It's All Good ((EquinoxSol))

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"Alright. Don't say that the Nazi's never gave you a chance. You bring this upon yourself. Easy question, easy punishment." Wolff chuckled, before pressing the razor down on the male's left upper arm. He cut quickly and deeply, watching the blood spill down. Six swift motions and a bloody swastika appeared. It would a car over, a permanent reminder if the male survived. He took the salt and got a handful of the white crystals, before smashing it into the male's wound.
 
Desmond had been steeling himself for the cut on his arm, preparing himself for the inevitable pain, and he didn't cry out, but he had also forced himself not to look at it, so by the time that Wolff was finished, he was breathing through his teeth, shaking slightly. Momentarily, he had forgotten about the German's 'salt in the wound' comment, and had briefly let his guard down, just in time for the salt to be pressed into the wound. That time, he did scream, jumping as soon as the sodium came into contact with his cut flesh.
 
"What a beautiful brand. Mein fuhrer would be pleased." He said, stepping back and admiring the look. "I think one on your cheek would be perfect." He moved in with the razor blade. "Rank...or is your pretty little face going to be destroyed?"
 
Still in pain from the salt crystals still on the wound in his arm, he focused his eyes on the captain, flinching as he moved the blade close to him. I can cover it up, he told himself, but one on my face would be impossible to cover. Biting the inside of his cheek, he couldn't help it. In a shaky voice, soft as a whisper, he muttered, "Corporal..." looking down as shame crept its way across his face. The feeling was the worst in the world, like he had betrayed a family member. His chest felt tight and just...wrong. Dreading if the rest of the interrogation would feel like this, he closed his eyes tightly, forcing himself to take even breaths.
 
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He barely heard the whisper, but there it was and he smiled. "Good job, that wasn't too hard, was it?" he asked, patting the male's cheek in the same spot he had been planning on carving a swastika on a few moments earlier. "So, Corporal Whittaker, what exactly were you doing flying over restricted air space?" Yes, the questions went from easy to hard, and he added a bit more papers to the bowl underneath the male, making sure the fire stayed nice and hot.
 
Desmond shifted uncomfortably in the seat, starting to feel it warming beneath him. Still, when the captain placed his hand on his cheek, he turned his face away, his stomach still turning from the image of him permanently scarred by a swastika on his cheek. At the next question, he immediately decided that he wouldn't answer it, no matter what. He hated the idea of the captain learning that he had been the one to get them lost, that it was his fault that Davidson and Goldman were dead. He didn't want to give the Nazis any more power over him, and admitting that he got lost was just asking to be relentlessly tormented by it. Shifting again, he looked down at his lap, waiting for the feeling of the blade against his cheek any moment now.
 
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