curve of old bones [basterds]
Mar 20, 2023 15:04:57 GMT -5
Post by pogue on Mar 20, 2023 15:04:57 GMT -5
A R L O
"All I'm sayin'-"
There's a rusted throwing knife laced between his fingers as he speaks, stands in his own shadow and watches it pull itself thin as the sun falls above. "-is that Two got exactly what it deserved."
It feels treacherous to say considering where they stand, where they live, what they are and what they are forced to be. It feels treacherous, and it feels fuckin' good. He fiddles with the blade for a moment longer before shifting his stance and snapping his wrist, metal leaves flesh with nothing but the ice of its handle and makes a solid first impression on the makeshift training dummy in front of him, deep in the chest. Enough to maim, not enough to kill- yet.
"Lil off-center there, boy."
"Better imagining them bleed out. And, fuck off."
He darts a gaze, ice blue eyes alive with the same fire that runs in the bones of a Basterd towards Hugo, letting it linger for a moment before cracking a grin all yellow and smoke-stained. There's a tooth missing in there now and the blood is still left over, clinging to the glob of spit he shoots to the soil below. He'd enjoyed the smuggest of families suddenly shitting bricks in their pants at the shift in industry and he'd made it known plenty. He'd give that Bellisario prick one thing: he could at least hit hard.
It's not lost on him that his family's position is only held up by their dad's worth to the Capitol, that they could just as easily be dead rather than alive, that it might be better. Damned if they did, damned if they don't, he passes his next knife to his brother and ponders the thought, then spits out the words.
"Wouldn't be surprised if they picked Pops off next."
Words left unsaid cling to the venom in the air, then us.