53 Caring (1/2)
Ika ambles away from the Merchant ”quarters” with a deep frown on his face.
'Why does a complete stranger care?' He nods at a guard as he walks into the green zone. 'Did someone tell him about Kid? Who? Why the hell does he care?'
He mulls over those thoughts while strolling toward a section of the underground garage where his team usually settles down: the pink section. A pink cloth hangs over a piece of rope high above the entrance. Metal tables and wide tents decorate this area. Some of the tables have loaded weapons waiting for use or maintenance, while other tables are empty with folded chairs closed and stored on the table tops.
Ika pauses behind a tent. He takes a deep breath and smooths out the furrow on his brow before turning the corner and meeting what's left of his team. He turns into an overall empty area with three tables. Tents surround the recreational space. This is where his team spends their time before bed.
Only one of the tables is occupied. It has two other folding chairs pulled in underneath it. A deck of cards is open and a few are scattered on the table top. An ace, a card with the number 2 on it, and a joker card lie across the metal surface of the table. The only one occupying the space along with those cards is a despairing form hunched over in their chair. Nard's head hangs low, tucked into the shelter of his forearm fortress. His braids are spilled across the table. The table's metal frame trembles from the constant bounce of the injured man's leg.
Ika scuffs the bottom of his shoes against the concrete floor as he approaches his subordinate. Nard's knee falters in its bounce for a moment before continuing back to its manic quivering. Ika collapses into a folding chair at the other end of the table. He glares at the tabletop as he thinks of something to say.
The bandaged brown forearm in his peripheral reminds him of the loyalty and courage all of his companions have shown, yet few were rewarded. Were they destined to die, or is it the fault of his command?
His jaw clenches and each breath reminds him of the bruising on his stomach and back. Pains that remind him of life and its' daily struggles. Struggles Carla and Priya have left behind in their journeys to the afterlife.
'Life is loss,' Ika places a hand over his eyes and tilts his head back.
Cheap sayings fill his mind, but they don't quell the tremors he feels in his aching heart. Convincing himself that his grief is a waste of time fails. The expectations for their day were vastly different from this current outcome. Priya and Carla are gone and Turner is disabled.
He groans, 'Damn it.'
His nose burns as tears outpour from his eyes. He seals his mouth shut by biting his lower lip. His face is damp with anguish as the flow of tears spills down the sides of his tilted head into the folds of his ears and down his neck.
The chatter and traffic of people slink into the background as they disappear to their designated areas to catch some shut-eye. Neither man hears the call of sleep. They ruminate on what they did wrong, how they could have fixed the situation, and who they could have saved.
The night is long.
Marcus wakes up bright and early.
”Noooooo. What the heck is wrong with these people?” he groans into the cot's stiff mattress.
The clashing of metal cookware and loud chatter of people passing by forces Marcus to give up on sleeping and finally start the day.
He stretches his legs off the thin cot and groans at the chalky taste in his mouth and the slick feel of sweat. His shirts are damp beneath his uncomfortably warm jacket. He unzips his jacket and uses a thumb to pull at the collar of his two shirts to air out his chest. The minute change in temperature makes him feel less like a baked potato. He sniffs at one of his armpits and cringes.
'Ugh, I smell like someone collected the sweat of a football team and sprayed a feral dog with it.'
When he sits up the cloth wrapped around his eye and head slides down his nose, ”Tsk!”
Sigh
When he unties the knot, his fingers graze the metal plating around the back of his head. He leans forward against his knees, cards his fingers through his hair to cover the thin metal plate, then tightens the knot over the back of his head.
He pats the knot to make sure it's secure then raises his head up to sit straight. His eye looks up from the floor and is greeted by the sight of a small child staring into his face. Their green sunken eyes seem to peer right into his soul.
'Did he see?!' His heart skips a beat.
”Uuh,” the metal legs of the cot screech as Marcus abruptly stands up.
He zips his puffy brown jacket back up and glances around the merchant quarters. There are a few cots occupied by sleeping adults, but no one that appears to have had a child resting with them. Marcus doesn't remember seeing a child on one of the cots before he dozed off.
'Oh god...oh god...where did he come from? Why didn't I hear him? Why didn't--'
”You lose an eye?” the young boy is chewing on the collar of his shirt.
”What?” Marcus gapes at the child with wide eyes.
The boy pulls the shirt collar from his mouth to repeat his question, ”You lose an eye or something?”
'This is too good to be true,' Marcus nervously smiles down at the kid.
”Uuh..sort of?” Marcus sits back down and observes the child.
The boy has a light complexion, but Marcus is sure that it's a sign of illness to be that particular shade of white. He looks about eight or nine years old. He's barefoot and wearing shorts with a faded collared shirt. The fabric at the edge of the shirt is torn and threadbare. The shorts appear to have been a pair of pants that were cut at the thighs.
As the boy chews his collar, the bottom of the garment rides up to reveal his gaunt stomach.
”Sort of? You either lost ya eye or not,” the child cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow.
”Well...uuh...the eyeball is there, but it...well...it's a useless eye..it's not working,” Marcus peers over his shoulder for a moment.
'Why didn't you tell me the kid was there?'
THE YOUNG HUMAN IS NOT A THREAT
THE YOUNG HUMAN APPEARS TO LACK
SUFFICIENT NUTRIENTS AND AWARENESS OF ITS ENVIRONMENT
ELIMINATING THE JUVENILE WOULD NOT BE DIFFICULT
'I guess you're right...but I'm not ”Eliminating” a child. That's never an option, okay?'
...
'OKAY?'
AFFIRMATIVE