#like i only wrote him once for a ben vs rogers fic

[honorhearted]

TRY + A CHARACTER ( from Turn ofc ; do robert rogers )

SEND  TRY + A CHARACTER  YOU’D LIKE TO SEE ME ( ATTEMPT ) TO WRITE ! / @seadcgs

"Ah-tah-tahhh." Rogers lifted his leg and entrapped the other man -- no, rat -- beneath his boot, his tongue brushing against one sharp canine with a sneer. "Y'wanna know why you're strugglin', lad? Why you're findin' it so difficult to breathe?"

Any time Rogers honed in on the kill, became shark-like, his brogue grew more pronounced; his senses all heightened, and he could practically taste the panic in the air. As a boy, he'd learned to hunt young. It didn't take his father's patient tutelage to alert him to the cold and painful truth: the world was hard, the world was cruel, and woe to any man who stood in his way.

Although Rogers wouldn't call himself malicious nor unfair, there was a certain thrill in watching traitors squirm and beg for their lives. The greatest pleasure laid in giving them hope -- just the scantest ribbon of faith that they would live to see another tomorrow. And just as that relief settled in, he would yank the proverbial thread and unravel them into the meaningless, godforsaken rubbish heap from whence they came.

"Snake venom," he finally supplied, withdrawing a small vial from his pocket. "While you were so rudely flap-flap-flappin' your gums, I did the neighborly thing and poured us both a glass. Only, I didn't touch mine." Here, Rogers pinged the sherry with his index finger. "I knew I recognized you. If y'wanna catch a predator, y'gotta think like one, boy." He flicked the trembling man's perspiring forehead, tisking as he straightened with a sigh. "When, oh when will Major Andre learn that sendin' a wee pup to do a wolf's job ain't gonna work out, eh? That major of yours is startin' to leave a mighty big trail of bodies. Not my fault, by the way." Rogers raised his arms. "Wouldja blame a lion for defendin' his territory? I'm just doin' as animals do, lad, so I hope y'know this is nothin' personal."

The man choked and gurgled, shaking against the floor as his mouth foamed unpleasantly.

Tucking the venom back inside his coat, Rogers faux lamented, "I did consider lettin' ya live so y'could deliver the message to good ol' Johnny-boy personally, but I grow weary of his vanity and cowardice. Perhaps your death -- one I had to elevate for the sake of gainin' his attention -- will finally be the one that drives the point home, aye?"

When the man finally passed out, succumbing to the poison, Rogers doffed his hat and muttered up toward the darkening sky, "Alas, another foolish soul committed to the stars..." Such a waste. He'd been a good spy, too.