WITH: @thomasmaeda
WHERE: Residence Inn Hotel
WHEN: May 4th, 2033
As if being in this sinful place wasn’t humiliating enough, he and Thomas shared a room on the second floor of the hotel the residents called their base. Zaheer could not have even a moment in total, absolute privacy without Thomas lumbering in. And just then, he really wanted a moment in privacy. Still, when he heard footsteps, he sat up from where he’d been lying in bed. The ice pack he’d been holding over his face fell away to reveal a swiftly-forming black eye.
“It was an older gentleman,” he explained, though Thomas hadn’t asked. “One of those types who believes the Outbreak ended the world and everything is terrible now. I was extracting a bullet from his side — training accident, aren’t guns horrible? And he asks for anesthetic. And I told him that anesthetic is sinful, that he should consider the pain a blessing and use it to reflect on what he did to provoke God to inflict this pain on him.”
Zaheer huffed, frowning down at his ice pack, which he was now squeezing between his hands like a stress ball. “Perfectly good advice, no? And he…ugh. He called me Purged trash and said he wanted another doctor! Well, now I was awfully heated, so I said no wonder he’d been shot, that God must despise him for talking about his people like that. And then he punched me!”
He sighed. “And then I was asked to leave for the day. I can’t imagine why. You know, we don’t even have anesthetic!” The books he’d read had made him suspect that such a thing could be synthesized if he found the right plant…but even if he knew where to start, he wouldn’t dare go against God’s will so blatantly. Being free from pain was not a medical necessity, in his opinion. Easy for the doctor to say. “Have you fared better than me today?”
As the day comes to a close, Thomas takes the time to register how he’s feeling. Physically, there’s the ache of the body. He’s sore from carrying crates back and forth, particularly with how his shoulders are burning. After that had come training. While he’s able to use a gun, a pistol at least, it doesn’t sit right in his hands. It doesn’t hold itself properly to the curve of his palm the way a bow would.
He’d tried. Misfired, once, but hadn’t hit anyone (thank God, that’s the last thing they’d need right now) and had promptly decided afterwards that his day was done. So, tired and a little prickly, he’d started the trudge back to the hotel room he has to share with Zaheer. He doesn’t know why he thought it would be different. Of course they’d be stuck together. He doesn’t know of any other former Purged here, and the way people have been staring says enough to know that they’re not welcome.
In the time between digging Zaheer up, rescuing him, and running, he’d thought Zaheer had been quieter. He can’t recall the man ever being this chatty, but when he closes the door behind him the doctor is already talking. Thomas turns his head to look at him. “So you told a man who’d just been shot that he was sinful, and then told him that God hates him... and then you were surprised that he punched you?” It’s not that he disagrees with Zaheer’s sentiment. He does. “I’d have hit you for less, if I were a sinner. I’d hit you now, actually, but he beat me to it. You couldn’t just tell him we don’t have it from the start?”
Thomas scoffs and shucks his jacket off, tossing it to the side. Then, he crosses the room, and pries the ice-pack away from Zaheer’s hands. It’s melted, significantly, since it’s been used as a stress-ball. “Training went fine,” he lies. “I think they’re going to be giving us the ten-foot radius for a while, though.” He doesn’t dislike the idea, honestly. Better for everyone if they keep their distance. “I’d prefer it if we didn’t stay here long, though. These people are bizarre.”
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