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seen from India
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“i know the atmosphere is charming and peaceful, but not enough for multiple visits. why do you keep bothering to show up? nothing’s changed, crane.” / @foradecision
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crane stands on a hairpin trigger and roman can feel the pulsing hum of a bomb set to detonate. when he trusts his ability to speak, his lip curls in a soundless snarl. something malignant stirs inside his chest, inside his belly. doubt. crane speaks of doubt like he’d fathom anything crossing through roman’s mind at the moment. the weight of the gun at his side feels secure, feels safe. he’d be able to fire off and wound, if not kill, in the time before crane could retaliate. he could, but he doesn’t. not yet.
raw animal impulse bristles.
“what do you know.” less a question, more a demand; evenly spoken save for the dead drop below the surface. “no games.” / @foradecision, from here.
@foradecision sent: “ oh … you got something on your shoe. ”
brain matter, gray and soft and useless, exploded out with fragments of skull and decayed flesh. along with all the other juicy bits of the bomber. the gray sludge is what made its home on his boot. admittedly, it’d been a close call. with a gloved hand he draws the hunter green bandana from his mouth, inspecting himself, and snorts. blood drips from the end of his machete. in the distance, out of their perimeter, there’s crying.
still crouched, roman ignores it with ease, shaking his foot once, twice, and a third time to send the matter askew elsewhere.
would you look at that? crane’s a good ole’ captain obvious, too.
he glances up, a facsimile hint of amusement hooking the corner of his mouth.
“ever consider a career in boot licking if running doesn’t do it for you?”
@foradecision hi sweetie
