There, There

The knife is pushing, cracking the mask of Yalung and twisting the flesh and the smoke and the world is falling around him, the bells cry out and-

Ajay wakes on the stony ground next to Yuma, her glassy black eyes boring into his. He scrambles away from the corpse, stumbling over rocks and cloth and a leg, God help him. Or Kyra. He's not sure who's answering his calls. He looks into the sunlight straining towards him from the end of the mineshaft. His eyes are fixed on it, because they will otherwise fix on the bodies. On Yuma's glassy eyes.

When he leaves the gold mines, the Sun is cold. It burns into his eyes like LEDs and offers no respite from the permanent chill of North Kyrat. The wooden beams around him are ancient and too dry to rot, the stone smooth and featureless. He pauses, straining his ear. Nothing but the wind whistling through the trees. There's a house nearby-a shack, really. Upon entry, he coughs. Dust fills the air and clings for dear life to every surface. He sinks down to his knees, running a hand through coarse black hair and staring at the ground. A clump of dust. A dead roach. Barely the size of a pin head, a bloodstain. Sins against the gods...

He goes from kneeling to sitting. His fingers twitch, the trigger finger in particular, but he doesn't stir. He can't leave yet. He absentmindedly reloads his rifle. A Golden Path truck roars its way past the mines, its hooting and hollering passengers smashing the silence with total inelegance. Ajay becomes sharply aware of what a fool he must look like, taking a quick breather because he couldn't handle a little blood. Mohan would be miles out by now in his position. He stands, bones creaking and complaining, and leaves the shack.

His hand moves to his windbreaker pocket of its own volition, muscle memory overpowering choice. He fishes past the crumpled bill and letter from his mother to grab the hand-held radio. He's swallowed by the trees as he climbs up the hill away from Yuma and switches the radio on.

"Sabal..." he trails off. What does he say? Usually he has good news. Sabal, I took out the Royal Army guys. Sabal, I rescued the hostages. Sabal, Yuma's dead and I'm on my way to her fortress. Think, think.

"Yes?" The air isn't dead yet, but it's slowly and painfully dying.

"Uh, where are you?" Great start.

"I'm in Banapur. There are rumors that Royal Army soldiers are planning another attack on it." He can hear Sabal's grim smile through the speaker. "They won't last."

"Got it." He turns off the radio before he can embarrass himself further and shoves it in his pocket, re-crumpling the letter his mother wrote him. Her ashes still collect dust at the Ghale homestead. He doubts Lakshmana, wherever that is, would be nearby. An abandoned pickup truck is on the side of the road, once white but now the same color as the packed dirt. The radio was switched off as soon as he entered. Good. He doesn't need to hear Rabi-Ray-Rana-coming-atcha-live-from-Radio-Free-Kyrat. Religion can't build roads, people! Ajay pulls a map of Kyrat from his back pocket and smooths it out across the dashboard. He has yet to find a functioning GPS in Kyrat, but isn't worked up about it. He doesn't even miss his cell phone. The truck rumbles to life and takes him across the country to Banapur.

-

The town is packed with bodies and noise. The truck was left outside the gate for someone more lost than him to use. His rifle is slung across his back, just in case. He bumps and bumbles through the crowds of people, searching for the red door marking the community center. He passes the hay bales where Amita taught Bhadra how to shoot a bow. He passes Golden Path banners flying in the wind, blue matching the sky. It's almost sundown.

Sabal doesn't notice when he walks in. He sits on a crate of ammo with the Golden Path's crossed khukris crudely painted on it. Papers are scattered on the crooked table in front of him, and the glass door of the weapons cabinet behind him shows Ajay his own sad reflection. Sabal slouches forward, strands of loose hair falling in front of his eyes. He spins the beads of his bracelet, prayer beads if Ajay remembers correctly, but manages to look contemplative rather than exhausted. He clears his throat and Sabal snaps up. He smiles, warm eyes crinkling at the edges.