(( I’m not sure how to feel about this chapter. It has important things going on, but it very much a first draft in need of samurai editing. The end originally played out as-is, and the decision to turn it into a recall was impromptu, borrowed heavily from an earlier version of the story where Gray and Wesson had much less of a dance going on between them and more of a steadily disintegrating relationship. However, I think this paints his character in a much starker, more effective light. ))
CHAPTER 12
The empty oil drum was going to leave rust stains on the seat of her pants, but Gray didn’t really thunk much of it as she drew a needle through the heel of a sock. She was not very good at darning—the tension was difficult to get right—but she’d at least managed to track down a smooth enough stone to help keep the sock’s shape as she repaired the missing weave.
Her appetite had never come back even though she had nothing in her belly but a cup of shine. It tore through her hungry, exhausted body, and Gray was taking this opportunity to straighten up again before going off to attempt anything even remotely important. She drew the last bit of thread through, remembering not to knot it, and instead wove the several inches of leftover thread around the hole to create a smooth, seamless repair. Well, it was seamless to the touch—there was now a brown, coarsely-woven heel against a finer beige. But it would do the trick.
Saiyeh came up, sipping coffee. She was an interesting corpsman, a seventh-year about Gray’s age, and like Gray, tried to keep a low profile. The both of them were also wiry andneither tall nor short, but Saiyeh had a different complexion, and dark, almond-shaped eyes. Like Finch, she preferred to keep her hair cut short, hacking it off with whatever was most convenient and as a result the black hair usually stood on end in all directions. Saiyeh’s popularity was almost exclusively due to the fact that shine made her sick, and was often keen on trading away fridays. Gray always liked her dry sense of humor, though, and she prayed her fellow soldier had something witty to say about now.
“Jeez, Gray, didn’t realize how awful you looked.”
That would have to do.
“Didn’t you know? Getting drunk is hard work around here.”
“Drinking enough water?”
“Doubt it.”
“Here.”
Saiyeh handed Gray the cup of coffee, and though Gray didn’t want it, not on an empty stomach, having something to wet her mouth didn’t sound so bad about now. She took a sip and winced; the stuff was even more bitter than usual.
“That was some fuckin’ lesson this morning,” Saiyeh said after a moment.
“Yeah.”
If the corpsman hadn’t seen it, Gray wasn’t going to mention the nausea. It was something to be embarrassed of. They’d all seen so much violence already, what was a little corporal punishment? And it’s not like she knew the youngyear, anyways.
“What’d Wesson say about it?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t seen him yet.”
“Hey, I just thought you knew each other.”
Gray scoffed. “Yeah, Knew each other.”
“I’m friendly with Captain Benevidas,” she shrugged. Gray noticed an impish grin spread across her face. “Showed him mine and he showed me his.”
Gray set down the stone and the sock just a little too hard. “So that’s how you get all those slips.”
“And I’m sharing the bounty with the rest of yins. It’s win-win. Hey… something wrong?”
“You ever feel like you’re not cut out for this?”
“Not really. I’m still here, aren’t I? Don’t fall for the seventh-year blues, Gray, we’re on the home stretch. Just think: everything that happens here, it doesn’t matter on the outside. And there’s always gonna be ‘Naks anyways, whether you’re in here or out there. They’re like fleas. Really big fleas.”
“It’s amazing that whoever made the Algo—all those governments, those business people—didn’t see this coming,” Gray mumbled. “It’s like they got tired of managing their own shit and gave up. Here,” she mimed. “It’s the golden age of mankind, take all the power. But don’t ever do us dirty, alright?”
Saiyeh laughed. “Gimme everything I want and nothin’ I don’t.”
“I wonder what it would take to win this war.”
“A lot more than we got.”
“OK, what would it take to lose it?”
“More than they got.”
“So it’s not really a war, then.”
“What else would it be?”
A breeze picked up and Gray could smell the mules now.
“I don’t want to see him,” she finally admitted. It was the piece of lead lodged in her that she was putting off removing. But it had to come out.
“Why not?”
“Because he was my friend, Saiyeh.”
“That doesn’t change anything.”
“I know.”
* * *
Wesson’s tent was small and squat, but it still managed to loom over her as she stood in front of it. A sharp breeze kicked up, sending leaves and dust across the ground. Gray blinked and looked in the direction it was coming from—south-east—to instinctively check for rain clouds. There were none, at least none yet, but the season was on its way out and fall was around the corner. And with fall came the rains.
Even the smell on the air was new and ominous: a wind from faraway places, churned over the white and beige rocks of the Southland, baked in the sun, sluiced through thickets of gray oaks and blood-red manzanitas, and arrived here, for her to smell. Wherever this air was from, it only came this time of year.
Something about it made her feel a little more alive, a little braver. If it was hard to count the days out on a solitary watch, this was a reminder that the seasons were still changing, and Wesson, her estranged companion, would soon be gone.
This isn’t forever.
Gray stepped up from the dirt and onto the raised wood foundation at the flap, pausing just outside when she heard voices.
“…you did a fantastic job,” said a woman. She spoke with a slight accent, not the throaty drawl Gray was used to. “Now really, is there anything to be upset about that?”
“It was truly exciting.” This time it was a man. “Things can get so repetitive at the estate. It’s good to come down once in a while and see what the men are up to. Don’t you agree?”
“Oh, yes. Even my little Archer keeps asking when he can visit the camps, too. I told him that he needs to wait until he’s older, and that he’s expected to memorize the Manual like anyone else. You should have seen the fit he threw!”
The man chuckled. “Well, the boy’s only eight, Mrs. Redding. What do you expect?”
Missus? What rank was that? Was it a specialty?
“At any rate, Captain Wesson, you have our strongest approval for your promotion. You’ll make a fine officer!”
Then, weakly, she heard her friend’s voice: “Thank you, sir.”
“Oh don’t look so grim, boy. Here, I’ve got just the thing.” Gray heard some rummaging. “A little something for the nerves, a sip will do the trick. Any more and you’ll be flat on your back!”
“What… is it?”
“Think of it like morphine… or morph, or whatever you call it.”
“Thank you, sirs.”
“Feeling better?”
“I think so?”
“Good. Now as you were, soldier. Continue to do Alpine proud.”
Gray skittered away from the tent flap when she heard footsteps approaching. Quickly, she fumbled around in her pockets for something to occupy herself with, and found a friday.
When the pair of majors left, Gray pretended to study the slip of paper as they passed her. Then she entered the tent. Slowly.
There Wesson was, slumped over his desk and on his elbow, looking as though he weighed as much as an Anak. He was studying a small flask, no bigger than the palm of his hand, but she startled him and he put it away.
“What are you doing here?”
“Finch told me you might want company.” Gray almost cringed when the words left her mouth. She sounded pathetic. “But besides that, no idea.” That was a little better.
“Those majors thought I did a good job,” he said. “Came by before starting with the bonds. They didn’t have to do that, they didn’t have to speak to me at all.”
“Lucky you,” Gray muttered.
“Alright, just… don’t. Don’t start with this again.”
“Start with what? You were up there on those boards today, sir.”
He jumped up suddenly, and Gray stopped. There was a wild edge to his eyes.
“I did what I had to do.”
She stayed quiet.
“I did exactly as ordered.” Wesson brought his fist down on the desk, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “Because unlike you, I actually believe in what we do here. I know that we do our part against the Algo. Did you know that the enemy has been losing 6% of its combat efficacy every year? That means less ammo, less armor… less fighting. That’s real, Gray. Something fucking real. And I—“
He swayed a bit and reached for the chair. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him.
“What did they give you, Wesson?”
“Nothing. I just need a coffee. C’mon.”
The young man righted himself and grabbed Gray by the ripped sleeve of her fatigues on his way out. They didn’t say anything on their walk to the mess tent, and after Wesson stepped in to grab a cup, they didn’t say anything afterward either.
The look he gave her told her to follow him, though, so she did, and warily. They fell behind a small crowd of corpsmen headed towards the firing range, where the bond inspections were beginning to take place. Their raised, wooden stage at the quad wouldn’t come close to accommodating that many bodies.
There were two recruiting officers working the line of prospects, clipboards in hand as they processed everyone as quickly as possible. With so many cots to fill, Hitch couldn’t afford to be picky. Off to the side in more chairs set out just for them, were the brass looking on. Hitch himself stood, his arms folded as they observed the proceedings.
Something touched her arm. It was Wesson handing her his empty cup, and Gray balked, but took it silently.
“And you can read?”
“Y-yessur. I can spell my name too.”
“Good enough.” The officer moved up the line. “And you?”
“I can read Shakespeare, sir.”
“I don’t care if you read fuckin’ Archie comics, bondie. I asked you a yes or no question.”
“…Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He moved to the next filthy teenager. “And you?”
Gray didn’t know how long she stood there with Wesson, but it seemed like hours. She watched as a bond was turned away for his limp. Another for knock-knees. A third for already missing a few fingers on his shooting hand.
Eventually, the officers managed to process the entire group of bonds, with a small handful failing to pass muster. There was still one test left, though: the pheromone.
The recruiting officers pulled out the stinking rags, holding them away from their own faces. There was no verbal abuse, no showmanship, not like Gray’s recruitment and inspection. There were just too many, and it was already getting hot.
“Alright everybody, your job now is to hold still. Anyone who tries to run or fight will be walking home today.”
She thought about the spectacle earlier, and a bitter taste filled her mouth. She also remembered that she hadn’t eaten yet. Maybe she could leave.
“I’m hungry,” Gray whispered. “Gonna grab a bite, OK?”
“Not now.”
“What?”
“Watch.”
The bastard, making her stay here with him for this stupid thing.
But she had technically asked him if she could go eat, hadn’t she? And when he declined, she obeyed. Like a good little corpsman. Maybe the change in the wind hadn’t made her braver after all.
Her frown deepened, but she only shifted her weight on the rough, uneven ground. She was still holding his cup, even. Still falling in line so effortlessly, mindlessly. Gray realized that she didn’t know how to act around him, anymore. It was awkward enough before all this, when they stopped sleeping together. But Wesson, in spite of his smooth talking and dreams of leadership, had a knack for making things awkward. He would go hard acting smoother than usual, smile wider, talk louder. There was a look he got when his place in the pecking order was threatened. It took her a few years to spot it, but she could clearly see that he was wearing it all the time now. It made her want to stand well out of arm’s reach. Something about it made her feel acutely vulnerable. Seen.
And not in a good way.
Ten yards off rags were being pressed to the noses of the first bonds. They passed the test in silence, and so did the next four, six. Gray watched the cords in their necks tighten, the sweat bead on their brows, the slow pulling away like the rag was a heavy ruck and they were sagging under its weight. One bond cried out, fell to her knees and was dragged, kicking, off to the side. Another bond disqualified himself by emptying his breakfast out onto the ground.
Gray wondered if Rice saw something arousing in this physiological response, this pure, unadulterated reaction of a small body surging with fear. Maybe he found it pitiable.
Or maybe Wesson was the one that liked it?
Out of the corner of her eye she surveyed him, stealing a glance long enough to read his posture. He stood almost painfully rigid, and there was color in his cheeks, more than normal. The captain stared with a strange intensity, like he was learning something, and the way he rubbed his chin was slow and repetitive, as if he’d forgotten his fingers were there.
Who was this man?
She was lifted from her thoughts by scattered applause. One particularly small girl was currentlytaking the pheromone without so much as moving, and when the inspection officer pulled away, she continued to hold her chin high. Gray was impressed. If the Anakim were experimenting with stronger scents, they’d need more recruits like that.
“She’s good,” Wesson muttered, as if to himself. “C’mon, give her to brown…”
No, it really was to himself. Gray never knew Wesson to do that.
“He’s not bad either,” the captain continued. “The girls are nicer to look at, though. Let’s see. One, two, three…”
Wesson counted twenty-six bonds that were so far passing inspections, and he kept his count with every one that passed the fear test. In the end only thirteen bonds appeared to be unfit, and they were soon tied up with ropes behind their backs to be led silently, solemnly away.
“Wesson, I’m fucking starving,” Gray whispered, wanting desperately to leave. “Can I please go eat?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah. Sure. Dismissed. Make sure to take that with you.” He gestured vaguely to the cup in her hand, then turned back to the bondsmen.
Gray wouldn’t walk away fast enough.
“Am I the one going crazy?” she muttered as she beat it back to the mess. When she got there, the seventh-year disposed of Wesson’s cup as if it were too hot to touch.
A few bodies were scattered around the largetent, most of them grabbing a bite before the first shift ended at 1400 and a lineup formed, but it was still difficult to find a table to eat at alone. Camaraderie was the quickest fix for boredom around here, and she only got a few precious bites in before a girl from gold toon set down her tray across the table.
Gray masked her frustration. There was truly no place a corpsman could go to be alone around here without looking suspicious, was there? Nowhere to go to just think; the place was crawling with people, bored and harried at the same time. The maddening part was that Gray doubted it was even intentional. Camp wasn’t a place to ponder things, it was a place to eat, sleep, and train. A personal life was the carrot they dangled at you from across the chasm of ten years of hard goddamn graft.
The corpsman went about her business, blissfully unaware of Gray’s angst. And it started to bother her. What about her posture said she wanted company? Gray scooped up a bite of food, letting her foon loudly hit and scrape the tray a few times. The older girl didn’t seem to pay any notice.
Gray glanced up to scowl at the oblivious intruder, hoping to make eye contact. Instead, she saw the older corpsman take a handful of something from her pocket and smash it into her serving of wet ration.
Maybe interrupting her would do the trick.
“What’s that?” Gray asked flatly. She recognized the black little fruits as a kind of wild berry, but always heard they were toxic.
“Nightshades,” she said, then chuckled. “Mellows out the “scum” in our pond-scum pate. And they’re good for ya, too.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yup. They got vitamins.” She said it like she were in on a privileged secret. “Vitamins keep you from gettin’ sick, ya know.”
Sick. As in, what, a cough and a runny nose for a few days during the rainy season? If only that was the worst of her problems.
Gray continued to take measured bites of her unadulterated slurry, mostly wishing that Taylor or Tucker or whatever her name was would hurry up and finish.
“How d’you know they got vitamins? I thought those things were poisonous.”
“Oh the toxic thing? That’s a…” The gold foxer lowered her voice. “That’s a lie. The officers don’t mind us putting stuff in our rations, but the Nightshades are tricky. They’re only safe when they’re ripe, so to keep half the camp from shitting their guts out, they just say they’re poisonous. And besides, the officers eat them like candy. Those guys never get sick. And I’d know, Captain Berg pays me in fridays to forage his.”
The conversation had suddenly taken an interesting turn, and Gray found herself perking up.
“You’re not a ninth-year, are you?”
Of course she was, the five slim bars on her lapel was plain as day.
“Yup.”
It was Gray’s turn to lower her voice. “Does the Corps really treat ninth-years differently?”
“Well, you didn’t hear this from me, but—”
Would be hard to, seeing as how Gray didn’t know her name.
“—They do. Some of us, at least. Even if you’re not after a promo, getting friendly has its perks, right?”
To hear it so plainly was a surprise. It was a well-worn complaint that often snaked through the rumor mill by bitter downranking enlisted, but this was the first time that she’d actually asked a ninth-year about it and gotten an answer. Hm. Maybe it was time to go fishing.
“Well, my captain seems to like me a lot, but I’m only a seventh-year,” she explained. “I’m afraid he’s going to get the both of us in trouble for rubbing shoulders with me while we’re on-duty.”
The ninth-year glanced at Gray’s tattered left sleeve, and noted the color of her camp emblem: a brown, snarling fox’s head with three Anak bullets in its mouth. The tenth-year nodded.
“That new promo,” she said, going back to her food. “He’s got it tough, believe it or not. After promotion, the Corps usually sends its new captains to Alpine for training before being assigned to a camp. He’s learning on the fly.”
“He’s dedicated, though.”
“He is. I’ve heard a lot about him. Seen him this morning, too.”
Gray squashed the gross feeling in her stomach.
“So if you were in my shoes…?”
The ninth-year dropped to a whisper again. “You can’t turn him down, you should know that much. If a captain sees something in you, you’re theirs to groom. And if all you want is to get out of bondship…” She nodded sagely and finished her tray. “Then things just got a little more complicated.”
Gray stayed quiet for a minute, staring at her hardtack. Complicated. She turned the word over in her head, deciding that it was accurate enough. Accurate for the purposes of this conversation.
She decided to ask another innocent question. “What do I do if I don’t trust him?”
The ninth-year laughed. “Your problem, not his! Look, don’t think about it too hard,” she said, gathering up her tray. “There’s worse things out there than a captain getting sweet on ya.”
Gray smiled wryly. “I dunno, having a ‘Nak get sweet on you doesn’t sound so bad.”
She snorted and crossed the mess to dump her tray and foon into a tub of dirty dishes. “Yeah, until he decides you look prettier with a hole in your head!”
Gray laughed, but only so.
And as soon as the ninth-year was gone, her face darkened, and she poked at the wet ration, sinking back into her thoughts.
So there was nothing she could but lean into the discomfort, the strangeness. The idea gnawed at her, and her heart pounded. What recourse did she have? As far as anyone else could see, Wesson was following orders to a tee, and playing games that he as an officer couldn’t lose. He was the perfect little soldier.
She pushed the tray away, unable to finish. The image of him bringing down the hammer with every ounce of his strength haunted her, replaying a dozen times all at once. But then another memory surfaced: Kessler’s face when she told him that her entire exchange with Rice was a hallucination. His eyes.
Maybe she should have just shot him; it probably would have hurt less.
There had to be a way for her to use this to her advantage. It seemed that staying alive out here long enough to make it to nine years was difficult, and though the Manual stated that the average survival rate was currently 22%—one out of every five corpsmen would live to get their freemark—Fox typically had 800 or more first-years, with less than 100 ninth-years. Gray knew nothing about math, but Harper did. And he said that 1 out of 8 is a lot less than 22%. With fewer and fewer longyears, each survivor only becomes more valuable, more visible. Easier to single out, easier to get to know.
So what happens? You cozy up with a captain or two. You can make suggestions or get what you need, like get a few codys for an injured friend or an extra bit of food.
You can lie about playing a game of cards with Finch and some outsiders and win her a tin of screen.
Gray swallowed.
Or maybe you could get posted to sentry positions that make it easier to rendezvous with a certain Anak sentinel.
* * *
“Guys, they got the projector working!”
“No fuckin’ way!”
“Yeah, the brass brought parts with ‘em!”
“And they’re playing two movies tonight!”
At around 0900, just as the hot, molten core of the sun burbled along the far horizon, Gray found her way to the quad after a quick rinse. A few groups of corpsmen were busy hauling benches and tables from the mess, with other groups already laying claim to them. A few arguments broke out; some guy punched another guy in the face over a bench near the front and won it. Gray chuckled to herself. This was the kind of violence she preferred: the harmless variety.
Saiyeh had given her two fridays earlier, one for each pair of socks successfully darned, and though it always took her more than an hour to do a pair, it was a trade she’d make again in the future for sure. The caustic liquid always burned too good on its way down and dulled her senses in just the right kind of way.
She had one more day of R&R before heading out again. She wasn’t sure what shape Wesson was going to be in when she returned from her next post, and she wanted to at least attempt to plant a seed while he still wanted her to.
Finch and Harper came up then.
“Boy when you don’t wanna be found, you don’t wanna be found,” the man said.
Gray turned to Harper and cocked a brow. “Really? I was dozing off by the water tank for an hour,” she said, trying to inject a little good nature into her mood. “Hey, I think there’s a spot over there for us.”
Harper had a bedroll with him, and they laid it out on the ground off to the side. Finch pulled out her cards, and soon Saiyeh and Clark joined them for a game of something while they waited for the movie to start. Nobody mentioned the morning’s lesson again—it was already ancient history.
“So you miss patrols yet?” Saiyeh asked as she looked over her hand.
Finch did the same, organizing them. “Yeah. But it’s only until this fuckin’ thing heals.”
Her arm was no longer in a sling, but the wound was still only beginning to look a bit less ugly.
“She’s gonna be practicing with a sider again for next exercises,” Harper said, sounding relieved. “And she’ll be doing target practice before Wesson’s transferred, and we won’t have to worry about what the next captain will think.”
Just then there was a loud whistle from up the road and most everyone turned to see three corpsmen from the guardhouse escorting a pair of dismounted riders and their horses. These two weren’t exactly elegant, and even in the dying light of dusk she could make out worn their worn leathers and sweat-stained clothes. ‘Nak fighters from civtown, maybe.
“Guess it’s a party tonight,” Finch said, sitting tall to see over Gray’s head.
A pair of captains came over, waving their arms, and though she couldn’t hear them it was clear that the wastelanders were being turned away. A lively discussion ensued and a minute later the commander strode over with a colonel at his heels. Hitch began speaking, but the colonel cut him off—from his body language, Gray could see that the riders were being welcomed for the time being. The accompanying corpsmen were instructed to, she assumed, ready food and accommodations for them.
Their horses were taken, and the riders were invited to sit at the front of the crowd with the brass, passing by Gray and the others. Their group fell silent as they passed. The corpsmen eyed them curiously, warily, and even admiringly. Saiyeh’s eyes followed one of the riders, and with a grin she whispered that she always liked a man in chaps. Finch and Gray bit back laughter while Clark and Harper rolled their eyes.
Soon, Hitch stood at the front to ask for silence, a soft order which was mostly obeyed, and the movie started.
The sound came from the front, nearest the brass and officers, so it was difficult to hear. They decided to quietly keep playing, glancing up every once in a while to see what trouble Errol Flynn was stirring up to this time.
It didn’t take long to see him in chaps either. Gray let her eyes linger.
A few hands later, someone else invited themselves to sit down on the bedroll. In the dark it took her a moment to see that it was none other than Wesson, and her heart skipped a beat. There was a large cup in his hand. It was made of glass.
“You never saw me here,” he whispered with that famously clean smile of his.
The corpsmen looked at each other.
“What? It’s dark, no one will see me.”
Saiyeh was the first to excuse herself. “Good to see you, sir. Was on my way to the latrines, though. Wish me luck.”
Wesson scoffed as she left. “Well that was rude. Was just about to offer you guys a drink of this.”
Gray was immediately on edge. Surely it wasn’t…?
“Harrison calls it whiskey. And it’s up. Way up.”
Up; a word usually referring to either good sex, or a gun that fired especially straight. She’d never thought to use it to describe a drink, especially something from Harrison. Shine was never up, but maybe whiskey wasn’t shine. And if it came from Harrison’s, then it wasn’t whatever those majors gave him either.
Either way, Gray needed to play it smooth. She had seeds to plant.
“What’s whiskey?” Harper ventured. Wesson shoved the glass at him, and in the cold light of the Westie, the captain’s teeth shone a brilliant white.
“No idea. Just try it.”
Cautiously, Harper did. Gray watched as he went from suspicion to surprise after a single sip.
“It goes down… easy,” the cableman said. “And it tastes like…”
Finch plucked the glass from him and took her own sip. She looked perplexed.
“Tastes like hot tobacco,” she noted. “Or… or…”
Clark was next. He was so surprised that he coughed, and held the glass to the light of the movie. It had an amber color to it, not like standard shine.
“Why’s it brown?”
“Harrison keeps it in a wood barrel,” Wesson shrugged. Then: “Gray? You want to try some?”
Did Gray want to try some? If she wanted to get on his good side, if she wanted to stop fighting him and roll with the punches, score her nepotistic brownie points, then this was as good an opportunity as any. So she took it, and gave it a sniff first. The sheer complexity of the smell alone shocked her. This stuff was a force to be reckoned with. Maybe it was worth trying after all.
The sip went down like something slick and sharp and at once warm and cold. Finch was close when she said it tasted hot. It was more like…
“A campfire,” she said. “Tastes like oak logs on a campfire.”
“Yeah! That’s exactly it!”
Wesson gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Go on, pass it around again. It’s on me.”
They did.
“Did Harrison just… give this to you? Because a friday doesn’t buy whiskey,” Harper noted after had had his second swig.
“Money buys whiskey,” Wesson said. “Check this out.”
From out of his pocket he produced something that Gray had seen on few occasions before, and never up close. It was a slip of money. He held it up to the light, and she saw that it was bigger than a friday, though made from the same stuff, and instead of blue it was marked in deep green. On the corner was a big number 1.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to be waving that around, sir,” whispered Clark.
“Look, I’m off-duty, just call me Wesson. And it’s fine, I’m an officer. They give me these now.”
Finch didn’t seem to care very much. “Hey, can I have one more sip?”
Wesson handed the glass to her and she threw down at least another finger of the stuff. And Wesson didn’t seem to care very much about that.
“If any of you want any of this,” he continued, lowering his voice even more. “Just let me know. I’ll be happy to trade for it.”
“Trade what?” Gray found herself asking.
“You know… favors. Take those two for example,” he said, nodding in the direction of the riders from the wasteland. “Maybe they want their leather shined, maybe they want a friendly face while they’re here. It might be my job to get it to them, and I’m nothing without my toon. There’s always stuff to do.”
Stuff to do.
“What if I wanted toby?” Gray ventured.
Wesson scooted himself closer. “Let’s talk.”
Clark let out a strained breath and stood up. “Think I need to hit the latrine too. Not sure if my stomach is liking that whiskey stuff.”
“Sorry to hear that. Don’t forget your patrol circuit tomorrow!”
“Uh, yeah. Of course, sir.”
Wesson turned back to Gray. “So you do smoke now!”
Finch cocked her head. “Since when?”
“Since, er… last week.”
“Sticks ain’t cheap,” Finch scoffed.
Wesson put a hand on Gray’s shoulder. “And that’s why I offered to help. Now what you got for me?”
“I-I…”
Think, stupid, think!
“I was wondering what you had for me?”
His hand drifted to her back, then, and she swallowed.
This should be easy.
Right?
The captain smiled. “Gimme time to think about it. For now, deal me something, Finch.”
