<FC> all over
<FC> im getting out of here
<E> i owe you more and more. How did Aquila take it?
<FC> her work is done. worry about yourself

--

In his memory, the guide saw the fire, even though he arrived long after it had burned out. He drove up in a stolen buggy, leapt from the door before the wheels had scraped to a halt. The sand was scorched black. The army had gone, and the killer with them. If they had remained, things would have gone very differently, the guide would have made sure of that.

But why was he so sure?

He’d probably have died in the explosion too. But at least he’d have taken a few of the Central scum with him. Trapped them with his knives, his hands, legs and teeth while the flames consumed them all. But he had come after the fire, after the enemy had gone.

The fire was a way for his memory to distract itself from the body in pieces.

The doctor arrived before him. The guide made some comment on her usual promptness and she ignored him. And no wonder.

The body she’d retrieved looked like a slug. Wings and legs gone. Just one arm outstretched, then head, torso, entrails; all wetness and pain. Then there was the dark glue congealing around and on him; but that wasn’t part of him. It wasn’t.

The head was intact. The guide tried to be grateful for that.

How can he live like this? 

The doctor answered that he must have injected his whole supply, in fluid form, filled and replaced his bloodstream, it would have been a struggle, he’d have been burning alive the whole time. But the big fire had made it hard for the assassins to aim their small fires. The killer bullets hasn’t touched him. Small mercies.

None of this had been what the guide wanted to hear when he’d asked the question, but he didn’t argue. The doctor had her hands full, and she was stained black up to her elbows with blood and the other gunk.

Cas made it in too, almost three days later. Probably. Time became a blur. Regardless, the guide was happy to see him, and chortled that he thought the mercenaries would have gone after him, Cas, first. It was supposed to allow him an excuse for his lateness, but Cas didn’t make or take shitty excuses. Refusing to speak, Cas silenced him with a look that could have decimated the Central army in its tracks.

If only he’d been there before the fire too.

The guide had thought about it and wished he could switch places with Cas. He didn’t exactly envy the wracking coughs and the sores and the limp, but he felt he deserved a greater share of the suffering. Plus, Cas never said anything idiotic or hurtful or out of line when it mattered.

When they had all the pieces, the guide had to hold the legs while the body convulsed, glueing itself back together. Unlike Life Fountains, who could draw everything back to them like magnets (even removed heads), these low-grade zombies needed someone or something to handle inventory. To set and hold their bits in place.

It was all too easy to keep the body pinned, which made him feel like a barbarian. Cas and the doctor handled the important tasks, stitching and enchanting and injecting and resuscitating. They told him to keep the body still, because brute force was the most he had to offer. If he moved he’d destroy something, as usual.

Thinking back, he was fine doing what he was told. It was unlike him but in those hours he’d helped a bit, and that was what mattered. What he wasn’t fine with, and what would remain in his nightmares as a key that unleashed all the rest, all over again, every time he was stupid enough to look back, was the crying. The head couldn’t stop bawling. The chemical made him so tired but wouldn’t let him sleep. Big fat obsidian tears poured like infected rivers from eyes and nose and mouth, and out with them bubbled words that were never full sentences, but could be understood with brutal clarity, even if you tried to ignore them.

Hurts hurts hurts. Regret everything. Let me die. No more. Get rid of it all. The - the stuff, never again. Never let anyone touch it again. Please, Free, please.

An unfamiliar rage coiled in his spine. Nobody asked him for help directly. For favors. The god damned nerve of this pathetic pile of parts.

And because he wasn’t much good for anything else he just said yes. Of course. I promise.