"Well," Eridan began, "considerin' that little flair of yours back there basically shot my entire fuckin' career down the tubes, I'd —"
A breath. He tore them down an alley, scaled a chain link fence with terrifying ease. Backstreet after winding backstreet, fading into a grimy blur of brick and their own fleeting baroque.
"— I'd say I'm probably fired."
Finally, he pulled them to a stop once his paranoid mind felt even a shade at ease. Wheezing, took the opportunity to strip off his scarf and shirt, burning the former and turning the latter inside out. The spray of blood had been light, sure, but it was safer to burn the scarf outright and hope nobody noticed his shirt was inside out. Not that he thought anybody would.
Shirt off, the evidence of his introduction into the Establishment was made clear. Burn marks, light and faded scars — they hadn't just let him in, after all, not with how quickly he'd exchanged loyalties. They'd brought him into the fold and then brought out the brands, so to speak. A month, maybe two comprised of nothing but blurred pain and propaganda. And one more thing.
His gills still bore the marks of government scalpels. Surgical removal. And by then, it was too late to slip out of the net.
Eridan hastily pulled the shirt back over himself, soon after in human form. Six years had dulled the humiliation and venom, six years of playing along or dying, six years of growing up and dealing with it, but it was nonetheless still a sore subject.
no subject
A breath. He tore them down an alley, scaled a chain link fence with terrifying ease. Backstreet after winding backstreet, fading into a grimy blur of brick and their own fleeting baroque.
"— I'd say I'm probably fired."
Finally, he pulled them to a stop once his paranoid mind felt even a shade at ease. Wheezing, took the opportunity to strip off his scarf and shirt, burning the former and turning the latter inside out. The spray of blood had been light, sure, but it was safer to burn the scarf outright and hope nobody noticed his shirt was inside out. Not that he thought anybody would.
Shirt off, the evidence of his introduction into the Establishment was made clear. Burn marks, light and faded scars — they hadn't just let him in, after all, not with how quickly he'd exchanged loyalties. They'd brought him into the fold and then brought out the brands, so to speak. A month, maybe two comprised of nothing but blurred pain and propaganda. And one more thing.
His gills still bore the marks of government scalpels. Surgical removal. And by then, it was too late to slip out of the net.
Eridan hastily pulled the shirt back over himself, soon after in human form. Six years had dulled the humiliation and venom, six years of playing along or dying, six years of growing up and dealing with it, but it was nonetheless still a sore subject.
"You gonna save our asses or not, Nygma?"