The room was silent, the two mercenaries standing amidst a scene of
chaos, bodies & blood strewn about the space. The elder is breathing heavily,
gaze moving erratically from body to wall to light to door, as if searching
desperately for something, & the younger is standing at his side, slightly
taller with a rugged looking blade in hand, dripping blood. After a pause he
turns his head, looking to the archer, & smiles wanly when he catches the
other man’s gaze. Slowly he raises the blade, eyes turning to the weapon
with a look of quiet thoughtfulness. Then, looking back–
“Hey, Clint?” The elder assassin looks over, gaze flicking between the
mercenary’s face & raised blade. He quirks a brow in question, to which the
other responds with a vague gesture of the blade. For a moment they stay
like that, staring at each other, oblivious to the death they’d reaped around
them. Then, as if overcome by some strange emotion, the younger takes
the knife to his mouth & licks a trail of blood off the blade, the motion quick
& childish, a wry grin already crossing his features. The other mercenary’s
face turns with a grimace, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the mental
image, both hands raised in a questioning motion.
“What the fuck, Cheyenne?”
