Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 104: One-Armed Bandit

Faraway pain stroked his mind into consciousness. The throb, a friend that endeared him with it's continuance. He bonded with it, groping it with his mind. It was the only thing that was.

... " - needs a med-evac. He's lost too much blood and his rad doses are in the red." ...

Blood. He thirsted for blood. A great juicy mouthful of it to warm his insides.

... "Med-evac's a no-go right now until we can secure ourselves a checkpoint. Operation: Purity's on the verge of initiating phase three and if that happens, I want tabs on every single unit in these caverns. Is that clear, Scribe?" ...

The throb grew louder in his ears, closer, so close he could feel it in the roots of his teeth like a blunt hammer. He never knew a friendship could be so painful.

... "Yes, Paladin-Commander." ...

The slide of numbness took him all over. Except for the throb.

... "Keep him alive, at all costs. Pump him full of meds until he's a vegetable, if you have to."

And then even the throb was gone.

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Clay-Crawler blinked at the sight of clay above him. Clay, like his namesake. Red and dry and scented with iron minerals. The scent of home. He blinked again, smiling at the ripples in the clay, dozing in happiness. Dozing with the ghosts of his people. He blinked yet again, and realized he was blinking. He was awake.

Like sprung prey he shot upright with a startling shout, at once becoming reacquainted with his new friend, the throb. His shout turned to a bawl of agony as it gripped him tight. Then he saw and remembered, the explosive bolt, the rupture of fleshy shrapnel, hurtling in sudden flight, the disorientation, the crunching landing and then his arm...

"My arm..."

...Was just a stump. Padded with bloody gauze at the elbow. Gone. Gone, gone, gone!

"My arm!"

Rough, gnarled hands took him by his bare shoulders, and eyes of lustrous coal took his focus. "Hey, keep your head. Yeah, your arm got blown off, but you're alive. That's what matters."

Clay-Crawler shook free of Hancock and raised his stump high, the throb lancing down what was left of it until he felt it snap past his pain threshold. A scream burst from him as he watched his stump flail as if with it's own will. For that short, excruciating moment, he felt his own limb was attacking him, bearing down at him with invisible reach, the pain it's weapon, the throb no longer a friend.

Then the slide of numbness rescued him.

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He was blinking again. Blinking at the clay. Blink, blink, blink, in time with the throb. No smile worked it's way onto his lips this time. His arm was gone. Where had it gone? Was it still whole somewhere, lying alone without a friend like the throb? Or was it shredded to pieces, eaten up by the Dark Bloods...

What would he do without his right hand? How would he fight? How would he kill Slay?

How would he jerk off?

He felt tears prickle his eyes. Deadskull would never want to blood-bond with a one-armed warrior, and Whisper would reject his bond in the next moon. Boss-Man might eat him after all, if he was no more use to him. He was no more use to anyone.