01 Mar 2016
He didn’t know what he wanted. He wasn’t allowed to want things. He had missions. He could make decisions there, sometimes. Change target, select priorities. All within an established set of parameters. It wasn’t about want, it was about logistics, necessity.
Maybe he did want to stay. At least here he knew what to do. There was pain and the wipes were bad. But he knew how to do it. There was a saying that described this logic, something about devils you knew. . . But it was as muddled as everything else.
He had no idea how to express all of that to her, to explain how impossible “want” was for him. What came out of his mouth was, “I need a mission.”
She studied him a moment, then turned away, tipping her head back. She muttered, “Fuck,” under her breath, then turned back to him. “You want to come with me?”
He nodded, with more enthusiasm than he’d felt for anything but killing in a very long time. She sighed. “All right. Come on, let’s get some supplies.”
“What do I call you?” he asked as she paused at the doorway and peered out.
She glanced back. “My name is Amanda Newbury. You can call me Doc, I suppose.”
Bookmarked by RangedLunatic
12 Feb 2016