After assembling the campfire, Ajax retrieved a broken revolver from her holster and, using her claws, scraped against it to spark the flame. Within a few strokes, the tinder beneath ignited, spreading its incandescent flame throughout the pile.
Returning her revolver to its holster, Ajax stared at her hand for a moment, staring at the irregular formations of rock that covered her hand, before retracting them back. She never did understand where all the extra fragments went when she retracted. Then again, she didn't really care.
Standing back up, she turned towards Piper to beckon her to the campfire.
However, when she looked back, she saw Piper's lifeless face, her body about to fall over. Immediately panicked, Ajax dashes over and kneeled beside her, raising her fingers to Piper's throat.
...Thump...Thump...Thump...
Ajax let out a heavy sigh, not realizing she had been holding her breath in, and sank her head. She had a pulse, so she wasn't dead. Not yet, anyway. Just to make sure, she held her fingers beneath Piper's nose, satisfied by the breath of warm air she felt.
'Why am I worrying so much over a fucking journalist...' Ajax thought, almost feeling regretful of her mercy. Normally, she would've killed them without a second thought and collected the reward, but...
She raised her head to look at Piper, taking in her disheveled appearance. It was surreal how much she looked like... her. Obviously, it wasn't her. She died hundreds of years ago in the war. Still...
Shaking her head out of the past, Ajax leaned down to carry Piper, moving her near the campfire. Piper shifted as she settled into the floor, scrunching up her face in discomfort, before returning to her peaceful state.
Snorting, Ajax smirked at just how comfortable the journalist had gotten. Not too long ago she looked at her like she was...
She frowned, ignoring where that thought was going, and instead decided to sit on an old, decaying wooden chair, lighting a cigar from her pocket. Might as well keep watch; not like she needed sleep anyways.
YOU ARE READING
Memory of Black Mold, Heart of Broken Glass
Action"How pitiful, a bandit who thinks they can run," they utter, their voice scratchy like sandpaper. or An unfortunate encounter between a mercenary and a journalist and their journey together.
