that's a closed coffin painstakingly buried in a shallow grave on reach alongside everything he used to know. he hammered in the nails himself, one for every corner, and then stepped aside and watched, unfeeling, as the covenant did what they did best: scorch his remains to obsidian glass, destroy the evidence, move on.
restless corpses aren't always quiet, lesson one. he couldn't drown his thoughts in whiskey or contain his misery to a single memory dashed in black ink behind his right ear, so he took a knife to the spreading dryrot disguised as guilt and hollowed himself to his core and moved the fuck on too because the alternative meant an ugly metamorphosis into a shade of a human being stuck in a looping nightmare, like ortez. like the broken man swinging at him with a knife right now.
it shouldn't matter. somehow it hits the only exposed nerve he has left. his pulse kicks in his throat, breath hitching into a guttural snarl.
sharkface won't see him pull a knife. one slight flick of his wrist, and it slips from a compartment tucked into the underside of his vambrace. all the easier to access in an emergency, like when he needs to palm it and propel it at sharkface's knife-wielding arm in the span of a half-second, quicker than a reflex. )
Fuck you, asshole.
( you're all the goddamn same.
he doesn't wait, tanking the combined weight of his body and rig into sharkface's chest. leverage, to grapple him to the floor or against a wall, whichever comes first, and if he takes a fucking stab or two in the process, so be it. )
no subject
that's a closed coffin painstakingly buried in a shallow grave on reach alongside everything he used to know. he hammered in the nails himself, one for every corner, and then stepped aside and watched, unfeeling, as the covenant did what they did best: scorch his remains to obsidian glass, destroy the evidence, move on.
restless corpses aren't always quiet, lesson one. he couldn't drown his thoughts in whiskey or contain his misery to a single memory dashed in black ink behind his right ear, so he took a knife to the spreading dryrot disguised as guilt and hollowed himself to his core and moved the fuck on too because the alternative meant an ugly metamorphosis into a shade of a human being stuck in a looping nightmare, like ortez. like the broken man swinging at him with a knife right now.
it shouldn't matter. somehow it hits the only exposed nerve he has left. his pulse kicks in his throat, breath hitching into a guttural snarl.
sharkface won't see him pull a knife. one slight flick of his wrist, and it slips from a compartment tucked into the underside of his vambrace. all the easier to access in an emergency, like when he needs to palm it and propel it at sharkface's knife-wielding arm in the span of a half-second, quicker than a reflex. )
Fuck you, asshole.
( you're all the goddamn same.
he doesn't wait, tanking the combined weight of his body and rig into sharkface's chest. leverage, to grapple him to the floor or against a wall, whichever comes first, and if he takes a fucking stab or two in the process, so be it. )