Heâs thoughtful and he listens when instructed to. This whole time he has respected Dubois and he honestly cannot pinpoint as to why. Perhaps Waller has enact from separating the prize chickens among the feeble hens? In that case Dubois was the cockerel and Abner the ugly duckling who had just waddled into the pie factory with intention to be served on a platter. âYeah. I know. âHe nods for little more reason than to exaggerate that point. Suicide. â That was kind of the idea âŚat firstâŚâ Though he had been transparent about that enough already.Â
Abnerâs own smile threatening to mould the typical puppy-dog frown. âYouâre not so bad, you know? âHe tests and then inwardly kicks himself. He has known from overexposure to mercenaries like Dubois that this kind of character does not take well to any man letting up on expressing what they felt or thought. Naturally he backtracks to save his skin. â - Donât punch me or shove my face in the mud for saying that though. I just - thank you. For saying what you said before itâŚIâm not used to bloodthirsty marksmen who donât beat me up whenever the wardenâs arenât around. â Not that he would be able to defend himself if he wanted. He had to bear that neckbrace to dampen his powers when held in custody.
Then glow. A sigh. Fingerâs trace a newly sprouting yellow, illuminous dot on his jawline. âItâs happening to my face again isnât it? âWait to ruin the moment. Talk about a burden. Most people way more cooler burdens than his own.Â
     S U I C I D E  .  THAT  WAS  KIND  OF  THE  IDEA  AT  FIRST .  Â
Dubois thinks on all the men heâs seen go mad in war and blood. Heâs always kept his head, because heâs kept his distance. Heâs seen so many men gurgle to death, choked on blood or the ghost of it. However glum Abner may be, there is a sadness that lives in him, colourful neon calligraphy strewn across him like a sign detailing the ghost of trauma that lives in his head.Â
Dubois has always tried to stay weary or full of rage. Both things are self-enforced, and they keep him away from the madness, from the gore and the ghosts. From the paralytic poison that is emotion.   The last time he felt emotion, he ended up with a sixteen year old who - despite his best efforts - he could not shake away. He purses his lips. HEâLL SAY NONE OF THIS OF COURSE :   ITâS NOT HIS WAY.   Itâs not how he was raised.
He supposes he ought to say something, but he equally he supposes there is nothing to say.Â
What Abner says next surprises him. He blinks. Some version of him thinks :   BLOODTHIRSTY? I SUPPOSE I AM. IâM BLOOD DRENCHED, IF NOTHING ELSE.    He regrets Abnerâs statement, as if it was him who had been the men in prison to bully him, to shout abuse at him.  He regrets it because he knows once everything goes back to normal --- back to PRISON ---- that the state of affairs will return. Cleo will cling to Nanaue and Abner, Peacemaker will drift back to his strict fitness regime and play lapdog for Waller and all the justice a would-be kid-killer can wreak on the world, and heâll go back to scraping gum. Alone. He regrets that.Â
Maybe thatâs why he canât bring himself to say anything, only to watch Abner glowing with all the galactic wounds inflicted upon him shining, bright enough to dazzle. Eventually, he stirs, uncomfortably leaning against a tree. YOU SHOULDâVE FOUND SOMEONE MORE DESERVING TO THANK. That was the thing about growing up a mercenary. Youâre already ready to go, to abandon people, before they get the chance to slow you down. To make you FEEL.   (  Whether you wanted to be alone or not. )
         â  FUCK âEM.  Thereâs a reason youâre here and they arenât.  â   Yeah. A fucking galactic virus shaped reason. Abner possessed unbearable strength, and all Dubois could do is praise him for it. It made him feel like his father. He wanted to say something else, but Abner was aglow with his sprinkled sickness. Â
         â   Abner.   â     He calls starkly, assuming the small man was going to turn, to purge any moment now.    â   If those guys give you hassle when weâre back in Belle Reve... Iâll sort them. Weâre a team, yeah ?  â    Perhaps not. But his graceless tongue, more accustomed to saying a variety of fuck-flavoured sentiments than anything good or kind, couldnât summon anything else. He didnât know how to do this. But here, Cleo, Abner, heck even Nanaue, Flag, and Quinn, they brought out a red, living, beating part of him that was bloody and raw, not purple and deadened to be âstrongâ. He is nearly certain he despises it -- these feelings of closeness with these certifiably and criminally insane people -- but he canât be sure. Maybe there is a little blood in his throat after all. He swallows thickly. Coming close to caring for these degenerates is hard work.Â