and he bellows, top of his lungs, can’t hear it over the barraging drums of a new round of Jerry’s shells but sure the fuck feels it, larynx shredding in the force of his war cry, holy shit, Cyril Bagger’s got a war cry, same as the other boys, it expels from his guts with the same skyward explosion as the missiled earth, he’s bloodthirsty, he’ll do anything he needs to protect she who needs protecting,
and a piece of him, a tiny, Arno-sized splinter, knows there’s something awry with all this, something awry with him as he fuses into the bloodlust funnel, the precise act he’s always avoided, individuality swapped for the exhilarating namelessness of being a ball bearing inside a mechanism, he’s succumbed, but lord, don’t it feel good, ain’t it the easiest way to bash past regret and shame, feels so much better to lose himself to a mass, to dilute into a flood of fury,
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