Grandeur Defector

XXIII

Lucid dreams and glimpses of hope between the lines was all he could imagine.
That was, until something poked his side.
"Get up."

Truffles raised his head sleepily, the bandage over half of his face aching with the pains of turmoil and torture. It was Warren, gruff as ever— his gaze seemed less cold than the usual spite-filled stare.
"Come on, soldier. It's getting too stuffy in 'ere."

Truffles sat upwards, holding the bloody cream colored gauze. He felt small lumps of blood clots poking through the bandages, attempting to fix itself underneath. His eye wasn't injured, but he felt that his eyelid had been scratched almost completely open to reveal the eyeball underneath. The long scratches had been stitched at the biggest areas of concern, no longer showing smooth muscle under it. Even as it healed, it hurt terribly, making his entire face ache with dull throbbing.
Warren patted his shoulder, a oddly friendly gesture that had no words to explain why. He began walking out of the medic tent, which Truffles followed without question.
As they walked out of the tent completely, there was a group of people standing in a circle, staring at Truffles specifically. There were a range of emotions: annoyance, concern, fear, respect... but Truffles wasn't looking at their faces. He looked down, socially introverted and wanting to go back into the medic tent to hide his face.
They're all staring at me. I don't like eye contact.

Warren stopped, grabbed Truffles' shoulder gently, and led Truffles into the center of the circle.
He cleared his throat.

"Alright, you mutts. We will take a vote on if the prisoner—" he pointed at Truffles, "—stays in chains, or stays out. I'll go first."

Wh...What?

Truffles stood in silence, dumbfounded by what was happening; or perhaps even a little too sleepy to grasp the situation at hand.

This is so strange. They vote on things together, eat with one another, build with one another. It's like their little traveling town, where everyone has a voice.
But why? Why vote together on a prisoner's status?

Warren raised his hand, a stern determination on his face.
"Cadet and I vote 'remain free'. I've watched this bastard since day one, and..." he chuckled, "I gotta say, he ain't half bad."

Truffles smiled in appreciation at Sergeant Warren. Warren pointed at the next person in the circle: Corporal Olive.
"Chains," she replied, eyeing him suspiciously. "Cass told me he still has that cruelty to him. The stripeless kind of cruelty."
Ouch.

Cass interjected with a worried look.
"I-I just think that he maybe shouldn't be entirely trusted yet."

That's fair.
The next person spoke up; it was Brutus.
"I ain't fond of tigers," he snapped, then inhaled. "...But he ain't like those brush crawlers."

Brush crawlers. I assume that's slang for tiger soldiers. Like the 'stripeless' slur. I should... probably write these down, to know when someone's insulting me with new terminology.

Then Cadet.
"Sergeant Warren spoke my opinion, but I'd like to add that he provides useful information." He adjusted his glasses.
"He's proven to be quite intelligent."

Even as a compliment, that... feels speciest, a-as if tigers are not capable of being knowledgeable.
But I don't know what tigers have done to you, either.

Then Alex, who fidgeted with a bullet in his palm.
"I don't know. He helps, but the stripeless can't be trusted. Chains."

Then Flippy.
"I saw him."

Everyone turned their heads.
W-What?

Flippy was determined, undeterred by the attention.
"Last night... he snuck out to help Brutus. He didn't get permission, didn't ask, nothing. He saved his life. He helped Boris build the trench. He's counted bullet boxes, knows how to survive out here, and he saved our lives."
Flippy huffed as the words sunk in.
"There was a mission to investigate a tunnel system a bit ago. There was a colony of rats, like, a LOT of them. I thought that he'd just... book it like a same person would, but he didn't."