There was a draft in this bunker. A strong one that ruffled his hair and forced a chill to spread in his blood, the dark material of his allotted clothing and gear hardly retaining warmth.
Volke knew not the source of the draft, and did not greatly care. There was nothing he could do, no allowances he had to remove himself from this place, not when the Shield was caged in a containment cell behind him. Superior would no doubt refuse permission to be anywhere different, though Volke was not so foolish as to ask. He would only earn Superior’s wrath for such, or the sudden snap of her fist.
Papa was forever insistent that he avoid the ire of the operatives, no matter how inescapable their aggravation seemed.
Volke sighed, a low distress that so barely broke the quiet. The sound hardly carried, even though he had not been forced to know the clutch of the dreaded mask. There were no operatives currently on this level, no superiors, nothing and no one that would rain down punishment as Volke withdrew a folded photo from the sheath of his blade.
It’d been folded twice on an angle, and now when opened the creases did not obscure his father’s face, the strength of his jaw and cool capability of his eyes clearly seen. Even on such a faded image, little beyond his father’s face even visible, he still still looked do grand. So eminent. How long since Volke’d seen papa? Since he’d had a moment of his time, of his brief affection?
Months now, since before the Shield had been-.
A renewed gust took advantage of his distraction, the photo fluttering from his loose grasp. Shame flooded his chest, a roiling fright, and Volke had not even a moment to grab for it before the forbidden token fluttered away between the bars behind him, skittering face down across the concrete, so far from his grasp.
Volke did not even reach, but crouched there before the bars, despair edging so swiftly up his spine, forcing his brows to curve up in such foolishly visible distress.
