Cursed Are the Meek

March of the Martyr

The meeting with No Significant Harassment had been joyous and fruitful: the iterator accepted Moon's offer immediately and promised to approach all members of the local group to scout out potential members.

It was an absolute triumph. Pipsqueak was beside himself with joy; perhaps too much so. The land around NSH was hot, barren and unfamiliar; but the young slugcat chose not to rest before embarking on the long trip back to the Garbage Wastes, where he'd planned to recruit the Clan to help with Moon's plan.

He realized his mistake only two weeks' march into the desert.
The sun sucked all the moisture from the air: each breath was like sandpaper in his throat. The sand was  blinding (making  navigation incredibly difficult), the afternoon heat unbearable.
He started losing sleep in order to catch the small, scuttling creatures who only emerged at night or frantically look for shelters when the smell of rain hung menacingly in the wind.
At least water was relatively easy to come by, it was enough for him to gorge himself after the rains to be set for weeks.

Pipsqueak felt his body change. He could see the nerves of his paws starting to jut out,  he could feel the dip where his tummy used to be. 
One day he even startled himself beholding his own reflection, as hunger made his eyes glimmer in a moist, feverish way that he did not recognize.

When he finally set foot again on the jagged, noxious shores of the Garbage Wastes his body was barely a shell of what it used to be: his youth and devotion to the cause had taken him as far as they could.

For a few days he tried to trudge on despite his growing weakness. Only on the third day did he acknowledge his strength had completely and utterly abandoned him: he tripped on a piece of wood and was unable to stand back up.

Thus Pipsqueak used the last of his lucid mind to think of a plan. He was starving, sleep deprived, dehydrated. He couldn't hope to make it to the Clan's headquarters, not when he could barely stand on his own and their rooms were up a steep hill of scrap metal.

He carefully extracted a grenade from his basket of weapons and set it on the ground; then dug himself a small hidden burrow in the debris. He waited until night had set, when no hunting parties would be about, then he threw the grenade as hard as he could against a faraway cliff.

The explosion rattled the ground and sent chips flying in all directions. The echo boomed, bouncing off the walls like a mad wind. Pipsqueak prayed that it would reach friendly ears.

Having spent spent the last of his energy, he discarded his weapons near the entrance and crawled into his makeshift den, finally succumbing to bone-deep exhaustion.