| Post GF | Ask blog | Greetings - I am Lord Gunther Prozen, former member of the Guylos Cabinet and dishonorably discharged Minister of Defense. I am not a nice person. You have been warned. Prozen | Noise | Relationships | Unpopular Headcanons Masterpost [[Mun ]]
“Cheers.” Half-murmured, he paused to glance behind him before untangling himself from his satchel and hooked the leg of the seat with a foot and pulled it out to drop gracelessly onto it. While the satchel was on the floor, he still held onto the strap, the buckle held loosely in one hand as he ran his thumb over the soldered joints. “And I am always troubled – people with responsibility usually are. I hope I didn’t keep you, Sandra-” Prozen spoke her name softly, unsure – in a public place like this, was that polite? She was a public figure, true, but…Hmm. To hell with it. “I have two things on my mind. The first, is how do you deal with all of this…this thisness?” A wave of his hand towards the general world; the glaring billboards and lit advertisements, the cars, the people. Quieter. “Are they always this rude? And that wasn’t my second thought; as I have found that people in general tend to be quite rude. My second thought is; what are you drinking as it smells divine, and can I get you another when I order my own?”
Oh, how Sandra loved to people-watch. People had certain habits they liked to indulge in when they felt a certain type of way, and truth be told, a lot of the time these habits were standardized across the board. Just the slightest touch of the face, a turn towards or away during a certain conversational topic — if one paid just enough attention, they’d find out that people were an open book – you just needed to know how to read it.
Which is probably why Prozen was so interesting to Sandra.
He was, in short, a social disaster, and his book was filled with interesting stories she had yet to learn. Why was he the way he was? He also held a position of power, and to the lay person he exuded power and grace.
Well, he did until he nearly tripped over the chair trying to get to the table she was currently sitting at.
Ah, it was all amusing.
Sandra probably figured she should answer his questions systematically, that was always the easiest route. “This… thisness, as you so affectionately called it, is how the way the world works, Gunther. You spend too much time behind walls to understand just how easy it is to read people. Sit outside, stop and smell the roses for once, hmm?”
She picked up the tea she had ordered and gently sipped it. “Ah, dragonfruit. It’s my favorite. Did you know it only blooms once a year?” She lowered her voice, leaning towards his face with only the slightest of grins. “And they’re only as rude as you make them, Minister.” She winked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her leg over the other, casually watching Prozen.
Perhaps it was a bad habit, but she especially loved watching people out of their element. And making them so.
Only then would one be able to see the true color of their soul.
“Dragon fruit? Noted.” He was mystified at her comment but slowly it clicked into place. “Your world.” He said softly. “Your world is much faster than mine. And brighter. If it weren't for the technological embargo in place I assure you the Guylos Empire would be far different. Possibly safer.” He remembered words from long ago; first spoken to him, words he'd given to someone he'd close to his heart when the new world seemed too much. “Culture shock.”
He inched away only slightly when she leaned close; more out of confusion than concern at her entering his space. He loved human contact; but from people he still considered strangers – and those who almost certainly did not know him – he needed to be in the right mindset to not Fuck Up. Was that a perfume or the way her hair smelled? His skin tingled and he knew he was blushing.
Mirroring her as she sat back – catching himself as he did so – what are you doing, Gunther, you're being very anti-social – he gave her what he hoped was a comforting smile. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to speak harshly of them, I'm just used to very strict protocols. A royal court is very different from the military, and the military is very different to your day to day zoid piloting.” He tried to catch the eye of the waitress. “I am trying to learn on my feet, and I'm making quite the fool of myself. Thank you for, ah, indulging me. Your patience is very much appreciated.”
He heard the clatter of the door being pushed open, odd clicking of jaws that were working in frustration as a snout was gently pushed against the frame, the net, everything – ad then the click of claws. Prozen didn't stir from his seat on the paving stones, knees hugged to his chest and toes curled around the edge. His breathing was quiet, but only just. It had only taken a single comment; and perhaps, at some other time, he could have brushed it off. Here and now, though…
A quick touch at his back; the barest of nudges from a thorny snout.
Noise was silent, bar the clicking of his hind-talons against the stone, like fingers drumming on the edge of something. For a moment Prozen surfaced from the pressure in his skull; searching for a pattern, a code, but finding only random sound. He opened his eyes; burying his chin against the crook of his elbow as Noise craned his neck, head held at a very curious angle to peer back. No chirps. No peeps. The organoid pulled away then crouched down, shifting onto one hip so he could stretch his hind legs out into the blazing sun. He leant his torso against Prozen's side, rubbing his cheek-panels as though scent marking him, against Prozen's shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt, but definitely to be known. He stopped eventually, his eyes shuttering to the closed position, and Prozen let himself unfold equally slowly – so as not to disturb the organoid too much – and sit cross-legged.
The light would slowly crawl up the stones as the sun crossed the sky – already it was at the edge.
Prozen leaned back into his companion, tilting his head so his cheek could rest against the organoid's forehead.
He thought: When does it end?
He thought: Why am I still here?
His answer was only the steady, and gentle purring beneath his cheek.
Domestic! Prozen/ Hiltz, pre Chaotic Century, Contains medical stuff, injury, blood, a fair bit of I’m Not Coping With This At The Moment.
Set pre!CC, before Hiltz met up with Ambient again and Prozen abducted met Raven. Hiltz, gets a rude awakening to the realities of the Guylos Military.
I wrote the bulk of this ages ago but never posted it - err, prior set up is that Hiltz acts as both a researcher in Zoidian artefacts as a way of reconnecting with his forgotten past, Prozen is lower down in the miitary.
“There's been an incident.”
The moment he'd heard the phone ring, he'd felt that sick sense of displacement inside him, and struggled out from behind his desk, his translations, carefully reaching for the handset where it rested on his kit. Reason said that this was a foolish feeling, but he felt it anyway. He caught one of the chisels as it dropped, deftly catching the dulled part of the metal with the nonchalance of a seasoned user.
He didn't recognize the number. That, at least, was a good thing. But it was the dispatch office, and the person was breathless, confused.
“Protocol is to contact next-of-kin.” There was a hitch to the voice. “But you're-”
“The closest you're going to get.” Hiltz cut in, staring across the office he shared with three other researchers. Why am I always right? “I'm a friend.” Hard to keep his own voice still. Only one person had his name on his emergency contact list, and the room was starting to sway. It didn't matter how many times he'd gone over it, how long they'd debated it; Hiltz knew the dangers of military work. Somehow it all seemed so far away back then, so easy to laugh about. Accept.
Focus. Hiltz pushed away all the thoughts that crowded his head, ignored the buzz of his limbs in fractured memory of burning buildings and screaming zoids. He breathed out slowly, mentally counting to ten while the caller keened.
“Sir? Mr. uh, Muroa?”
“I'm here.” Hiltz straightened up, finding the memory easy to recall. Prozen was so much better in a bad situation. He found himself so much faster, and while Hiltz could smell the fear coming off him in droves, he still kept his panic under control. “An incident?”
“W-We're not allowed to go into detail. We've not got all the details yet.”
What were they handed in those offices? Hiltz tried to get his mind to work, tried to get the wheels turning. “Do you have a report in front of you? Anything written about what's happened? Information you're allowed to release?”
“No. Yes! Um.”
Hiltz resisted the urge to shout at the breathless woman but only just. “What does it say?”
“There was an explosion. They're not sure if it's enemy fire or something else, it was...unusual. B-because bandits don't normally attack a military convoy.”
Unless they're starving. Hiltz added, mentally. “What are the fatalities?”
“I-I'm not allowed to release that information.”
“You have called me to report an incident in regards to the man who has me listed as his emergency contact.” Hiltz didn't bother to sheathe the steel in his voice now. Across from him, Verity, the senior translator on the team was now looking up, her pale face paler and her lips pinched into a question she was too scared to ask. Slowly, Hiltz put down the chisel, only aware now of his white knuckles and aching skin where the edges – even dulled – cut into him. “So tell me. Is he among them? Is he-” A tiny hesitation, funny how the word 'dead' couldn't jump in there, all dirt, and bad smells and bone. “-lost?”
“No-”
Pounding, swooping relief. The next breath was easier, but there were spots in his eyes as the world danced in front of him, the earth moving beneath his boots despite his boots telling him everything was still firm. “Then-”
Scuffling, distant voices. Then someone else. “Good afternoon. My apologies for my colleague.” Unspoken. Ugly. He wasn't expecting someone like you on the end of the line.
“Apology accepted.” Better to play along. “I need to know what's happening. It was the 82nd Company, yes? A joint venture between them and the Rose&Bulldogs squadron.”
This time the new speaker – probably a senior manager – was able to mask his surprise. “Yes, sir. There was an explosive device buried on the convoy route; but reports suggest it was sloppily made. Part of the squadron made it past without noticing it, but it was triggered. Which in turn triggered the munitions carriers.”
The Zoidian didn't bother to hide his feelings this time. The string of words he uttered had no meaning, his native tongue mixed up in his brain with the need to shout. But the sentiment was there, and he found the Standard to back it up. “Did you lose a lot?”
“No, sir. Minimal casualties with the first blast. It was those who tried to help that got...caught.”
Of course. Hiltz raised his eyes to the heavens.
“A relief crew is being air-lifted in to help restore power as the unit; and will then continue to the rendezvous point with the aid effort over in Ardajii province. Those pilots will then bring the injured and...lost...back once the relief crew are settled.”
“Understood.” His free hand tracked his thoughts in the air, trying to recover something.”Thank you for this information. Will it be here?” His voice squeaked, and he winced. “I'm sorry, is it, will it be to one of the medical hospitals?”
“With Ardajii flooded out, it will be difficult. But they are using Redlers, so it will most likely be with St Martha's.”
St Martha's, St Martha's...Pieces clicked into place. Small military hospital in the flatlands to the north, one of the funnels into the capital that was large enough to be used by the whalekings when they were coming into land. St Marthas was a feeder base; taking in the injured once they'd been stabilized on route, held until a place came up in the larger bases that ringed the capital and provided the last line of defence.
His brain was already whirring ahead. If he left now he could be there in three hours by jeep; Prozen tended to keep one in the garage beneath his apartment block for those late night emergency meetings the old emperor was so fond of, cursing as he'd get up, the beeper on as quiet as possible. Hiltz tended to pretend it didn't wake him, but somehow he was always aware of the damn thing before it went off. Wishing he could reach out, take Prozen's hand and keep him between the sheets until morning.
Should have made you stay this time, Chief.
“Is there an ETA?”
“Two hours. The evac isn't going as planned with the weather as it is. We...needed to be sure we had the correct information before passing it on to the correct authorities.”
“Thank you.”
The goodbyes were hurried; them wanting to leave as professionally quickly as possible, Hiltz trying not to throw the damn thing across the room. Verity said nothing, but then she rarely did speak up. The rest of the archaeological team tried to look busy; tried to pretend they had not been listening in with great curiosity. They all loved to gossip and here he was giving them yet another story for the break room…
He stomped back to his desk, his notes, none of it drawing his attention. He should wait. He should not interfere. He should-
Bollocks. “I have to go.”
oOo
It took him almost five hours.
Traffic to home was terrible, getting out of the apartment block was difficult when others tried to get out first, and common sense told Hiltz to eat something before going across town. By the time he'd hit the foothills it was starting to get dark as the clouds rolled in, and out of the corner of his eye he'd spied Redler patrols ferrying further equipment up into the ranges. His fingers had tingled mercilessly, stress and sixth sense working together. There would be a lot of water, and soon.
The roads were well kept here at least, but were still affected by the disturbance of rock from above, dislodged by the wind and storms that heralded the monsoon season of Guylos. The jeep crossed the muddy patches with ease, but this would have to be a fast turnaround to escape the worst.
Everything was still a blur, however. His security pass got him through the gates, but he couldn't remember getting it out. He couldn't remember parking (sloppily, but then it wasn't his strong point) and somehow he was now in the main doors and into the mess of disinfectant, distant sick and blood. Hiltz gagged, coughing, hating himself for not preparing. Human hospitals were foul.
But under that miasma, he picked up a thread. A faint thread, one he knew all too well.
Barely had he made it past the tiny, inadequate reception (the phone constantly off the hook, the young man frantic as he tried to field all the calls) when he stopped, breath snagging in his throat.
So many beds were full.
There was almost no privacy. There couldn't be. He must have gotten there first somehow, he didn't know, but-
“'Iltz?”
The slurred words made his heart leap. Hiltz tilted his head, tracking for the voice, but heard a familiar groan. Three beds down was Prozen, sitting up and leaning heavily on one of the support rails that surrounded the bed, with makeshift dressings attached to his face, his arms. He wore no jacket – what was left of it was draped over the bed, they'd had to cut it off him evidently. One leg tucked beneath the other, he was shivering, but alive.
He didn't know what to say.
“Shouldn'na” Prozen managed.
Hiltz closed his eyes. “What happened.” Flat.
“Hit by door.” Yes, that explained the uniform bruising. “Shrapnel everywhere else.” He coughed, back arching in pain. Hiltz couldn't help but reach out, steady him, wait for that affirming pat to say it was over, but certainly not letting go.
Prozen got his breathing under control slowly. “Ribs. Cracked. Ankle twisted.” He wiggled his toes – unbooted, his trousers were rolled up to reveal the support tape around his foot, up to his knee. “More scars.” A philosophical shrug. “Always do with more scars.”
“Are you going to lose that eye?”
Another shrug. With his good arm, Prozen touched at the padding that covered his cheek, fingers crawling up to the bloodied mess of his brow. Smiling, faintly, still with all his teeth. “'S.”
“Let me look.”
“Fussing.” Came the growl.
Hiltz kissed his teeth in anger. “I am permitted to fuss. Sit still.” Ah. Plenty of bruising, and cuts that naturally clotted. Prozen's black eye was impressive, not quite swollen shut, instead the eye was bloodshot and certainly light sensitive. Hiltz felt him tense up as the dressing was gently peeled back, and the desire to replace it was strong – but he had to see. Prozen whined at the back of his throat, and Hiltz let it go, knowing there was a point he was getting too close to. Panting, shivering.
“M'ok.”
“Don't be a dick.”
“Discharging m'self.”
“You can't.”
“Have to.”
Little fucker! “You need medical attention.”
“So do others.” Prozen gasped, exasperated. He held up an unsteady hand, first one finger - “Can walk.” Then two fingers. “Talk coherently. Mostly. “ Three. “You.”
“What do I have to do with anything?”
Prozen closed his one good eye slowly, and here was the faintest of twitches to the tendons of this throat, the tiniest of shaking, no.
There wasn't a chance to argue. There was a sudden gust of air and more people were rushed in. Civilians too, shouting ones, anger turning the air to something tense. Hiltz stood up, shielding Prozen as the nurses filed in, looking, he realized, for beds.
Oh.
oOo
He carried him across the threshold.
Normally this would be something hilarious to them both, but after a thankfully shorter drive back into the city, the lift of their block was out of action again, leaving the stairs as the only other option. Prozen had barely made it to the first floor. Just before reaching the second his knees had given out, crutch had gone down and Prozen had slowly slid down the wall, wheezing painfully. Hiltz didn't know what was worse; his condition or the look of complete frustration and betrayal on Prozen's face that his body was failing him.
There had been some cajoling. Pleading. Mostly from Prozen to give him a moment. But Hiltz had made him safe, run up the last flight of stairs and got the front door open, the lights on, assuring the neighbours who'd come out to see what the commotion was that had woken them up, that everything was okay. They were good people, but at the moment this...this was private.
“Leave the crutch.”
Prozen said nothing, but had reached out, missed a few times but finally caught his arm, hauling himself up. Climbing those stairs took an eternity. Each whimper of pain had etched itself on Hiltz' memory, so once on level ground, Hiltz had levered him up.
He was exhausted. Prozen was solidly built, but what adrenaline Hiltz had left still had him wired.
It was a patch job to his outside. What was damaged inside needed rest, but the outside...
No, no, think-
oOo
He kept the shower running until the majority of the mess had washed away. As a rule he hated to be dirty – this was different from being out in the field, where it had been a choice. Different during travelling when there were no facilities, you just got on with it. In his own home, in this state, Prozen hated his weakness and hated his foolishness for allowing himself to get into such a state. Only an amateur would rush in without checking. He had cared too much.
No. No, no thinking about that now.
Prozen silenced the rolling mess of his mind, turning his face up to feel the water droplets on his skin. He sat in the bathtub, letting the shower do it's work, wishing he had the strength to scrub himself down. But so tired, so tired.
There was a tap at the door. He shakily raised his head, trying to speak. It took a few tries, but his faint grunt coincided with Hiltz opening the door, looking equally tired. “Chief.”
Prozen tried to smile.
The Zoidian padded in, carrying towels, clothes. Prozen's medical satchel. “You look like a drowned rat.”
“Feel like one.”
There were no 'are you okay's, or 'how are you feeling's. Prozen hunched his shoulders, closed his eyes and screwed them up tight against the pain in his head and the pain in his throat. But he felt the warmth over the water before he felt the calloused hands of Hiltz against his cheeks, thumbs smoothing his brow, stroking his hair back. He leaned into the caress, the goosebumps spreading all over his flesh, chasing away what hurt. A grunt, a shadow over him, then the splashing of water – the shower was turned off, the tub began to fill from the taps. The wet squishyness of a sponge.
A chuckle escaped him. Knees still drawn up to his chest, Prozen lifted his head and felt Hiltz drag away his hair, and then lightly dab away at his brow.
“Are you sure this is the best way?”
“You're home and suddenly you've discovered the ability to speak.”
“Fuck off.”
“I can see what I'm doing.” Hiltz cupped his chin with one hand, peered at the marks, ad then getting out a bottle of iodine to rest on the cistern of the toilet. “You've cut yourself to ribbons, chief. There's even a chunk out of your hair.”
“The maids will weep for my lost beauty.” Prozen cracked open his good eye, fixing Hiltz with a glare. “I'm lucky nothing is permanent.”
“You're cracked, according to reports.” Hilts drew back, sighing, uncaring of his bloody fingers as he dragged his curls away from his face. He had gone grey, tired, and frightened, and Prozen couldn't stand to see him like that. Guilt joined with helplessness. Wincing, Prozen managed to catch Hiltz' restless hands, entwine their fingers. Feel the pulse under his skin and how fast it was, drew his knuckles to his lips and kissed them.
Prozen's voice was a croak. “I'm sorry.”
A faint smile tweaked Hiltz' lips, and those same lips were then pressed against Prozen's forehead. “You are a fool. A king of fools. Don't apologise; you were doing your job...” The word came out in a bit of a squeak, and Hiltz swallowed, clearing his throat, trying. He covered it by turning off the water, and taking the sponge and dabbing away at grazing and very, very neat stitches.
“This is the job.” He let one leg slide down, the resulting displacement of weight making the water slap up the sides and bead Hiltz' skin. Prozen gingerly rested his cheek against the other knee, scowling a little at the pain. “It will not get....any easier.”
The sponge did not move. Prozen did not want to open his eyes. Did want to see-
His shoulder was squeezed, at first lightly and then hard enough to leave marks; the nails digging into the skin, shivering, retreating, the thump of someone's knees giving way. Hiltz hung his head, still shivering, and Prozen could do nothing. Nothing but watch. Give Hiltz his space.
They had spoken about it; time and time again, but no matter how open Prozen had been about the realities of the war; it had never come into their space like this. How could it? He was normally so careful, so cautious, but...
“I am sorry.” He breathed, again, stiffly reaching out and lightly brushing Hiltz' bowed head. The Zoidian shuddered again, at first shying away and then gripping the gesture of peace tightly enough to make Prozen cry out in pain. But neither let go. When Hiltz tried, Prozen clung on, until at last he rose again, and Prozen found himself wrapped up tightly, gasping at the cold of side of the bath when he was pulled towards it. Even if he had not been injured, he was clutched hard enough to hurt.
The water was lukewarm when Hiltz moved again, to clean him, quickly now and without a word, business-like. Prozen felt back into the numbness that had threatened to claim him so often before, let it slide over him and shield him, as no comfort could be found from Hiltz now.
Getting up was difficult, and Prozen could only hiss with pain; he no longer had the strength to cry out.
A thick towel was wrapped around his shoulders, a gentle pressure to dry the worst off, and then hands holding him, steadying him, and all Prozen could do was close his eyes, bump his head against the offered shoulder with each awkward step, stubbing toes against door frames, catching himself on the rugs that covered the bare wood floor.
Home had a particular smell. When living there day to day, he did not notice it; but away for a night and it all came back. Now he screwed up his eyes – pain! Idiot! - the sensation of something cruising in that numbness, relief, nostalgia, hyper-aware that this was home, his home, his safe place, his-
Bedroom.
Pushed directions, something soft at the back of his calves, then pressure to sit. Prozen practically fell onto the bed, struggled to finish the drying process and then pull on the offered clothes. Try to pull them on. It was difficult. The underwear alone was exhausting.
“Pants.” He croaked. Words like 'help' and 'please' escaped him. He felt shame but it was distant, for now he was weak, injured, defenceless, it was not as though he could do anything to truly help himself.
Just an absence of Hiltz, and then the rush of air as he returned, with the kit again, more anti-septic swabbing that stung, and then the pressure of gauzes, bandages, everything steady and smooth and blessedly professional.
“Are you cold?” Hiltz spoke, a soft whisper.
Prozen managed a nod. “Covers.”
“Gotta air the surface stuff. Let it heal naturally.” Hiltz stood up. “I'll fix the heating on. Get you...get you some tea. You okay for tea? Or water? Painkillers.”
“No Codeine.”
“Its been a couple of hours since we left the clinic-”
“Makes me vomit.”
“Oh.” Another brush of air, then of close warmth. Prozen turned his head towards it, wanting closeness, wanting forgiveness. What he got were plumped pillows and help to lie back against it. “Throw only.” The Zoidian instructed, frowning.
“Fuck.”
“Hush.”
Prozen did as he was told. Everything hurt, but the quilt was soft and cradled him, and the pillows – all the pillows, weren't so bad after a little wriggle, and trying not to let the pain win him over. The way his hips ached, how each breath made his chest feel as though he was bound with iron. How any motion of the face hurt, but he let himself get lost in the sensation of the throw's weave against his skin. Anything to distract from the painkillers wearing off.
The kettle was starting to boil; muffled in the kitchen, bubbling against the occasionally clinking of cups, the clatter of pans. Living noises, but he drifted in and out of them, tethered only with the fabric at his fingertips in the cloud of pain that was slowly gathering in strength.
The room wasn't completely dark. Not with the streetlamps outside, glowing through the curtains, the shaft of light from the half open door, cutting him in two. But he felt removed from everything, barely in his own skin, as though his link to it and where he 'was' was a mere thread, a strand of hair that could break at any moment. He felt empty. Alone. The world was muffled; the cars, the people on the street, but his heart drowned that all out, and between each thud between his ears, he could hear the faintest of screams, the explosions and now he could feel himself start to shake, fighting the hot prickling behind his eyes because fuck it, it hurt so much more, and he heard the high, thin keening wail and it took a moment to realize it was him, making that noise, gods-
The door came open, Hiltz was over him, hands shaking, unsure, the presence making him start with surprise, but he threw himself into those open arms without caring for the pain it caused and curled up there, in that protective circle, back being stroked and nonsensical, loving words being whispered in his ear. Zoidian and standard, but the calm part of his brain – for there had always been one no matter how awful things had become in the field – picked out several swearwords and derogatory terms spoken so endearingly he almost blushed.
The kettle boiled.
“I will be right back. I promise.”
Maybe he slept. Somewhere there was a blankness, the world became far away for a while, and then someone was stroking his head and Prozen felt able to actually surface, take the cup offered to him and try to ignore the cold one on the night stand. Sips of the tea – special tea, not his usual kind, the brew was subtle with spices and hints of something else; one of the new recipes Hiltz had been working on.
His heart ached.
The bed creaked. Hiltz didn't touch him, didn't quite look at him; gave him space as he managed a few mouthfuls before trying to put the cup back down. It took a surprising amount of effort, and only with another set of hands to help him.
He sighed, loudly. Angrily.
“You'll be up before you know it.” Hiltz murmured at last, chin resting on the knee he'd hugged to his chest. Shrouded in darkness, but warm.
Prozen frowned at him, but the frown didn't stay there for long. Everything still hurt; but the pain wasn't so much physical any more. No; the questions hurt far more.
A pat at his knees, move aside, and Hiltz slid closer. The touch was almost parental; a stroke of his head, fingers curling at his ear.
“I'm going to turn off the alarm.”
“Mustn’t.”
“Hush, chief.” Another stroke; but now the fingers traced down his neck, squeezing the undamaged shoulder. “Get some sleep. I'm not going anywhere; and neither is anyone else. I'll call the ministry in the morning, see if we can either postpone the debriefing, or if they can do it here. I'll rearrange the diary-”
He squirmed, hating it, hating-
“Trust me.” Breathed. A kiss at his forehead.
“I'm sorry.”
“We will talk later on it. Just....Gunther, sleep. I'm not going anywhere” A pause. Hiltz looked away, hands withdrawing back to his lap. “I've got a machete on my side of the bed, and your .45s are both loaded, safety on and in their usual place. Mine is holstered on the chair by the wardrobe. Can you relax now, please.”
“I'm sorry.”
“No, I am. You know I...I forget what it's like on the come down.”
The trembling didn't ease for a while, despite Prozen trying to calm himself. The tea helped; and he grumped to be left alone to go to the bathroom which took forever when he realized his body didn't want to move at all.
But he slept. Hard not to; Hiltz was stretched out beside him, and Prozen found it easier to forget the sounds of gunfire and screaming. Hiltz was just about the only person he could turn to - was possibly the only person who could match him in the field; but he'd never admit it.
Funny how death could become a common ground.
Ooo
“Take the promotion.”
Prozen stared at him.
Hiltz had been quiet these last two days, withdrawn. He'd gone to work, yes, but had always hurried back, as if he was afraid Prozen might disappear. Not that he was bedridden or anything, but healing took time – and just a few days was not enough. Prozen had busied himself with paperwork, with reports that needed doing, people to inform, the chain of command to maintain, when the pain gave him enough space to concentrate. And when it didn't, he tried anyway, with mixed results. There had been an official letter, however. With a wax seal, and everything.
The sheets hissed as he moved, curling closer. Hiltz on the threshold of sleep was one of the most beautiful things Prozen had ever seen; but he'd never say that. Now a sick pit opened in his guts, and he wasn't sure it was the medication. “I don't-”
“I don't have the right to say it.” Hiltz burrowed his face into the pillow, hunching his shoulders defensively as he curled his arms around himself. “I'm not telling you what to do. But I need you to hear me out. And you are listening, I hope.”
“Hiltz.” He almost said he was too tired for this – and he was. But Prozen forced his good eye open, tilting his head to try and bring his lover into view. Frustrating that Hiltz was on the damaged side. Another hiss, and Hiltz had wriggled partway out from under the covers, and snuck his hand beneath the throw, finding Prozen's hand and clutching it tightly. It hurt as he wound their fingers together but it was something he'd endure no matter what.
“This isn't about the money; the position takes you away from most of the action. I know you want to protect your squadron, but at some point, Gunther, you need to step back and let them make their own mistakes You've trained them. You have taught them everything you know, and then more. They want you in command. Take the job.”
“That's not fair.”
“You think I like waiting on the other end of a phone, waiting to see if you make it out the other side?”
“I ask the same of my people, every day!”
“And they get that. They're not idiots.” Hiltz' voice was thick, and Prozen was glad for the cover of night. “But you will be in the position to make the decisions they need to keep them alive. You would be the one in charge. You would be the one to make changes.”
“That's not how it works-”
“That's how I work, you arrogant prick.” His voice cracked. “I can't walk into another hospital and see you there. I can't....I won't, see you hurt like that, again. One day that call's going to be me identifying a fucking body and that's not what I signed up for.”
“It's part of the job. I thought we'd discussed this”-
“We have, endlessly. But it doesn't change the fact you're worth more to me alive and slightly grubby in a political state than pretending you're a hero.”
His jaw dropped in disgust. “I am not a hero.”
Hiltz grunted something Prozen didn’t catch, and then rolled over, dragging his fingers from Prozen's grip as he did so, spiteful. The covers were tightened, and Prozen thought that was the end of it. No way in hell was he going to let this go.
“Hiltz, this is how I feel when you disappear out on digs, and I know there’s a Republican patrol in the area-”
“Then you'd know how much it hurts.” Hiltz snapped, drawing himself more into his cocoon. “I've lost almost everything I have ever known. I don't want to lose you too.”
“You don't know what the defence position will be like, they fight like cats and dogs up there-”
“Do you want to protect your people.” Flat. Cold.
Prozen stared into the darkness, face hot. “Of course. As much as it protects the rest of the Nyxians, I'll keep doing my job.”
“Then become a general. Talk with the ministry of defence. Set out the new rules for them to follow, and enforce it. Stay the fuck alive.” Now the covers shifted, bed creaking, and Hiltz sat up, running his hands through his curls. Even with the lights out, Prozen could feel the tension, and in his weakened state he felt...concern. Need. He wanted to reassure him, hold him, but here and now-
“I need you alive.” He croaked. “I cannot give a shit about anyone else in this awful, disgusting world, except you. And I am having a hard time dealing with that on it's own.”
He tried to sit up, and cried out in pain. Hiltz moved over him, skin hot, the contact sending shivers all over him as he was gently forced back down.
“Don't.” Hiltz whispered in his ear, curls smelling of sandlewood. “Mistake martyrdom for a protective nature.”
And that was the end of it.
I know pretty much nothing about this guy and the show he’s from(including how his hair antennae work) but I liked his design so I wanted to draw his pretty face.
Apparently he’s a bad guy and his first name is Gunther? Like yeah man, if my parents named me Gunther I’d become a bad guy too, like why would you do this to your child… at least it’s not Kevin
Like if you wanna give him a german sounding name he looks more like an Alexander(but there are too many already, everyone is named Alexander or Thomas) or maybe a Siegfried, Siegfried always goes for guys with pretty hair no matter if they are the hero or just the guy who thinks he’s the hero…
Vincent would work too or Viktor that sounds noble… I dunno
Hand motions! Noise ran them through his databanks; hunting for meaning, overlaying them with recordings of Prozen – first ZSL, then regional dialects. The cross referencing would take time, but he could draw conclusions from the motion of silence. The fists? That meant several things, but not in conjunction with the quiet motion…
The world was full of a buzz he could not read. That meant Talking. High Speech. Zoid-talk! He bit down a peep of frustration because he could not understand, for one peep would become two, three. Many peeps, and no snout-pets to stop the torrent of peeps once they had started. Peeping was frowned upon here.
Oh!
He admonished himself as Burton looked at him again – the final gesture; the chain! He glanced over his shoulder at the humped backs and attention that was clearly elsewhere. Keeping one optic on Burton, Noise shifted his weight, raising one leg and extending the casing on his index talon to form a larger claw; hooked it on one of the links and pulled it tight, so the links were across his teeth. It would take too long for the nanites to chew through them, but Noise had once heard of an interesting phrase – Brute Force and Ignorance – from a nice Republican soldier called Krueger. It certainly would apply here. Pulling taught; biting hard, then moving the metal just a little, weakening the link in part. Noise tried not to swish his tail too much as a counter-balance, relaxing the tension just a little when the metal felt like it wanted to break – he didn’t want to tumble backwards; that’d be…awkward. And loud.
The metal pinked, and with a tug, it came apart. Still balanced (although wobbly, his gyros were not exactly perfect) he put down one end as gently as possible, fished the other out of his mouth and passed that one down too.
Noise waited for the collar to respond to the motion; to the loss of chain. Waited to see if anyone noticed.
He had mapped out this mezzanine floor. No more than a few metres away was an access stair to the next level down. Burton’s level. Noise took a little step, and then another, edging his way closer to freedom.
And petting, obviously.
He watched hunched human figures with their backs towards him and hoped that they wouldn’t notice the gentle grinding of metal. Fingertips stable and set at his side, ready to lift the gun, aim, fire–kill, anything he needed to survive. His teeth were clenched, his body cloaked from head to toe in shadow while he forced silent breaths down his throat, pressed for time, and posing questions to himself. What if one of them turned around? What if the collar went off? What if he failed?
… What was he doing? He could get himself captured, or terminated, worse brought before Alpha so he’d have to look that damned bigot in the eye.
Now the cover of the darkness around him seemed a meager defense against the collective force of Richter Scale, and Burton stared from space to space and to the stairs with worry and with woe, just as Noise set the chain down and started towards him.
That’s it–quietly, now.
Again, he checked the flanks–he couldn’t be too careful, not here, not with their lives very much on the line and balanced between a tricky mess of ticking minutes and the sound of some nearby machine coughing out codes and color on a brightly-lit screen. Stealth was essential; they must not be seen.
All around, the emptiness seemed to speak, louder, wilder, stretching to strange proportions over the span of the second level, as if waiting for him to make a mistake… Blackness, and cold steel, particles of dust drifting faintly, everywhere, free to rise and to fall the full length of the scaffolds. Lolly had knocked out the cameras and Chimera Zoids, but a turn of the head was all it would take. At any moment. And it would be over.
Burton wasn’t about to let that happen; he left the gun at his side and reached out to Noise now with both barren hands, hoping to coax him closer. Just how he used to signal Mitzy for a good morning pet and cat treats–though that was long ago, and he recalled it with a somber fondness, weighing past to present and the cursed ache he felt emerge in his chest.
Steady, steady-
He didn’t even know if Noise could hear him–he was barely familiar with the Organoid, had no Connection with him as he did with Lollygag and Omega. But the two of were much nearer now, the distance dwindling, and it seemed as if his heart would stop, disabled in a gruesome tension. Again, he slowly tapped one finger to his lips, the ‘quiet’ sign, and then motioned back a ways towards the entrance of the hangar.
Things were in place–they just needed the diversion to make it out. He glanced again to the sides and the giant eyes of the Storm units standing static in their rows, still under the Gale’s control. Perhaps they could use them to their advantage now–put something solid between them and the workers while they bolted for the exit.
Well, Burton was ready to run, and could only pray that Noise would follow. He grit his teeth tight together and gave a final nod.
‘Now, Lolly, if you please.’
Then the dragon chortled across their link, the overhead lights blinked out and died, and the whole hangar was left completely dark.
The dark came as a surprise; and Noise froze – Any communication aside from verbal or visual was a mystery to the him until his transition to actual organoid-adulthood -completely unprepared! At first lost – what to do in this situation? The last time the world had gone dark he'd lost his human – but distant drives whirred; and a partition somewhere deep within him loosened some of it's security protocols, just slightly. His armour plates raised; rattling slightly with a warning; tail held in a high arc for balance; index hind-talons clicking into the upright position and locking. Shutters opened to their widest; but the rest of his visual software was coming online. Noise just...didn't understand it; scrambling through the heat sensors; the radar, and making a right mess of it.
He keened in distress, a desperate where are you Burton-person, but his size made the wail (which had once called people to pull him out of flour-bags, off high shelves which had seemed so interesting just a moment ago) an ungodly shriek – enough to startle the very creature that was making it. Which made him shriek again.
This did not go unnoticed. The researchers above – first confusion, then what the hell was that sound?!
Their voices shocked Noise out of his attack cycle; and he bobbed his head, moving closer to the big warm object which sounded/ smelt like Burton, and pressed his head against the human's arm; a request to be comforted. But did it end there? Far from it, Noise arched his back, catlike, pressing against Burton and chittering in confusion. Difficult to remember he was heavier and larger than the human; and he stopped before he pushed Burton into the railing.
With his armour plates still rustling together, he peered around, seeking guidance.
“Tell me about your people? I so rarely get news in this… isolated part of the world.” Not many were brave enough to draw in so close and exchange words outside begging for their lives.
She tilted her head, watching him walk somewhat awkwardly before catching the cause of his discomfort. Pushing up onto her arms she began, delicately, to slide herself off the roofing and down onto the gritty grass below. “What’s that?” She prodded again with a twitch of her chin towards the tiny squirming thing she could make out. It was just the right size to make her hungry.
The temple had once been a glorious place but war was a good way to make men forget about their old gods. They worshipped steel and gunpowder these days and Yugi’s magic was left for the zealots.
“Just inside, there’s a fountain that still runs supplied but the underground reserves of water,” she explained. “Take your fill.” She would follow.
She was long.
She just....kept coming. The soldier was able to not jerk away in a surprised little half-dance, but his heart started to beat that much faster because it had been easy to just assume 'human-like-me” when she was above him; to ignore those beautiful dark scales.
Now she blocked off his exit.
Prozen's throat went dry, and this time it had nothing to do with his thirst. Noise sensed his upset, muffling a chirp against his ear; talons digging into flesh for support.
“M-My people?” How to answer that? “Much like any other human nation, I suppose.” She made very little sound. A great hunter, obviously. Fuck fuck fuck. “Middling country; a fair coastline, some nice mountains. An eager King who fancies himself an Emperor and seeks to expand his borders ever further, but don't they all? Old men who make rules for the lower classes, when perhaps they should be listening. Old women who interfere with lives they have no right to” He shuddered. Yes, there was the fountain; exquisitely carved, despite showing wear. Prozen shivered again; even in the shade it was far too warm, and oh help, where was an exit? He was trapped. Was that armour he saw over there? Offerings of gold and jewels and scraps of cloth that perhaps once clothed an acolyte sent to appease the Elders?
“I do apologise, I haven't introduced you!” Prozen's voice rose a little; somewhat tight with the beginnings of possible panic. “This is Noise. They're my messenger-dragon...we, um, that is the higher ups in the military and those that can afford them outside said force, uh, raise them from the first breaking of shell. So hungry, he almost had a finger, but I discovered he preferred cold chicken much, much more. Very thankful for that. Yes.”
Noise watched Yugi move closer, eyes bright and curious.
“Every saint’s got a past, and every sinner has a future.” The demon grinned, showing a bit more of… unnaturally pointed teeth than he normally would have to someone he’d just met, but he didn’t feel threatened in the slightest by the minister. Besides, if worse absolutely came to worst, the demon trusted his own survival instincts. No shame in letting Prozen know exactly what kind of company he was in now.
Although, what he’d said piqued the officer’s interest. A seemingly autonomic Zoid that wasn’t a Blox fuzor? The demon had been around for longer than he personally cared to admit, but he hadn’t heard of anyone perfecting such technology. Sure, there were scientists every day working on such things and they had figured out ways to send out drones – unmanned, remotely piloted Zoids, but nothing that carried its own intelligence. No wonder Prozen was so hesitant to share the information… the PKB would kill [literally and figuratively, no doubt] for such technology. Acri would be lying if he said he wasn’t personally interested, but pushed that idea into the back of his mind.
Acri listened to every word that his companion had spoken, no matter how personal. If the other would have propositioned him years ago, the demon would have run off at the speed of light to sell that info, make millions, or hold for personal gain. Now… now he had that pesky thing called a conscience, and in good faith, ironic as it were, couldn’t let the zoid – Noise – remain missing. If Noise got into the wrong hands, things would go to hell in a handbasket.
Placing his hand on the other’s back with a gentle pat, Acri ordered Prozen another drink. “We’ll find Noise,” he used the organoid’s name, appealing to the other on a personal level, “it’s my job. I’m pretty good at finding things and taking them away.” It was a joke, but inherently not far off the truth. “But you need to take a bit of a breather.”
Ah yes, the alarm bells went off when Acri smiled at him, but he ignored them because he had met many people with sharp teeth and we can't help how we're made and all, and gosh, did his teeth 'ting'? Huh. Prozen blinked, common sense insulated between walls of all manner of liquor and thus unable to be heard. One more wouldn't hurt, right? “You.” Prozen said muzzily. “Are a very nice person. I'm sorry, I'm not used to people being nice to me.” The last words came out as a whine, and he stared into space for a moment, trying to gather the threads of his thoughts. He sounded...awful. What a....what a terrible first impression. He shook his head a little, and regretted it. “A breather. Yeah. Can I have a little water? Probably too late.” He gave the other man a weak smile. “But even lessening a hangover....s'good.” He reciprocated the patting in the awkward way people do when they're not sure if it's socially acceptable. “You, sir. Are an angel.”
Somewhere a priest is screaming.
Burton found a breath of air again, caught half-way in his chest and impending, his gaze fixed for too long to one place. And that was dangerous. This was not his domain–split between silence and the fixed hum of faceless machines, a maze of darkness and corners stretched into awkward shapes, always locks and walls and someone else’s secrets. He pressed his teeth together but for a second, parted his lips to speak–then thought better of it. Couldn’t give himself away. Couldn’t care to feel his heart beat.
Lollygag was calling again in his head by this time, calming words and ancient grating sounds that reminded him of things he’d made up as a child. The thunder from an old, messy memory crashing on and on… but he’d waited out such storms in the past. This one was recreated with rearing cobras and coded names, Alpha’s stinging laugh and demands that left a bitter taste on his tongue.
That, and he didn’t like the added weight of the damned, loaded gun. He kept hoping he wouldn’t need it, hated hauling it around, hated looking down the length of barrel. Couldn’t remember where he’d first gotten it–not right now, not that it mattered, though he brushed palm up against it, gently.
Focus.
He noted the chain about Noise again. And the motions of metal together, glinting like cycles of moons and sun, reflections of light in shaded places. How shadows splintered through the space of the hangar, fading, falling, resting.
If he could just… free the Organoid somehow? And keep out of sight–which would be tough in present company, though perhaps not impossible, if he stayed close to the wall, whatever cover was available, used his head.
The chain was fitted with a collar and bolted to the floor, well out of his reach. He’d have to expose himself to get to Noise, cross the railings to the upper level, and that wasn’t a risk he could take just yet. Not without a plan–a diversion? Something to ensure their safety while they made their escape. But where to? And then what..?
Burton seethed in bitter silence, checking over his shoulder and every corner of the cursed place to ensure he hadn’t been spotted. Each second was a waste, frustrating and exhausting, made him cringe, his conscience fearing failure and an inevitable race against patience and time.
He lifted his hands, hoping he could sign something to Noise again–something else that they would both understand–an instruction, an idea… he made two fists close together, and then a breaking motion, gestured tenderly toward the chain links. Then pressed his fingers to his lips once more, as if to emphasize this urgently, and inched step by step, down one side of the walkway.
‘Do you have a plan?’ a hopeful hum from the Lord Gale over their connection as he neared the edge.
‘Perhaps,’ Burton checked the flanks again, then back to Noise, head tilted to the left and at that tricky little collar… ‘Do you suppose, Lolly- that you could shut off the power?’
Hand motions! Noise ran them through his databanks; hunting for meaning, overlaying them with recordings of Prozen – first ZSL, then regional dialects. The cross referencing would take time, but he could draw conclusions from the motion of silence. The fists? That meant several things, but not in conjunction with the quiet motion...
The world was full of a buzz he could not read. That meant Talking. High Speech. Zoid-talk! He bit down a peep of frustration because he could not understand, for one peep would become two, three. Many peeps, and no snout-pets to stop the torrent of peeps once they had started. Peeping was frowned upon here.
Oh!
He admonished himself as Burton looked at him again – the final gesture; the chain! He glanced over his shoulder at the humped backs and attention that was clearly elsewhere. Keeping one optic on Burton, Noise shifted his weight, raising one leg and extending the casing on his index talon to form a larger claw; hooked it on one of the links and pulled it tight, so the links were across his teeth. It would take too long for the nanites to chew through them, but Noise had once heard of an interesting phrase – Brute Force and Ignorance – from a nice Republican soldier called Krueger. It certainly would apply here. Pulling taught; biting hard, then moving the metal just a little, weakening the link in part. Noise tried not to swish his tail too much as a counter-balance, relaxing the tension just a little when the metal felt like it wanted to break – he didn't want to tumble backwards; that'd be...awkward. And loud.
The metal pinked, and with a tug, it came apart. Still balanced (although wobbly, his gyros were not exactly perfect) he put down one end as gently as possible, fished the other out of his mouth and passed that one down too.
Noise waited for the collar to respond to the motion; to the loss of chain. Waited to see if anyone noticed.
He had mapped out this mezzanine floor. No more than a few metres away was an access stair to the next level down. Burton's level. Noise took a little step, and then another, edging his way closer to freedom.
And petting, obviously.
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