"Almost Green"

Escape

escape like metallica hehe

A pendulum clock swung nonchalantly in the corner. It ticked and tocked, with little to no regard for the conversations livening up the empty space in the cushy office. What else was it supposed to do? It was a clock, not a mediator. Its job wasn't to render their talks down to a more pleasant state of being, its job was to measure time.

And measure time, it did.

A good hour it has been, since the woolen wrapping had taken her two strays in for tea. A good hour of their non-stop chatter, cut and laced with remarks from one another about their shared and varied experiences. Andy sat rather comfortably in a puffy comfort emporium, reserved usually for the teachers and workers of the establishment - or so his mind had told him. Mostima bummed out in the exact same chair, because there wasn't another one available, sides for a wooden amalgamation opposite Miss Niederhauser's chopping block of a desk. Lounging next to Andy on the cushions proved the more alluring decision, and it wasn't like they'd assault eachother's space either. Andy, being the underfed and arm-less creation he was, didn't exactly take much of the seat, and Mostima out of her heavy coatings also proved to be quite thin. So they sat and sat, bubbling their noses in tea and waddling their tongues around in recollection of the Kazdelian wildlands and the Lateran sunsets.

"... There was this unspoken law there. As unspoken as a cleaved throat could mutter, anyway. There was a general rule of thumb where the mercs would keep an ounce of respect for one another, even if just momentarily. You know, like allowing a bleeding man his last cigarette, or a look at the catastrophe riddled sky. Like watching the sunset together before your bounty target eventually succumbs to the nine millimeter wounds in his stomach. Giving a Scar Market slave escapee something warm to wear and a set of directions towards the nearest settlement, maybe. That one actually, that might've just been me. That might've been me. I remember, I used to run with this one "posse" we'll call it, and there was me, a big burly type, a quiet snark-fest and a loud, explosive cockroach. I say cockroach, because I never really liked her. I mean, no. I'm lying, I did like her."

"To the point, Drewie."

"Right. Right, so the point was that we once set camp in a desert plain, and it was somewhere in the middle-eastern part of the country. That's Scar Market territory, to your information."

"Law almighty, what in God's name is a "Scar Market...?"

"It's like a moving grocery store, Miss Niederhauser. A big, grocery store on caterpillar tracks. Oh, and also the slave-trading epicenter of Kazdel."

"Dear Law..."

"So anyway, we sat there during the night, warming up to the cooling sands and huddling around a campfire, as always. I always sort of stuck with the cockroach girl, because she did prove a somewhat decent talk-buddy after hours. When we weren't jumping at each other's throats, at least. But in my defense, I almost always had a good reason. Almost always, because she'd often run her mouth about everything and nothing. And quite the mouth she had on her, lemme tell you."

"Drewie..."

"Right. Right. So, anyway, we sat there, watched the stars, poked fun at Hedley and–... I mean, at the quiet type and his snarky lady, and we ate whatever lizard or loose feather-fowl we managed to track during the day. And you know, that cockroach girl, I talk a lot of smack about her, but admittedly she was quite the cook. I can't even think of anything foul to yap about her cooking, because..."