honey, i rose up from the dead. i do it all the time
“Cal.” He repeats, short and abrupt, a flat tone to his voice that seems to suggest his weariness, his upset. But she recognizes him at least as he clutches the mask with an almost death grip, watching her straighten up and rush to his side. The metal arm falls away from the handle that sticks out of him as she closes the door and gestures to the couch that’s become a makeshift infirmary bed, and he steps toward it – uncaring if he’s still soaking wet.
At the very least, he doesn’t have to breathe, so the knife itself hasn’t jostled much, but now that he’s under the cover of shelter, the fluid continues to bubble and seep. “Was training. Wasn’t paying attention. My knife slipped off the target and bounced back at me.” Muscles feather in his jaw as he moves to sink down on what he thinks is a clear bed – quite clearly hearing the crunch of something beneath him when he sits. “The mask I had in the first war. Found it recently. The rest is sort of what I wore back then.”
The crunch, though, sparks another fraction of frustration, one that he tries to tamper down with a sharp edged clench to his jaw and the bite of his tongue, turning slightly in an attempt to not jostle the dagger in him, so that he might be able to pull the broken pieces out from under him, lifting it to inspect its sharp edges, hoping none of it has stuck to him.
It’s hard to tell, being Ascended and all that. “Sort of, because before I wouldn’t have fuckin’ stabbed myself.” It’s a quiet admission, a slow simmer.
At the very least, he doesn’t have to breathe, so the knife itself hasn’t jostled much, but now that he’s under the cover of shelter, the fluid continues to bubble and seep. “Was training. Wasn’t paying attention. My knife slipped off the target and bounced back at me.” Muscles feather in his jaw as he moves to sink down on what he thinks is a clear bed – quite clearly hearing the crunch of something beneath him when he sits. “The mask I had in the first war. Found it recently. The rest is sort of what I wore back then.”
The crunch, though, sparks another fraction of frustration, one that he tries to tamper down with a sharp edged clench to his jaw and the bite of his tongue, turning slightly in an attempt to not jostle the dagger in him, so that he might be able to pull the broken pieces out from under him, lifting it to inspect its sharp edges, hoping none of it has stuck to him.
It’s hard to tell, being Ascended and all that. “Sort of, because before I wouldn’t have fuckin’ stabbed myself.” It’s a quiet admission, a slow simmer.
VARUS
