#fractalescrib

2BDamned is sick. At least, that's what Hank is led to think.

During their last mission debrief yesterday he had to pause much more than usual, struggling to find his words. Late last night they'd heard him throwing up, despite him refusing dinner. This morning he'd been using that weird stick thing he keeps in his office to walk around again.

There's a small sickly voice in the back of their brain, one that tells them they cannot possibly allow him to remain this way, and they haven't the faintest idea why it matters what state he's in. He's seen them in various stages of gore much worse than a little trouble walking and some nausea. Maybe that's what makes this strange positional switch feel so wrong. They really don't have the qualifications to figure that out.

They don't have the qualifications to figure 2BDamned out either, and yet here they are opening the door to his office and entering unannounced.

2BDamned doesn't greet them with annoyance as he's supposed to when someone barges in. He doesn't greet them at all, in fact. Sat at his desk, keyboard shoved back under his monitor to make space for his head to lay on his crossed arms, he offers no acknowledgment.

Well, this is uncomfortable. They kind of want to leave now and pretend they didn't see anything. Kind of.

Their boots thunk across his floor, stopping once they're standing directly beside him. The noise getting closer finally draws a reaction out of 2BDamned, shoulders tensing as he jolts to attention. He barely lifts his head to look up at them with the most exhausted expression they have ever seen him wear.

"Wimbleton..? What do you need now.." he sounds fragile, weak. Their stomach flips.

"You look like shit." that only draws a huff from him, completely drained of his usual sarcastic bite. Something has to be done to get him back to normal, and preferably before they cover the inside of their mask in bile.

Hank reaches into one of their pockets and removes a small bottle of pills, holding it out to 2BDamned. 2BDamned only gives them a look. "Pain meds." they clarify, earning a soft hum. They know it's nothing he doesn't already have access to, hell, he gave it to them in the first place-- they just don't know what else they could offer that might make a difference.

It takes what feels like eons for him to sit up straight, and even then he dry heaves once during the process. Finally, he takes the bottle from them with trembling hands.

Quivering fingers try and fail to open it. And he is trying, Hank can see him gripping the sides and pressing down, but it's fruitless. S.Q's medic, bested by a child safety top. This is sad.

Without asking, Hank takes the bottle back. 2BDamned makes a pathetic throaty noise. They twist the top off with ease and pour a few pills into their palm (as he typically did), closing them in their fist and holding them above his head (reminiscent of his usual), using their other hand to tilt his head back by his chin (just like him). 2BDamned opens his mouth, and Hank drops the pills inside, pressing his jaw back closed.

He swallows hard. The medicine goes down. His hands are still shaking.

2BDamned does not thank them. He only looks at them with those horrible fatigue-ridden eyes.

"Go to bed, Doc." 2BDamned nods tiredly. "Where'd you leave your walking stick."

"My cane?" Hank nods back, determined. "Should be.. uh.." his shoulders slump with a deep sigh, "Fuck, I don't know.."

You're not allowed to not know things. You always know things.

"I'll look around." they take this opportunity to duck out of his office, mind whirring at frightening speeds as they start to tear the common areas of the base apart in search of 2BDamned's mobility aid.

It's something they've accepted has to happen on occasion, with 2BDamned and Deimos being the smart computer men destined to remain at base cracking codes and doing whatever the fuck else, but that doesn't mean they're enjoying it. Not that they really enjoy much. The point still stands.

The missions themselves are nothing, per usual, they couldn't care less about what they're sent to do or who they're sent to kill. In truth, Sanford's behaviour is what sets them off. It doesn't take a lot to make Nevada's killing machine some degree of pissed off, no, yet making them uncomfortable takes some special kind of treatment.

Since having their prosthetic jaw attached, they've noticed some oddities. He keeps looking at them out of the corner of his eye, at that prosthetic jaw. When Hank makes eye contact, he looks away. Were it not for the shooting pain and difficulty speaking held, they'd have asked what the fuck he was looking at.

Fortunately for them, he tells them himself what the fuck he's looking at. It comes after a heavy exhale through his nose, as if getting the words out is difficult. "Ya ever think 'bout how messed up allat is? Ever?"

Assuming he means all the traditional carnage, Hank shakes their head. Strange thing to pose within the life they lead. Stranger still, Sanford's still looking at their jaw when he continues on, "I mean.. shit, Hank. Don't that hurt? Bad?"

Oh. So that's what he means. It does hurt. Severely. Hank doesn't usually have time to think about that, though. They just shrug.

Sanford doesn't seem to like that answer, judging by how deeply he's frowning. "Just so we're clear," he says in a stern tone, "I think he shouldn't have fuckin' done that to ya. I think it's scummy."

..What is Hank to do with that? How are you supposed to react to a moment being reframed as evil, when being in it made you feel unlike anything you ever had before? Was it bad, what he did? Was it inhumane? They don't really have concepts of either of those things.

Deimos noticed the first time the vehicle started drifting, giving his comrade a pointed nudge in the side. That had startled Sanford awake effectively enough, until it occurred again only a few moments later. It was a back and forth cycle that posed annoying at worst and deadly at best.

"Ford," Deimos calls, patting Sanford on the shoulder. "Pull over, let me drive. Ya keep conkin' out here."

"No way, Jose." it comes out as a groggy mumble that doesn't do much to plead his case.

"C'mon, in this kinda place, ya really want the coroner markin' your cause a death as sleep drivin'?"

"Do they even got coroners anymore?"

"I ain't wanna find out n' I can't imagine ya do neither."

Sanford yawns, "Do ya even know how to drive?"

"'Ey, I'm startin' to think your threshold for my intelligence gets lower by the day."

"It does.. chucklefuck.."

"You're the chucklefuck, chucklefuck-- will ya pull over already? You're dozin' again."

Sanford grumbles to himself indignantly about it, but he does do as Deimos says. The truck rattles to a stop, both of them exiting to swap seats. As they pass by each other, meeting at the hood, Sanford speaks just loudly enough to be heard over the continual rumble of the engine, "Be careful. Was my dad's truck."

Deimos doesn't really know what that means or how it relates to the way he drives. Sentimentality is a concept he's never felt, wanting anything of before to go straight up in flames with none left behind. Not to mention that the idea of family is so far from him he can barely grasp the word alone.. but Sanford looks even more tired when he says it, and if nothing else that makes the statement carry the weight it needs to for Deimos to take it seriously.

The circumstantial timing of their first meeting kind of disallowed for that, what with the world already having been plunged into seemingly permanent apocalypse by then. It hadn't come to mind for him, in all honesty, until Sanford had begun to trust him more and be willing to entertain questions about what life was like before the nightmare began.

A few times, Deimos did ask directly about what Sanford's family was like. Sanford had answered him directly in turn, and it left Deimos a strange mix of befuddled and disheartened, as if something was missing from his own life perhaps. He wasn't all too sure, emotional intelligence was never his strongest point, but even he could deduce that it wasn't the greatest feeling in the world.

Over months of constant companionship, idle conversations, and heart-to-hearts, Deimos learns more about Sanford's folks (and has begun calling them that, his folks, because that's what Sanford says).

The truck they ride around in all day belonged to his dad, Sanford learned how to fix it from him. He has some fabric scraps under the driver's seat from his mother's clothes, they don't smell like her anymore but sometimes Sanford pretends they do. He describes what that scent used to be so vividly as if he last experienced it yesterday. She taught him to cook and he still knows some of her recipes by heart. When he passes that knowledge on to Deimos he says it feels like he's preserving the memory of them. Deimos has never questioned if Sanford knows with certainty if they are alive or not; he judges by how sometimes Sanford's voice wavers a little during the topic that he's better off not doing that.

"Ya think your ma would'a liked me?"

Sanford raises an eyebrow, "N' where's this comin' from, bud?"

Deimos shrugs a shoulder, "I dunno. Ya just talk 'bout her like she was so smart n' sweet, real well-mannered lady, n'.. I dunno. If we met 'fore, somehow.."

Sanford grunts at him in acknowledgement. A silence settles somewhere between comfortable and not. After what feels like a good few minutes, he exhales, only a little shaky. "Yeah.. yeah, y'know what, I think so. She'd definitely want ya outta them raggedy ass clothes, but.."

"N' no cursin' round ma, no cigs neither."

"Nope.." a beat of silence, "Ya remember allat? 'Bout my ma."

"Well yeah I do, ya told me it, didn't ya? She's a special gal.."

Sanford coughs, an attempt to cover up some other less casual noise. "Yeah.. course she is. Ya would do fine by her."

Deimos will never meet Sanford's mother. However, he will try his best to do right by her, offer respect and care to her as an extension of Sanford. Even if Sanford has dreams and desires for more than trading memories, the impossible reality of Deimos sharing space with his parents, he thinks the effort to come as close as he possibly can is plenty for what their lives are.

"You're aight, Dei."

Deimos is not a doctor.

Then again, neither is Doc, so he should be fine to take care of Sanford after a rough mission. His hands are kind of tied either way, but that thought process makes him feel better about it.

He doesn't know a lot about taking the medical reigns, however he does know that head trauma definitely requires aid. There's no way he couldn't know, head trauma is practically his middle name and he's heard the same spiel from 2BDamned about it at least twenty times over now. Rest, rest, and more rest. Sanford was really, really, really not going to like that treatment plan. Maybe he should've thought about that before letting an agent crack him over the head.

He'd been exceedingly careful taking Sanford out of the truck, guiding him down onto his feet and getting him to hook his arm over Deimos' shoulders to stay steady. The walk into base is slower than its ever been, each move slotted into a calm rhythm to ensure Sanford can match Deimos' footsteps safely.

Upon entering, he meets eyes with 2BDamned for mere moments. 2BDamned silently says he's busy and Deimos silently responds that he figured so. Hank's bleeding out right now, Doc doesn't have time for a measly concussion. Deimos does, so he keeps leading Sanford onward.

Sanford makes a low droning noise. "I know, Ford, I know.." Deimos coos at him so gently while leading him down the hall to their shared room, "You're okay bud.. almost there, you're doin' great."

It's difficult for Deimos to keep his pace steady when he finally gets Sanford close to their cot, wanting him laying down as soon as possible so he can recover as soon as possible. He knows better, thankfully, softly lowering Sanford down and plucking his sunglasses off of his face.

Sanford initially leans forward rather than back how Deimos had wanted, remaining seated when he finally attempts to speak, "Why ain't..?" he trails off, head lolling to the side beyond his control.

Deimos knows what he's going to ask, interjecting when he catches Sanford's cheek in his palm, "Doc's got a lot to do with Hank right now, that's all.. y'know it ain't personal." Sanford makes a noise somewhere between "I don't believe you" and "I still hate that guy." Yeah, that tracks.

He thumbs at Sanford's cheek. Sanford looks at him with dazed, tired eyes. "Don't tell me," his voice is low, velvety. "Ya really ain't wanna be stuck with me playin' your nurse for a little while?" he smiles, he's teasing. Sanford gives a crooked smile back.

"C'mon.. lay down," Deimos tenderly instructs, moving Sanford down to his back. After he's removed both of their boots and set them at the foot of their bed, Deimos sits beside him. He brushes Sanford's curls out of his eyes, "I'll stay here with ya, long as ya need.. aight?"

Wandering the Nevadean desert, there's a chance you may come across a man in a shoddily constructed wooden shack.

They'll beckon you closer and ask that you take a good look at what they have for sale. Does anything catch your eye? It's very reasonably priced, and if it's not reasonable enough for you they're open to bartering. The poster beside them even says everything is guaranteed to work.

As you make your purchase, you get a closer look at that poster. The fine print makes you want to withdraw the decision you've made, but it might be too late when they've already pocketed your money and bid you farewell with a sharp-toothed grin. Who was that person they're so concerned about, anyway?

Oh well, nothing to be done about it now. Especially not when you make the foolish decision to not check for that "functionality" until you're a good distance away, and it turns out that the gun you were sold jams on every single shot without fail. That.. sucks. A lot. Even if you barely paid any money for it. Tomorrow you'll go back and try to get a refund for it.

You do go back tomorrow, but you don't get your refund. In fact, you don't get anything at all; that shack, and the man from inside it, is nowhere to be found. You're sure this is the spot and that thing didn't have wheels, in fact it looked like it'd fall apart if the wind blew too hard. How did they just.. vanish? Were they selling scams all day in a get rich quick scheme only to demolish the thing afterwards?

You begin to hear similar stories from others. Weapons not functioning as planned, medicines doing nothing, food tasting of chemicals. You hear opposite stories, too; others got guns that shot further distances than they ever should be able to, cleanly. The lucky bastards.

Asking where they've seen the shop never receives the same answer twice. Somehow they're traveling across the state at inhuman speeds and selling goods in some sort of functional vs. useless roulette. Just who (or maybe what) is this..?

One of these days, 2BDamned is going to get tired of having to save Hank.

A distress call from his operatives was a fairly normal occurrence. Five distress calls sent in rapid succession, not so much. They loved to bitch at him for spam texting and then do the exact same thing when they deemed it necessary, didn't they. He'd be keeping that in his back pocket for the next time they felt like complaining.

What Deimos had relayed by the time 2BDamned decided to relent and pick up his phone wasn't much beyond usual as far as he's concerned. Something about how they got ambushed by a lot more of the agency's men than expected, but judging by what sounds like the rumbling of Sanford's shitbox truck in the background, they should be fine now. Regardless, he has to ask the dreaded question.

"How's Hank." it definitely doesn't sound like a question when it leaves his mouth, preemptive dread taking away any proper tone.

Deimos makes an uncertain noise. "He's, uh.. nearly-- almost dead? But not quite."

"Great. How promising." 2BDamned starts making his way towards the front of the base with heavy steps, "And your ETA is what?"

Deimos makes more sounds that are not clerical at all. "We're pullin' up.. now. Like, right now-- 'ey, Hank, wait up! ... Son' bitch. Dead man walkin' incomin', Doc!"

"Great." 2BDamned hangs up the call, shaking his head and cursing to himself.

The door swings open the moment 2BDamned tucks his phone away. Hank stands there, coat soaking wet, entire form wobbling from side to side from the sheer effort it takes to remain upright. 2BDamned can't see their eyes through their goggles, especially not when they fog every time Hank roughly exhales into their mask, but their head is angled directly towards him and isn't moving away. Whether that's because Hank doesn't want to look away or physically can't remains to be seen.

2BDamned sighs. He outstretches his arms, telling himself he's only doing this because it'd be an even bigger pain to repair whatever they broke if they fell to the floor. "Give it up already, Wimbleton."

Hank thunks one foot forward, then the other, before collapsing into 2BDamned. He has to brace himself to properly hold Hank's weight, tucking his arms under theirs and hugging around their back. He gives a few reassuring pats to them, which they don't acknowledge (not that he expected them to, if they're still conscious to do so in the first place that is; the front of that jacket looked like they'd gone swimming).

It's about now that he realizes he's set himself up horribly to get Hank back to his office for examination. Dragging them wasn't the most ideal of approaches. He's sure he can ask the other two for help.

He's sure, until Deimos finally hobbles inside, Sanford hung over his shoulders and staggering. Well, there goes that plan. 2BDamned resigns to his fate and starts taking long, slow steps backwards, Hank's legs leaving bloody streaks in their wake.

You are Hank J. Wimbleton, and one of your favorite guns ran out of ammo while you were away from base fucking around. It was equal parts disappointing and infuriating, but you had a silver lining in the form of some cash you'd stolen obtained from Doc's office (just to piss him off a little, you didn't think you'd actually feel inclined to use it) and a merchandise stall not too far from you.

You could wait to reload until you got back to base, sure; there just wasn't any fun in that. So, you saunter over to the shack. The shopkeeper greets you with a grin full of sharp teeth. Kind of badass looking, actually. You wonder if you could rip out someone's jugular with your mouth if you had teeth like that.

They ask what they can do for you. You fish through your pocket and hold out to them a bloodied shell casing. The gore doesn't phase them at all, they even take it from your hand so they can inspect it more closely. With a soft hum, they nod their head. "I can do that," they affirm, closing the casing in their fist and turning away to start digging through their wares.

While they're busy with that, you can't help but notice a poster nailed up outside of this strangely accommodating booth you'd found. It has a picture of someone with long hair, goggles, and a black and blue scarf. You think you can make out a Nexus Core ID on the front of their coat, but the photo is too blurry to tell clearly. Text above the image reads "FUNCTIONALITY GUARANTEED!". Beneath, followed by an asterisk, it continues, "only exchanged for information on missing persons".

Your brow furrows in confusion. That sounds like a really stupid business model, how could they tell if people were telling the truth? Anybody could walk up here and mouth off some bullshit about whoever they're looking for and get that guarantee locked in.

You'll test that theory. If that is a Nexus employee there's pretty much only one possible outcome regardless.

"They're dead."

The shopkeeper doesn't pause in their movements or spare you a glance, just makes a noise at you. Prick. You tap the sign.

"You wanted information, right?"

That succeeds at properly getting their attention, maybe a little too well. They're immediately back at the counter, leaning into your personal space. You'd really love to bash their head into the cracking wood right now, you're just too curious of how this will play out to do it. You take a step backwards to get your breathing room back.

They encourage you to talk immediately, "Tell me everything you know." They're so demanding about it too. This guy sucks.

"Just did," you say nonchalantly with a shrug, "They're dead. Do I get that guarantee now?"

At first, they're silent. Then, they start snickering, then giggling, then cackling. What kind of sleeper agent did you just awaken? Stranger still, it stops as soon as it had began, and through that sharp smile, they chirp, "Sorry, the offer only extends to legitimate leads." they produce a box of ammunition from underneath the counter and thump it down onto the top loudly. "Twenty dollars please, sir!"

You half-expected that they wouldn't have what you were looking for in the end after all, so that's a pleasant surprise. A crisp twenty dollar bill that had made its way from Doc's coat into your pocket now moves into their hands. You take the box quickly, as if they'll cover it in deadly germs should it stay close to them any longer. Maybe they'll infect it with crazy. You get enough of that from Doc.

"Thank you, come again!" said so sweetly as you walk away, like they weren't acting like a total nutjob two seconds ago. You wonder if these things even work. The box says they're the right fit for your weapon, but the box might be a fucking freak too at this rate. Settled a distance from the shack, you pop a test round in.

It jams. So does the second, and the third, and the tenth, and the fiftieth, and the hundredth. You try every single one and they're all duds. Your blood boils. You see red. You see every sharp tooth knocked out of their mouth and brain matter splattered over the splintering wooden walls.