And Hugo makes it very clear that it's the latter.
Now see, the calculus here pays off. Because Silco is still thrumming with violence, and hate, and anger. Because there is someone who is the source of a great deal of his own problems (and it isn't Jinx) and it's one person. And there's a longer pause.
One would think he might be... doing something. Violence. A tantrum. Being angry.
He smokes a cigar. He drinks. This is a different kind of anger than that explosive, violent thing that worms its way through him, that holds fear as it's motivator. There is nothing to lose here. What was there to lose? He'd killed the man, but it had been so long ago now, that he knew that he was worthless to Vander. Little more than the garbage and detritus that built their walls and lined their streets. He already knew that.
It's a tired, old anger. The one that leaves him maudlin when he's desperate, and keeps him up at night, because it had only reinforced the cold, painful truths that he'd spent his entire life fighting. The only thing he wanted was for him to hurt. Over, and over, and over again. To suffer for that crime. For deciding that it was he who should be discarded, for making deals with the people that patrolled their streets and forced them in line, and for seeing him as a worthy sacrifice for... nothing. For absolutely nothing. Because he was scared.
Even in his fear, even in his fear of losing Jinx, he would have never made that deal. He would have fought.
So can he say he's angry at Hugo? Why would he be? He doesn't care, beyond the fact that the man did what he always did, which was bludgeon his way through interactions and expect it all to fall into line. (This was, of course, Silco being extremely uncharitable.) No. He... didn't care, because why would he? He was angry, because that was the only emotion he felt when he considered the man.
Once, he'd drank underneath his statue. A moment of weakness.
In the only moment when maybe he understood some of it... in a panic, when there was nothing left... When he could have had everything for his entire world... Even then, he hated him. A spark of understanding stacked against the inferno that was every single crime he'd ever committed. A drop in the bucket. ]
no subject
And then there's acquainted.
And Hugo makes it very clear that it's the latter.
Now see, the calculus here pays off. Because Silco is still thrumming with violence, and hate, and anger. Because there is someone who is the source of a great deal of his own problems (and it isn't Jinx) and it's one person. And there's a longer pause.
One would think he might be... doing something. Violence. A tantrum. Being angry.
He smokes a cigar. He drinks. This is a different kind of anger than that explosive, violent thing that worms its way through him, that holds fear as it's motivator. There is nothing to lose here. What was there to lose? He'd killed the man, but it had been so long ago now, that he knew that he was worthless to Vander. Little more than the garbage and detritus that built their walls and lined their streets. He already knew that.
It's a tired, old anger. The one that leaves him maudlin when he's desperate, and keeps him up at night, because it had only reinforced the cold, painful truths that he'd spent his entire life fighting. The only thing he wanted was for him to hurt. Over, and over, and over again. To suffer for that crime. For deciding that it was he who should be discarded, for making deals with the people that patrolled their streets and forced them in line, and for seeing him as a worthy sacrifice for... nothing. For absolutely nothing. Because he was scared.
Even in his fear, even in his fear of losing Jinx, he would have never made that deal. He would have fought.
So can he say he's angry at Hugo? Why would he be? He doesn't care, beyond the fact that the man did what he always did, which was bludgeon his way through interactions and expect it all to fall into line. (This was, of course, Silco being extremely uncharitable.) No. He... didn't care, because why would he? He was angry, because that was the only emotion he felt when he considered the man.
Once, he'd drank underneath his statue. A moment of weakness.
In the only moment when maybe he understood some of it... in a panic, when there was nothing left... When he could have had everything for his entire world... Even then, he hated him. A spark of understanding stacked against the inferno that was every single crime he'd ever committed. A drop in the bucket. ]
Then you are fortunate that it was once.
He had a habit of breaking things.