He is going to be sick. Her loathing, her flagrant contempt, her auspicious foul arrogance- who is she but a fucking overgrown bitch, so haughty and foully aloof, a birdbrain with wings that can be so easily destroyed. Doesn’t this stupid, washed-up whore realize the precariousness of her position? Oh how she stares at them with such bloody fucking repugnance- her!

Ricochet’s stomach heaves, a knotted, thrashing mass, and foam bubbles at his dark lips, white spittle which drips and splatters against his chest, anger boiling, and he tamps down on his growing frustration. There is a waspish slap as his wet tail flicks across his buttermilk flank, and his ears pin back to his skull, disappearing in the tangles of his dark mane. At his hooves, Guns growl, white ruff spiking and teeth baring in warning as he sinks down low to the ground, snapping his yellowed fangs together in a loud clack, mud clotting between his paws.

Every muscle among his body tenses for one split second as he prepares to throw himself at the imperious asshole with her golden eyes, before Dragomir announces the escape of the spy.

Disbelief splinters the fury in his eyes, and yet the teal hardens again into pointed daggers filled with a new vigor, and he straightens his stance, drawing himself to his full height, undaunted by this foreigner. His face writhes into a grotesque expression, full of pretentious hatred and vicious ire, a delirious longing to inflict pain, to not just kill her, but hurt her, to mark her with bruises and watch this interloper of which let the shadow escape fall beneath the growing might of their comradeship. “YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” The Incendiary screams, his vocal cords hoarse, splintered from overuse, spittle flying from his lips, and he glares at the featherbrained skyrat, centering all of his outrageous temper on her. “YOU – FUCKING – ASSHOLE!”

And he is rigid with his righteous anger, every muscle locked and trembling in anticipation, his eyes gleaming lustily with the taste of a new battle soon approaching.

Then- and then!- the trespasser has the audacity, the foolish and questionable bravery, to make mockery of Ricochet, the Incendiary, the war machine, relentless and aggressive and reckless in his pursuit, with her cool little tones and angry little eyes, to act as if she, a FUCKING SKYRAT, is better than him. He inhales raggedly, drinking in the bitterly cold air, the actions of Shadow forgotten, her disappearance accepted, and he turns on his new target of frustration and blatant resentment. “I am the Incendiary, you overgrown fat whore, and you do not deserve the gift of death.”

There are teeth snapping at his face, and he drops his head hastily to avoid Brighid’s lunge, and his own teeth reach out, in aims of snapping tight around her throatlatch and clamping down, even as she spins out to buck at Dragomir. Too bad fucking bad for her that she engaged in this battle, because the only outcome was for her to die or take to the skies in defeat with her tail between her legs. As she shuffles her hindquarters, and she guffaws, Ricochet gathers himself, rearing up in hopes to bring his hooves down on her shoulders and spine should his attempt at her throat go awry.

He drops back, the thud of the ground meeting him jarring up his forelegs, and then the ground ignites in a blaze beneath his hooves- the dry dust had been exposed beneath layers of rain-sodden soil by Guns during their talk, and now everything was on fire (hopefully not Dragomir.) Ricochet shoves himself far from the flames, the hot familiar lick searing his forelegs momentarily before the rain washes away whatever heat may have been absorbed into his forelegs.

He hopes Brighid burns.