‘ b- buzzo… h- hey, are you awake…? ’
the shoulder of his cohort was shook slightly, a concealed expression of worry beneath the red skull mask. he tried not to be too rough. he didn’t want to cause more damage than what was already done. they were seated in a cave, and a very small one at that. two or three candles flickered against the walls lightly, but not much could be seen. fairly small bags of rando rations were neatly arranged in a huddle, and an array of different medical supplies were strewn across the floor. he wrapped his last bandage around buzzo’s arm gently.
it was evident that his own army was neutral with the concept of mercy, but they didn’t think through this one. not even close. they were determined for the kill. and now, rando should of just kept quiet. in this land, trust is nothing but a word.
‘ a- ah… um… l- look, i can explain. my army only th- thought you were a threat. i- i’ve consoled them, s- so they know n- not to mess with you and y- your men… i’ll make sh- sure they don’t. ’
he knew buzzo was conscious, but took no pride in it. anyone would notice the strained assertion that was plastered onto his ally’s face. his tone grew shaky and inarticulate.
consciousness comes like it does after a night of drinking and joy: the haze, the high-pitched, mosquito RINGING that turns voices into SHATTERED GLASS on his ears. at first he doesn’t place the voice as RANDO’S, thinks maybe it’s one of his boys who had the mind to spar with him in his drug-addled state now gingerly begging for FORGIVENESS.
but there are pieces of the puzzle that don’t fit. there’s an ache in his chest, a shot of pain on every BREATH like a cracked rib. smells and sounds far too QUIET and CLEAN to be the caves the joy boys call home. he remembers... a fight? not his boys. not his home.
it’s then buzzo decides to KILL whoever decided to
not FINISH THE JOB.
he SWINGS, groggy and wild, hoping to clip a jaw or a shoulder or something— throws his whole weight into it, ignores how it twists his insides the wrong way and sends that rib into something soft and PAINFUL. even half-conscious, he still puts up a fight.
he’s ready to go at them again, eyes wide like a feral ANIMAL, snarling through the pain and the throbbing in his skull, until he raises his arm to send his fist down on their face and—
the bandages rando had been so kind to wrap him in hang
lose from his arm, catching under buzzo’s leg and sending
him crashing to the ground.
areudirty
theartofmadeline
