"No Life 'Til Leather"

Goodbye Stranger

Flesh and viscera.

The steel that made these hallways be. This early morning it seemed almost longingly quiet. Defined with silence, not shapes, overbearing with its lack of the usual bustle. No mirth found in echoing laughter, no joy, no emotion, no stress, no worrywarts bartering with their friends over contracts and risks, no nothing. Just the unwelcome silence, and the lingering thud of a timorous stride.

His boots have never felt so heavy. Andy never fell under the impression that a mercenary needed to weigh their soles down with an additional plating of steel for this or that reason, so he always rocked them factory squeaky clean. Dragging one foot by the other, it felt as if someone had crammed a whole ton's worth of metal in their crevices overnight.

Earlier in the morning, a message came by through the local digital mailing network. Andy read it still in bed, still not quite fully awake or rested after yesterday's strange events. Newmaker left them a note in inheritance, a plea not to mention what they had seen to anyone anywhere, ever - ESPECIALLY not to Doctor Kal'tsit. Ines and Hedley were skeptical on the way back home, but Andy and W knew not to disobey a serious order from the guy, direct or not. "He's a clown by day, all around the clock." She'd say. "So when he gets serious, you get serious. Just think of this whole thing as a fond little memory to remember me by."

The two thought nothing of it. Just W and her usual prattle, melodrama stacked on explosive crescendos - nothing to worry about. To Andy, a ceiling came crashing down.

Reality anchored him by the foot. Last favor to Babel, a fat paycheck and the end of an era. Smooth, calm sailing ahead. A couple of days ago he'd have already started planning what to do with his share, what guns to buy, what cards to play at the first pub he barrels into. Before Oripathy, before W and her incomprehensible decision, life seemed so easy and straightforward. Something had to come and rattle the dice cup.

She hasn't spoken to him all evening.

The earlier banter managed to prevail for a minute or two, maybe throughout the way back. The second she finished making her bed and caught him packing a suitcase, that was the moment her face lost all color and volume. Andy wanted to do it quietly, but fishing out clothes from behind radiators and wardrobes proved to be anything but easy. A herculean effort to do it all in front of her, too.

She didn't chip in. Didn't help him, didn't bite or spill her snark around. Just sat there and watched him pack. Quietly joined her hands in her lap and enjoyed his last performance. It was scorching , her gaze constantly drilling into the back of his neck. Neither slipped as much as a word, a yelp or mewl, nothing. The shuffle of fabric, zip-zap of suitcases and rattling of shampoo bottles was his soundtrack. W simply watched.

And when he was done, she was already asleep. Andy couldn't even see her face, only the mound of her back under sheets, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as the dreamless slumber took her in. Antennae moved slightly, fluttering with all her stages of sleep. He sat there with his suitcase, watched them delve from gentle flutters to complete stillness as the minutes ticked by.

He felt completely powerless.

The silence was far worse than anything he's ever had to face or plow through at Babel's command. This accursed regard for his own life and safety, the lack of consideration, the need to hear and be heard in response. Normal concepts, but botched to all hell by these lanky fingers on his hands. Andy couldn't breathe. His first instinct was to light a cigarette, but the hard-Rock shell covering his lungs murmured against it. He'd ask his most trusted companion for help, turn to the twin barrels of his rifle for advice, but it hasn't spoken to him since the blurry dream state. It felt as if a part of him had died along the Blade in the dark. Whatever it was. He had no idea.