Dante polished his nails with clear lacquer and eyed the men on either side. All down the line they were sewing, oiling leather, fixing gear, sharpening weapons and the rickety bench beneath them shifted every time one of them tried to acquire better light for their task. Of all, however, Dante was the only one with polish and a file.
“When do you go out?” The man next to him, a thickly-muscled redhead, asked as he used a thick needle to fix the net in his lap.
Dante did not look at the speaker. Instead, he smiled at his nails and affected carelessness. “Eleven. I should be back in time for lunch.”
Snapping the thread with his teeth, the man next to him grunted. “If you’re not dead.”
“If I’m not dead.” Dante replied, amiable as always as he filed his nails into points.