WOUNDS [DELILAH] Jan 20, 2015 23:46:43 GMT -5
Post by HUSHER on Jan 20, 2015 23:46:43 GMT -5
He was tired. So bone tired he could think of nothing but his train car cot. His palm swept over the top of his head through his rough hair, the sweat from his neck dripping down the back of his shirt as his body tried to cool his core temperature. It had not been an easy mission; they had kept up a hasty pace from the border for hours to reach home with their kills – harried by retros for miles. They’d lost Mars, a good Hunter and comrade that had deserved more than he got. Way more.
Husher’s stress filled fingers moved beneath his sunglasses to rub his bloodshot eyes, then, letting the frames fall back to the bridge of his nose wandered to the stubble on his face that had grown over the last few days out on the hunt. Mars had been his responsibility. Husher had allowed a new kid on the mission that he hadn’t been sure about. Mars was from the corps, like Husher – and when the kid had frozen Mars had done what Husher would have, and went back for him. The kid made it, Mars didn’t.
The kills they brought home would feed everyone for a day or two, and another party would be sent out. The antelope over his shoulder was dropped to the floor in front of one of the volunteers that cooked and divvied out rations. Her eyes took him in and she instantly knew better than to smile or ask questions, Lara had always been good about that. She was one of the oldest in the Fallen. She was short with gray hair, a hooked nose, and a slight flab of skin that hung from her arms. The weight she had lost years ago was too dramatic for her skin to snap back, and they wobbled faintly as she nodded in thanks, slapped a hand to his shoulder and gave him a shove toward the med tent.
The slap held two meanings, once in comfort and twice that she knew he was injured. He braced from even the small impact, his arm had been ripped open from a tiger retro and he was bleeding heavily through even the well wrapped bandage. It had been colored a crimson black as the blood dried, reopened, and oozed from the efforts after the injury. Now, he’d need cleaning and stitches. Again.
Beneath the glasses his face did not change from its hard expression, but he nodded and turned toward the tent. The first time Lara had sent him over he’d waved her off and went to his train car. Not five minutes later found Lara throwing a legendary Italian tantrum and not long after Husher had found himself at the hands of the medics anyway. To save a step, he went straight to Delilah.
Ducking into the tent, he spotted her leaning over another patient and, not wanting to interrupt he stood where he was, waiting for her to finish. Inwardly he braced against her inevitable verbal onslaught as he had Lara’s earlier cuff. He was exhausted, dirty, sweaty, bloody, in need of a bath, and sleep – but if he didn’t get stitched up he was going to bleed out. He had lost a lot of blood already.
When she finally looked up, Husher’s chin rose slightly and his good arm raised to lift his sunglasses away. In their place were hard blue-grey eyes that leveled soberly; the gesture akin to the respect of tipping a hat, or removing it completely before sitting at a table to eat. After a moment, he shifted his weight and looked straight ahead – waiting patiently.