02-27-2010, 01:12 AM
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It was a bizarre sense of luck that nothing too terribly momentous had happened in the war while he was healing. Or maybe things had happened and news had simply not gotten around to him. That was perfectly understandable. He spent most of his time in the Landfill (where not many people really thought to go) focusing on not moving so he could heal as quickly as possible. He wasn't exactly in the loop. But that was going to steadily change now—the vertical slash which intersected his prior wound so ironically was mostly healed now. He had regained most mobility in his shoulders and he was feeling pretty good. Not exactly ready to go about fighting once more, but he was getting there.
He was beginning to feel like a canvas on which others were meant to come across and leave their twisted signatures on. Foxhound—of course—had been first to stake a claim; Snake had carried the mark from his knife for half of his life. And now he had the claw-marks on his shoulder from that Dahlian and the wicked slash down his chest from his friend who, in a fit of insanity, decided to attack him. He wondered what he would look like when he got old. Then he realized that that was a ludicrous thought. He was a soldiers. Soldiers don't get the chance to get old.
These thoughts were not new to him—they had been ingrained since childhood. He lived daily; the future was a pretty yet absurdly abstract concept that he refused to acknowledge. So without further ado he set out for the beach, not paying attention to where he was wandering. He was pleased to be mobile once more, free. He was a good soldier, and a good soldier knew when to sit out and when to get back in the game. It was about Goddamn time. He could only sit and stare at the fire burning in the pit next to the car he slept in so much before he started to go crazy.
Eventually he came across someone, a woman who appeared to be taking a nap along the shoreline. He paused for a second, wondering if she was in any danger from the tide. He doubted it. The coyote took the wasting cigarette from his mouth and considered speaking. But he was not a social creature; he did not want to disturb if he could help it. He began to walk on as he had before.
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It was a bizarre sense of luck that nothing too terribly momentous had happened in the war while he was healing. Or maybe things had happened and news had simply not gotten around to him. That was perfectly understandable. He spent most of his time in the Landfill (where not many people really thought to go) focusing on not moving so he could heal as quickly as possible. He wasn't exactly in the loop. But that was going to steadily change now—the vertical slash which intersected his prior wound so ironically was mostly healed now. He had regained most mobility in his shoulders and he was feeling pretty good. Not exactly ready to go about fighting once more, but he was getting there.
He was beginning to feel like a canvas on which others were meant to come across and leave their twisted signatures on. Foxhound—of course—had been first to stake a claim; Snake had carried the mark from his knife for half of his life. And now he had the claw-marks on his shoulder from that Dahlian and the wicked slash down his chest from his friend who, in a fit of insanity, decided to attack him. He wondered what he would look like when he got old. Then he realized that that was a ludicrous thought. He was a soldiers. Soldiers don't get the chance to get old.
These thoughts were not new to him—they had been ingrained since childhood. He lived daily; the future was a pretty yet absurdly abstract concept that he refused to acknowledge. So without further ado he set out for the beach, not paying attention to where he was wandering. He was pleased to be mobile once more, free. He was a good soldier, and a good soldier knew when to sit out and when to get back in the game. It was about Goddamn time. He could only sit and stare at the fire burning in the pit next to the car he slept in so much before he started to go crazy.
Eventually he came across someone, a woman who appeared to be taking a nap along the shoreline. He paused for a second, wondering if she was in any danger from the tide. He doubted it. The coyote took the wasting cigarette from his mouth and considered speaking. But he was not a social creature; he did not want to disturb if he could help it. He began to walk on as he had before.