Irvine sits upright in the padded lawn chair, a saline IV in his right arm. The left gone halfway past his bicep all stitched and wrapped up nice. No memory of how he got here or how long it's been, just... random images. Sensations sometimes. Dripping into his brain like the saline drips into his arm. A good third of his face carved out and he refuses all painkillers. He wanted this, he earned this, he deserves this. His body broken and wracked with unceasing pain. It doesn't show in his expression.
He knows Moonbay brought him here, to the clinic deep under the desert just like she did last time after he'd escaped the imprisonment of the Sturm Dragoons almost twelve years ago. He had weighed 210 pounds when he was captured and left with 89. Now Moonbay screams and swears at him in a rage, would kick his ass if Mr. Cullen, the clinician (Never doctor.Not here.) hadn't stopped her. Told her Irvine is so weak he'd die for good so she puts a hole through the wall instead.Ā
From then on she's been gentle and that's worse, more of an attack than honest violence. He trusts Moonbay and sometimes on good days his body does too. But not now. She had tried to be gentle after his imprisonment and he'd retaliated in terror. Damn near killed her and anyone else who tried to touch him. Rampaged through the clinic like a mad dog until he had gotten back to his zoid. All that with their long history. It just makes him feel worse, the sharp fear and guilt. She deserves better, she and the kids all do. They deserve someone that can be openly affectionate, someone less likely to panic at a hug.Ā
Someone less likely to hurt them.
Moonbay and Cullen know enough from last time not to take him away from his zoid so they set him up in the hangar.Ā Saix lays behind him in a deep sleep. The old zoid a few hours from being dragged into death's river when he arrived, the only reason Irvine came back at all. Damn fool dog should've let him go. He thought Saix was smarter than that. Thought Ā his survival instincts wouldn't allow him to waste his life like that.Ā
It's the only reason Irvine's here instead of dead like he should be. Like he wants and deserves to be. Killing his partner was one sin he couldn't endure even in death, as opposed to all the others. His life a ridiculous parade of failures and blood from the start and it's not even the killing he feels guilt over. All of it amounting to nothing but more pain and more killing. He's so tired.Ā
Ā Nearly a decade ago. The Wasteland off the Imperial border.
Irvine moves silently far out of reach of the campfire's light, walking the perimeter while Moonbay and the kids have dinner. He and Moonbay took turns skipping meals to make their supplies last longer without letting the kids know. He barely even notices when he's hungry any more, has started to become oblivious to the constant nagging of his body. They had been followed for the past few hours and with the sun down Irvine can do something about it. He checks the ever-present desert wind and immediately recognizes soldier stink.
Down by the fire Van had tried to say something but had forgotten to chew and swallow his food first. Fiona and Rudolph laugh at the mess he made. Moonbay shushes Van's indignantĀ shouts.Ā
He doesn't need the fire to see out here and never has, the stars so bright besides sometimes he forgets how blind people can be. Like these scouts. Two Imperials hunkered in the scrubgrass peering at their camp through binoculars, muttering to each other in German.Ā
"Look at these savages. What do they think they're doing?"
"Have some pity, you know their brains can not process morals like ours can. Wastelanders are simply born to be criminals."
The first man scoffs and has his mouth open to reply when Irvine covers it with his hand, slices his throat from ear to ear. The other one is slow to react and it costs him. His throat slit as neatly as his friend's, hot blood steams on the sand. Irvine takes everything off them of value and is as efficient as only an experienced corpse cleaner can be. Food and money and their tags, which can be sold to other Wasters for a good price. Scavenging done he slices open all major arteries to entice the hungry desert. By morning there will be nothing of these two left, even the bones will be used. There is no waste in this Wasteland.
Idiot hound bringing him back. He's had enough. There's nothing in him but violence any more, nothing for him to give but more killing. He closes his eye almost serenely and accepts the newest waves of pain. Irvine waits for them to let him die.
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