[ Ah, Carver thinks, and he allows himself a moment—only a moment—to sit with the calculus of that answer. Because there’s young, and then there’s young, and he remembers a world where that answer would have stunned him silent, and maybe a little melancholy for the sort of nonsense that demands children pick up weapons and learn how to wield them with skill.
And then there was the world Carver died in, where he and all the others taught their kid how to fight, how to hold a gun the moment his fingers were strong enough to pull the trigger. How to plunge a knife up through an enemy’s jaw and into the brain.
These things happen. He nods just once, accepts it. ]
Long time, [ he says simply. It’s good to meet another soldier, even if they’ll be enemies by the end. It bleeds familiar. So little does around here. ]
no subject
And then there was the world Carver died in, where he and all the others taught their kid how to fight, how to hold a gun the moment his fingers were strong enough to pull the trigger. How to plunge a knife up through an enemy’s jaw and into the brain.
These things happen. He nods just once, accepts it. ]
Long time, [ he says simply. It’s good to meet another soldier, even if they’ll be enemies by the end. It bleeds familiar. So little does around here. ]