"Like shit," he says mildly. He clings to the feeble edges of his consciousness, the faint hints of light and color fleeting across his vision, or what exists of it. None of the dizziness and nausea really abates. He hates being worked over like this, crushed under a weight totally different than the mud of the tunnels in France.
He'd prefer to be in one of those tunnels, he thinks. One of the boats with the mad dogs.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2018-12-03 02:22 am (UTC)He'd prefer to be in one of those tunnels, he thinks. One of the boats with the mad dogs.
"Not Russian," he whispers. "Fuck are you, huh?"