#commandersammy

Dragging the toe of his boot through the dirt, Michael huffed and growled a mix of curses beneath his breath. Streaks of crimson followed the movement, staining the ground with the coppery stench of blood. Finally striking his match, the flame was brought up to the cigar wedged between his teeth. Michael didn’t smoke too often, but he did so on days like these.

Roderick drank, Gregory blew things up.

It made sense to him that he could smoke.

Glaring down at the sorry excuse laying in the dirt, their chest heaving with labored breaths, Michael sighed out loud, stepping closer to them in order to nudge them in the side with the toe of his boot. The very same boot he had used to kick the absolute shit out of them.

There isn’t much to say, nor do. His long leave kept him from speaking to friends or family. It’s been all about the Administrator these past months. He wondered if people even missed him.

Strange thoughts.

Pushing open the door to his workshop, Dell noted the area had a distinct, clean smell. He kept the door open for all animals to run into their old home. Has someone been keeping it clean for him?