Joining the military was the last thing he wanted, but he was going to make the most of it, even if it meant saying "fuck you" to everyone else. When most people joined, they were assigned to a barracks, where they were supposed to bond with the other soldiers and treat them like brothers, so that they would have each other's backs.
But not Quincy Isaacs. No, he was in this for a simple exchange: have college paid for so he could get the fuck out at the first chance. The last thing he needed here were ties that kept him here, people he started to care about. Because he wasn't in this for the long haul. He would give his blood and a few bullets, and they would pave the rest of the way to his future.
So when he started setting himself apart with his marksmanship, he couldn't have been more elated when they handed him a sniper rifle. Because snipers were loners. They took orders and then they fucked off to be by themselves, to be separate from everyone else while still watching their backs. His biggest responsibility was balancing numbers: keep the Crimson Watch's up and the Scaldra's down. Like balancing a chequebook. Not names. Not faces. Not memories with those he would forget as soon as he left. He wanted to stay in the black as much as possible.
He enjoyed it for the first eight months or so. Claps on his back for a job well done by people he still didn't know. Celebrations when his side won another skirmish, a little extra liquor in their cups before the night was out. Only this particular night came with more than just adrenaline and getting a little shit-faced before bed.
"It hurts like a motherfucker," he hissed under his breath, his sleeve rolled up, and his arm resting on the medical table before the nurse. A sharp pain had been shooting up his arm all day, from his elbow all the way through his palm and up his trigger finger. Muscle strain, he knew, but he knew nothing of what could help (short of alcohol). He wanted relief now, and fast.
"Likely carpal tunnel..."
"No shit. What can you do about it?" he hissed through his teeth. He didn't need a diagnosis. He needed it to not hurt.
The nurse shot him a death glare before she jabbed a thumb against the middle of his forearm, the hollow spot between his ulna and radius. The initial strike hurt like hell... but the longer she pressed on it, the less ache he felt in his palm and finger.
"Not a miracle cure, but it's not something you can OD on," the nurse snarled back at him. "Can't exactly tell you to take a break from shooting either, and surgery'd have you down more than a month. You do that as many times as you need, for as long as you want, and you'll get some relief. That all, Mister Bedside Manners?"
Okay, so maybe he'd come into this a little harsh—he could blame it on the pain, of course—and mouthed off. It was only fair that he repay her in some way.
"... scuttlebutt says Hendricks got a nice deal on some imported vodka. Keep it hush-hush, and I'll go grab you a knuckle of th'stuff." He gave the nurse his most charming smile, hoping it would soften her heart a little now that he was trying to play nice.
"Imported," she scoffed. "You mean stolen."
"To-may-to, to-mah-to."
She gave him a long, hard look before her stern expression started to melt. "Tell you what, keep your word on that vodka, and I got a little juice for the arm. Just this once. I don't need you asking me for more and crashing out."
Addiction? With this body? Quincy wouldn't put himself through that, not when he had so many good things still waiting for him.
"You don't gotta worry about that..." He briefly glanced at her nametag. "Nurse Bradley. You see me in here all strung up, I give you permission to take me out." He briefly tapped the pistol at his hip. "Gimme five shakes and I'll be back with your 'tea'."
***
Quincy flexed his fingers as he stared down at his transformed arm. Hardened skin, stronger than any armour. A trigger finger as fast as a blink. No wear or tear. No muss or fuss. No more nerves or muscle fibres. No more aches. He could shoot for as long as he wanted and not have to worry about the aftermath.
He tapped two fingers against the middle of his forearm, where skin and flesh had been replaced with twisted steel-skin and exposed wires. He no longer needed Nurse Bradley's trick to ease his pains. Would she have been happy for him now, now that he had a permanent solution to his problem?
He could still recall that cheeky half-smile when he'd left to get her that vodka. Right before the mortars hit and took out half the encampment, including the medical tent. There'd been nothing left but a giant black smear and a crater where it once stood. For a week after that, he'd ignored the burning pain that tore through his arm, ignored the manic twitch that kept him up at night when he went to bed, ignored that he'd had to learn to reload with his other hand. He'd stolen that entire bottle of vodka with him to help, taking a swig before he settled down to pop a few heads. And when that had run out, he'd thought of stealing another. Then he'd remembered his own words.
You see me in here all strung up, I give you permission to take me out.
He'd given up on it after that, not wanting to OD in a different fashion. Out of respect for himself. Out of respect for her. Out of respect for what she'd done for him that day.
