on thoughtlessly blunt responses weighed down with cynicism:]

We don't. [He stops, breathless.] I think... we've been condemned to this place. It's walled-in, we're somewhere we can't leave on our own.

These wings are some sick joke, aren't they?

Angels wouldn't... do what we just did, right? Or— suffer like that...

Hey. Still... feel hot?

[He meant Cedar, of course, but it was a bit hard to make out, his tired voice dropping to a barely audible whisper, as he shifts his weight to one arm, trying to push his hair out of his face, forgetfully smearing blood onto his skin. Ick. He removes his hand quickly and tries to keep his head up, get back on his feet at least, to stay awake long enough to try and get the older haibane out of there.]