[ He laughs, short, sharp, and humorless. It hurts in his chest, something shifting uncomfortably under his ribs. He ignores it. ]
Why? Should my name concern you?
[ The sarcastic edge to his voice is too thin to hide the truth behind it: that he's exhausted, that he's in pain, that he's fraying like a rope someone's been scraping at with a razor. Fear beats on him like a drum.
But there's still defiance in his eyes as he looks over at the white-haired man who'd ruined so much. ]
How many of the others you've killed had a chance to give you their name? How many now are just faceless Expeditioners, not worth your attention?
[ His legs are trembling, from strain and from weariness; he can only hope the man doesn't notice, can't see the slight way they shake. He sets his shoulders, eyes hard, and refuses to give in. He can collapse in his own room, later, when it's safe. ]
Gustave. My name. The name of the man you murdered. One of many, non?
no subject
Why? Should my name concern you?
[ The sarcastic edge to his voice is too thin to hide the truth behind it: that he's exhausted, that he's in pain, that he's fraying like a rope someone's been scraping at with a razor. Fear beats on him like a drum.
But there's still defiance in his eyes as he looks over at the white-haired man who'd ruined so much. ]
How many of the others you've killed had a chance to give you their name? How many now are just faceless Expeditioners, not worth your attention?
[ His legs are trembling, from strain and from weariness; he can only hope the man doesn't notice, can't see the slight way they shake. He sets his shoulders, eyes hard, and refuses to give in. He can collapse in his own room, later, when it's safe. ]
Gustave. My name. The name of the man you murdered. One of many, non?