"I wish I knew." You weakly murmur, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. You run your fingers through your hair and over the back of your head. Your short hair is shorn back further there, and for the first time, you realize that you must have an awful haircut right now. But there is no soreness, no tenderness. "I did hear that conversation, and I'm grateful for your aid. Perhaps I can assist you with your situation in return? It sounds like you could use the help. Also, let me make this clear. I'm not a threat to you in any way. I don't wish you ill."
"Damn right you will," But Mitchell sighs and rubs his face at your answer. He relaxes, giving a simple nod at the answer, but he still has a hard look in his eyes. He gestures for you to follow and moves back into the main living area. Hesitantly, you wander after. Your first step is a little unsteady, but you regain your balance swiftly.
The small hallway opens up into a general living area, one made of curved, thin metal. A small wooden table with accompanying chairs sits in the corner, the surface covered with dirty dishes and empty bottles. A large bookshelf hides a wall, more books piled on the floor than within its shelves. The titles blur in your vision, before becoming apparent, and a vast majority of them are medical works. On the other side of the room is a cooking station, complete with a small fridge whose compressor labors loudly. "Take a seat. I still have some soup on the stove."
You do so, settling into the creaking wood without protest. He pulls a spoon off the wall and scoops soup into a thankfully clean bowl, passing it to you without a further word. He settles in across from you, still staring. Eventually, he grabs a green bottle from the table and takes a swig.
The smell of the soup is still divine, and you don't eat it so much as inhale it. You drain the last of the broth and have to stop yourself from licking the bowl, hunger still rolling your stomach.
"I found you on my doorstep. A local farmer dropped you off for me to perform funeral rites. Clean you up and incinerate you. Hell, I nearly did. You were an awful wreck, young lady." He takes a swig, "I wouldn't've known you were still alive if you didn't spit blood in my face."
"After that, I did the best I could for you. Stitched up your side, making you comfortable, doping you up. I waited for you to meet your [creator, maker, Non-Empyeral diety], but you never did."
The man takes another swig from the bottle, alcohol fumes wafting across the table. He rubs the neck of the container, staring at you, "I would've put a bullet in your head if I were younger. Given you mercy, but--" He shakes his head, lapsing into silence.
You stay silent, still taking in the room. A coat rack sits in the corner, hanging with a heavy duster and worn satchel with crooked calligraphy. You blink as the symbols blur, and another imposes itself upon it — a bright red cross. A lamp sitting in the corner illuminates the room, its bulb glowing bright blue.
"I caught up with the farmer after you pulled through the night. Its a small town, and the man was telling everyone about how he found you." Mitchell gives a bitter laugh, "He said you fell from the heavens. He was locking up his [horse, steed, mount] and saw a light in the sky, growing brighter, until it blew up in one of his fields."
"Said it made him find the [creator, maker, non-Empyeral]. He went to the temple to pray for hours after dropping you off. Probably shot his mouth off to the priest while he was it, then went to go forget all about it with some booze."
"I wouldn't have believed it, except by the time I got back, you looked less like a pile of meat in the shape of a girl and more like an actual person."
"You don't remember anything? Anything at all that could answer this?"
When you shake your head, he sighs. "I'm not one to believe, but seeing you recover is a goddamn miracle. Twenty years of being a doctor, and I ain't see anything like it."
"And now you're up, and walking around and holding conversations that aren't you gurgling blood. And now, we need to talk about my fees. Now, you were naked when you came in, so I'm sure you don't have any money. I've got an awful lot of work around the house I need doing, so you're going to help with that. Nurse work too. Two years ought to pay off what you owe." His eyes are hard and dark, and he states bluntly, "Otherwise, you could go with that slave-broker and work for the [warlord], but I'm sure you wouldn't like that, girl."
Something within you bristles at that, and you sit upright, fixing him with a glare as you snap. "If I'm going to be working with you, don't call me a girl like I'm a child."
He flinches at that, then gives a short laugh. "By the [maker], I thought your spine was broken."
Just then, there's a knock at the door, and Mitchell rises to his feet, walking over to it, the bottle still in hand. He pulls it open-- and flies back into the room, his chest exploding into gore. Mitchell's corpse thuds to the ground, his pistol clattering free beside him.
The sound of the shotgun drives you down to the ground, reverberating through the metal room with a deafening bang. Three men stand in the doorway, clad in dusters, face hidden behind [demon] masks. They look taken aback by your presence and hesitate.
Well then. What's next?
You don't remember who you are.
You are rage incarnate.
Your adrenaline is pumping.
[/i]
Torso:
An oversized, grey shirt.Lower Body:
Faded blue scratchy, canvas pants.Feet:
Woolen socksSide:
A wrapping of bandages.
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Topic: McCreary's Planet -- (FINISHED) (Read 223669 times)