It’s an effort to keep any shadow of pain from passing over his features as Marc listens to Solomons talk. The wounds he took in his last fight are healed without a trace, of course, but his existence has been breaking into smaller and sharper pieces ever since Steven’s life began to meld with his. The drinking’s gotten worse, the insomnia bad as it’s ever been. If he sleeps at all he jerks awake not knowing which side of the mirror he’s on, or for that matter which he’d rather be. The work he’s been taking isn’t exactly in line with his contract, but Marc finds himself caring less and less—taking risks he wouldn’t have before, following the darkest of humanity into the far-flung places of the world where hell is a place on earth. He’s failed with Harrow, with Ammit, his last job for Khonshu going unfulfilled, and he’s so fucking tired.
Still, for all that he’s been chasing an end—some way to disappear for good—the idea that his is a soul hardy enough to commit the certain atrocities Solomons speaks of doesn’t sit well with him. Marc knows he’s fucked it up, this latest job, and he doesn’t see any easy to fix it. His hands wouldn’t move when they needed to, his mouth wouldn’t speak the commands he should have given. Steven clamored in him, raged and wept and pleaded, and though Marc did everything he could to try to shut him up, shut him out, he couldn’t finish the mission. He doesn’t think he would even if Steven were silent and gone.
“Your men didn’t tell me who the targets were or their numbers until we were in the borders of the camp. There weren’t enough of us to carry it out, even under cover.” With his armor he could have done it, Marc thinks, but he wouldn’t have. Not like that, not with the voices of children surrounding him, whoever they might grow up to be.
He’s not used to reporting directly to the person who hired him. Orders come through a CO, or some form of communication; he reports back the same way and moves on. Marc’s head is pounding; he’s hot, feverish, prickling beneath his clothes the longer he stands in front of Solomons and he wonders for an instant if his knees are about to buckle. “With all due respect, I won’t be going back there. I can recommend some contacts who may be able to help you.” Don’t you dare, Steven says, and Marc stands straight and still, ignoring him.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2022-05-07 02:34 am (UTC)Still, for all that he’s been chasing an end—some way to disappear for good—the idea that his is a soul hardy enough to commit the certain atrocities Solomons speaks of doesn’t sit well with him. Marc knows he’s fucked it up, this latest job, and he doesn’t see any easy to fix it. His hands wouldn’t move when they needed to, his mouth wouldn’t speak the commands he should have given. Steven clamored in him, raged and wept and pleaded, and though Marc did everything he could to try to shut him up, shut him out, he couldn’t finish the mission. He doesn’t think he would even if Steven were silent and gone.
“Your men didn’t tell me who the targets were or their numbers until we were in the borders of the camp. There weren’t enough of us to carry it out, even under cover.” With his armor he could have done it, Marc thinks, but he wouldn’t have. Not like that, not with the voices of children surrounding him, whoever they might grow up to be.
He’s not used to reporting directly to the person who hired him. Orders come through a CO, or some form of communication; he reports back the same way and moves on. Marc’s head is pounding; he’s hot, feverish, prickling beneath his clothes the longer he stands in front of Solomons and he wonders for an instant if his knees are about to buckle. “With all due respect, I won’t be going back there. I can recommend some contacts who may be able to help you.” Don’t you dare, Steven says, and Marc stands straight and still, ignoring him.