#gonna guess how much you want to kill sakharine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

it-stheaulifeforme · 4 years

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“I didn’t say kill the damn boy!!”

“You said to break the bones in his body---”

Sakharine aggressively shoved Allan against the wall of the cabin by the front of his long coat. “You simple minded---” he spat, “there’s a difference!! I still want him alive!! You think I can get a scroll from a dead wretched little brat??”

The man in red let go, trying to remain calm and adjusting his own jacket, still with a glint of fury in his eyes as he looked at the other man. He sighed exasperatedly, briefly glancing away. “Did you manage to get him to say anything important?” he asked, a rigid firmness in his voice.

Tom, standing behind Sakharine, exchanged nervous looks with Allan.

“Well??” Sakharine angrily insisted, looking very expectantly at both of them.

There was a small silence. “Nothing, boss.”

He looked at both of them like they’d just lost their entire minds. Not that he didn’t always think that, but this was baffling enough as it is for even these two.

“What do you mean, nothing?”

Another silence.

“He said nothing.”

“You beat him within an inch of his damn life and he said NOTHING??”

Sakharine was more infuriated than ever, mainly showing it in his eyes, before his voice leapt up louder and more aggressively this time. Allan and Tom practically jumped out of their own skin at his raised voice before trying to stammer out a reply. Predictably, they were cut short.

“I’ve had grown men break before they’ve hardly had a finger laid on them but you couldn’t even get a teenage boy to crack??”

Sakharine wondered who he had more problems with; his idiotic crew who couldn’t get answers from a literal boy to the little brat himself. He didn’t understand how such a young person would not give in despite the physical suffering he was put through. What had this ginger brat been up to that made him that defiant to remain quiet through that?

If the simple minded crew couldn’t get an answer out of him, he’d do it himself. He couldn’t refuse to say anything forever.

They were interrupted by a noise outside the door, followed by a low growl and barking. How in god’s name had that stupid mutt of the boy’s manage to get onto the damn ship??

The door swung open to reveal one of the crewmates, the small struggling bundle of white fur snapping at him with the fur of his neck in his right hand. “Found this mangy dog looking around, boss,” he remarked snidely, trying to avoid being bitten, “must have been searching for its young master.”

Before anything else happened, Snowy managed to wriggle free, landing on all fours with a thud, baring his teeth and barking ferociously at the people that surrounded him. Sakharine was about to bat the damn dog with his cane to get it to shut up before it stopped, bounding over to the metal cage on the other side of the cabin.

Sakharine narrowed his eyes at the sudden change in the behaviour of that dog. It had gotten all the way here and the first chance it got, it had leapt straight towards the boy, a curled up bruised and bloodied figure. It whined, pawing through the bars, standing on its hind legs to get him to wake up. Clearly distressed, it eventually poked its head through, pulling on the boy’s blue jumper to get him to respond.

“What on earth---” Allan made to say, taking a step forward before his path was blocked by Sakharine’s cane who was fixated on the dog’s behaviour around the boy. There seemed a particular thought running through Sakharine’s mind as the dog desperately tried to get his owner to wake up. A noticeable shift in the latter’s movement despite his injuries caught his attention.

“Snowy...?” It was quiet and cracked, but audible. The crewmates observed a more malicious glint in their boss’ eyes almost as if to know what he had in mind. It didn’t help also observing the particular sickly, self satisfied grin that formed soon after on his face at this vocalisation.

Perfect.

Not looking back, he took the cane from in front of Allan. “I’ll handle this,” he remarked, “unlike you lot.”

He strode forward towards the dog, obviously named Snowy, who turned to him defensively, growling viciously under its breath. “Oh for god’s sake,” he muttered, batting at the dog with his cane, “will you shut up---”

He finally kicked it and it responded with a yelp, managing to tumble over into the metal cage. “Finally, you dirty little mutt,” he dryly remarked and stepped in, slamming the door with a loud clang behind him.

Tintin, the boy, flinched in surprise and managed to lift his head, displaying the mess that had been made of his face. Sakharine wasn’t one for hands on work - his henchman did that for him - so naturally he felt the physical inclination to recoil. Of course, despite the bruising along his cheekbones and the blood that had run down mainly from head wounds and especially a vivid dark purple bruise around his right eye, there was still a sense of defiance in his face.

Whether that was by the curl of his split lips upwards in an expression of disgust or fire that seemed to burn in those clear pupils of his, he could see it. He was almost endeared by it.

Almost. Unfortunately, it was an obstacle and he wasn’t about to be a victim of sentiment. Maybe what he was about to do next would make him see sense. Not like those traitorous crewmates back there managed to be of any help in that area.

Snowy almost darted forward but Sakharine was quicker this time, abruptly yanking the dog with a grip on the fur of his neck. He yelped again, but this time he was more whimpering than growling, flailing his legs. He turned down to look at Tintin, whose eyes seemed to burn with a new kind of anger but also remained cold, reading almost like a new level of fiery disdain specifically for what was happening to his dog.

Sakharine raised his eyebrows in a faux affable gesture. “Why don’t we try this again?” he asked, a sickening politeness in his words. Tintin merely glared at him.

“Put him down,” he stated through gritted teeth, a sneer across his bloodied lips.

Sakharine wanted to laugh. This felt like Marlinspike Hall again, but with more control over his side. This brat wouldn’t be able to walk away with an attitude like that this time.

“Perhaps you’re forgetting something,” he continued in a conversational manner, as if to ignore that rebellious tone in Tintin’s voice, “I still need to know what you’ve done with that scroll.”

“I said I don’t---”

Tintin was cut off by a vicious kick to his ribs and he practically choked out a scream, eyes widened from the unbearable pain. Not long ago he felt like he’d had one or two broken and the kick did enough to make the pain flare up, but he was not able to do much about it apart from a choked scream that tore itself from his throat.

Snowy was now throwing up more of a fuss, though quietened into whimpers as Sakharine singlehandedly ripped his sword from its holder, an agonised cry coming from Tintin as the blade was held to the dog’s throat.

“Don’t play games with me, you stupid boy,” he seethed, watching Tintin’s clear eyes appear to set alight with multiple emotions in the dimness of the lower decks, “you knew exactly what you spoke about earlier, so unless you want your dear dog you love so much to die, I suggest telling me where the scroll is.”

Tintin didn’t think he could get any angrier, or even show more of it with how much pain he was in. “You’re sick, you know that?” he spat, hints of distress clearly making themselves known with the shake in his voice and the shine of his eyes, “Don’t you even dare!”

Sakharine laughed, amused. “Only because I know how to get the job done, you insolent child,” he remarked, the blade glinting underneath the dog’s jaw, “so would you rather let your dog live compared to remaining secretive about scrolls that were none of your damn business in the first place?”

The sickly grin appeared back on his face, and Tintin couldn’t help but flick his eyes between the other man’s face, the blade and the black, pleading eyes of his beloved dog, Snowy. He wasn’t remotely in a position to argue, emotionally or physically. He wasn’t just a boy though, even though he knew he was always that despite everything that he’d done. He couldn’t possibly let this man get away like this; he just wanted a nice ship and he’d thrown himself face first into this mystery with the criminal dealings underpinning it all.

But he couldn’t bank on solving this mystery and catching criminals at the cost of his own dog. How much could come close to how much Snowy meant to him? Even if he wanted to figure out the means to stop these people. Not like he didn’t know that these kinds of people had many ways to play dirty. Of course they would.

Of course he would.

“It’s be a real shame to stain such lovely white fur...” Sakharine trailed off with faux sympathy in his voice, before the cracked voice of the boy spoke up, fervently.

“Stop!” he cried, feeling nausea in the pit of his stomach at the description, “just stop! Please, don’t!”

Sakharine stopped, moreso at the distress in the boy’s voice, however much he tried not to. Not like he had the strength, anyway. The shine in his eyes was very clear, as if something was going to fall from them. He was grinning now, contemptuously, self-satisfied, as if the mere idea of reducing what appeared to be a strong-willed boy almost to tears was enjoyable, in of itself.

“And why is that?” he asked, that grin not budging in the slightest.

“I...” Tintin started, hating himself for saying it, “I don’t have the scroll on me.” Evidently putting emphasis on that last part. “It’s still on the mainland, because it’s in my wallet that was stolen from me.”

Sakharine raised an eyebrow. That explains why the brat didn’t have it on him. He frowned; it was frustrating enough that this was the case without it being back where they started. But he appeared satisfied enough, pulling the sword away from the dog’s throat and dropped him as if was diseased. Predictably, the dog scampered over, now more concerned for the worse state his owner was in, licking him and whining in his face. The boy was more or less zoned out now, eyes bright with tears, a hand absentmindedly stroking the mutt’s head.

He looked down, patronisingly, though his voice remained clear to the crewmates outside. He could see anger and hurt boiling behind that deadened expression. “Never underestimate the influence of the bond between a boy and his dog,” he spoke, his voice once again sickeningly polite, “especially when he forgets to value the life of the animal over business that had nothing to do with him to begin with. Anyone can be influenced if you just do it right.” He glared over at his henchman, but didn’t say anything else.

He left the metal cage, putting his cane back together, the boy and dog barely flinching as metal hit metal. “It’s a real shame,” he said aloud, his thoughts wandering with a malicious undertone, “Killing that damn animal would’ve been frankly enjoyable.”

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