Y
Yonni
Guest
Original poster
Taking the order in stride, Corbeau bobbed his head in another nod and tossed the others a pointed look. It was his way of saying good luck, instead of saying it aloud. He'd worry after them, of course. But, he understood well enough that they were tougher than they looked. Why else would the Captain have picked them in the first place? He needed specific people that would make the crew stronger as a whole. A good crew picked up each other's slack—what they lacked, they'd make up for. Even still, he didn't like leaving the ship alone, including the others, but if it meant wading into the more dangerous parts of the mission, he'd gladly do it so they didn't need to.
Besides, Miyamoto would be with them and he believed the girls had more bite than they let on.
One more check. Just to make sure. Deft fingers slipped over his belts, making sure they were tight; ammunition strapped in place, two on each side. He made sure all of his holsters were good and snug before he followed behind Peter, slipping over the edge of the ship's railing. Any moment's hesitation could mean life or death and he definitely didn't plan on letting anything happen to Peter, the Captain, or anyone else. Not if he could help it. As familiar as the Captain's grim humor was, bordering on his own apathetic views, he could see it clear as day. Concern smothered in confidence, wary but alert. It was a good way for a leader to be. He appreciated the sentiment.
"Aye," a one-word, curt reply.
Corbeau would see it done, right as rain. Quick as an eel. He gave his pistol a tap and inclined his chin towards Peter, eyebrow flagged. "Yell if you need anything?" Honestly, he didn't know about any of their combat-related abilities. Didn't know if they'd ever bloodied their hands, or taken a life before. Didn't know if they could pull the trigger if there was someone snarling in their face. It was a game-changer, that. Taking someone's life meant something the first time. Not so much the second. Or third. A dull ache, maybe. A residual hollow. An echo. Broken girls and boys that became harder.
Something that made dreams more than dreams.
He'd lost count of his own tally. Pulling the trigger became easier with time. With experience. A reflex. One swift movement that felt less and less like stepping off the edge of something big and more like an exhale; natural. Inevitable. He imagined hunting felt the same, not that he'd ever had that experience before. No papochka in his life, steering him through the woods; hand on shoulder, steadying his sights. It would've been a nicer way to learn his way around a rifle. The government stepped in for that; do this, do that, not good enough.
He didn't wait for any protests or admonitions that he wouldn't need to yell for help. Men had their own pride, too. They didn't like insinuations that they'd be too weak to deal with something; fuck, sometimes he was the same, but he knew well enough when he needed it. He kept his footsteps light as he descended into the ship's underbelly. Only when he reached the first open doorway leading into something that looked like a small mechanic's bay did he slow his pace, unholstering one of his pistols. He'd be quick enough to fire should anyone peep around the corner.
Or else, he wouldn't.
Death was nothing new. It was an observation that'd never bothered him. No sweaty palms. No jangling nerves. Only a soldier's steadiness, hands poised in front of him, pistol gripped and ready. When was the last time he'd been afraid? It was a question he'd asked himself before. He couldn't remember. Not really. A bygone emotion that felt strange, unusual. Alien, almost.
It wasn't the smell of rotten apples Corbeau noticed first. No, it was the tang of blood hanging thick in the air. Copper in his nose, stinking up the confines of the hallway. He wrinkled his nose against it and took a few more steps inside, revealing what he'd thought probable: bodies. Littering the grounds like dolls, all bent up and bruised. Some pressed up against the walls, surrounded by wooden rubble, or tangled against pipes. Most likely crushed in the crash by the looks of 'em. He recognized the signs. There'd been no struggle. He nudged a nearby leg with the toe of his boot and stepped over, picking his way down the hall.
After clearing some of the side chambers, and discovering six more bodies, the hallway opened up into the cargo hold, which was a much larger room in comparison. Several barrels and crates were half-haphazardly pushed against the walls; some up-ended, spilling their contents over the floorboards and others, seemingly untouched and stoppered closed. One more body was pinned against the wall, a slick copper pipe protruding from his gut. Blood had pooled and dried at his feet. A lazy line came from his mouth, where it'd been dripping when he was fresh. Seemed as if he'd put up a fight trying to free himself, by the looks of the spatters. Bad way to die.
He clicked his tongue, and froze.
Movement caught his eye, just in his peripherals, and his pistol immediately snapped up.
Someone was there. Behind some of the crates.
"Step out. Now. Slow like."
