#the solider

Delinquent: To be fair, I was unsupervised.

Soilder: Wasn't Reformed with you?

Perhaps rushing the first humanoid they saw with an axe wasn’t the best course of action, but at the very least the botanist had survived. Probably. Blood had seeped through their bandages from the night before, and now peeked through the thick fabric of their jacket.

“We didn’t mean to startle you,” The Courier said, her voice soft as she looked down on them. “I was worried, I hadn’t heard from you recently and the woods around you have gotten worse.”

“Sorry about…” The botanist gestured between the axe on the ground and the man who was cautiously regaining his footing. “That. It’s – it’s been rough lately.” They pressed their hand to their side, the blood pooling faster and cascading over their shaking fingers. The big one looked frantic – his heavy hands quickly pulled out his own medical kit and unravelling bandages as he knelt to their level.

“Cholera…” He cursed, voice gravely with age.

“S’alright,” They mumbled, carefully unzipping their jacket and pulling away their undershirt that was now sticky with blood. “Wasn’t you – a mean one got me good last night out in the north wood…” The stitches were sloppy, but they had held. Barely. The new bruise on their abdomen would last a long time – already a hue of purple had begun to seep into their pale flesh.

They tentatively took the bandages from the man, his gun glinting in the green sheen with which the glass stained everything below it.

“You went out?” The Courier sounded surprised. They were too when they first stepped foot outside of their clearing of safety. They offered her a half shrug as they ignored the sting of antiseptic bandages pressed to their wound. “For the north wood…” There was a whisper of understanding in her voice, and a deep settled sorrow.

“Yeah. Didn’t get far.” The botanist shifted uneasily, keeping their head down as they slowly finished dressing their wound. “Been actually waiting to see if you had been up there lately, but…I guess not.” They rocked back on their heels, handing the unused bandages back to the large man, who easily dwarfed them as the two stood up.

Aleks blinked through pain and exhaustion to get a clear look at the two newcomers. The big one was hard to make out, his mask obscuring most of his face save for sharp eyes that seemed to look through them rather than at them. The other one seemed younger – maybe, based on the half of his face that wasn’t sprouting mushrooms.

Now that was interesting.

“…if you lived in the village or nearby it would be easier to reach you, you know. This place isn’t the most habitable home I’ve –” How long had the Courier been talking? It didn’t matter, the mechanisms of the botanist’s brain were already set in motion as they pulled a glass bottle and a knife from the nearby shelves.

“Can I have a mushroom?” They interrupted, trying to meet the taller man’s blue eyed gaze.

“What?” The Courier asked, a half chuckle in her voice at the question. The botanist gestured to the mushrooms in question; they had clearly addressed the quiet man with the rifle. He seemed to be some sort of sharpshooter, or marksman.

“Mushrooms. For science.” They said curtly, pointing to the pots of mushrooms that lined the shelves above the men’s heads. Armillaria, Amanita, Ganoderma, and many, many, many more. But none like the ones that sprouted from the man’s face and shoulder.

The Marksman’s one good eye slowly looked between his companions and the botanist, amused and bewildered trepidation clear as he shook his head.

“I’m not gonna cut it out of you, I just need a spore cap, like that one, there.” They pointed to the fruiting body that was perched on his left shoulder, a unique maroon against the drab grey of his clothes. “I’ve seen some cordyceps-like species in animals and savages, but you haven’t climbed a tree and died there to better release the spores despite it fruiting. It’s something different.”

“Is this what you’ve been doing all this time? Research?” There was a breath of concern in the Courier’s voice.

Solider: You're not even looking at me.