Cole groans as I light up. "Shit, Damon, you gotta stop smokin'."
"And why's that?"
"Gonna end up with a grapefruit-sized tumor. I'll stick around to say 'I told you so' when you have to get one of those voice-boxes that make you sound like a robot." He laughs. "Then again, maybe you'd like that."
"Yeah, because I like machines. Har-de-har-har." I roll my eyes as I slowly breathe in that sweet, chemical-laced goodness and let it go in a long sigh. I feel the familiar tingle at the back of my brain and I immediately start to relax. "But really, Cole, you know just as well as I do that I'm far more likely to die of a Grub-induced brain hemorrhage than that."
"Or maybe that's why you have no luck with the ladies." Cole smirks. Low blow, and he knows it. "Not even a Cole Train charm tactic could disguise the fact that your breath smells like an ashtray."
"Listen, Cole. This isn't up for discussion. Not now, not ever." I know he's just worried about me, but sometimes he crosses over from being a concerned friend to trying to mother me and shit. It's frigging annoying.
He gives me a look that says, please, for the love of God don't die on me in such a stupid damn way, eyebrows turning up at the inside corners. I keep one hand on my pistol as I follow behind, watching his six as we continue our patrol.
What am I supposed to tell him? That I didn't give two millishits about my health? It'd just make him worry about me even more than he already does. It's the truth, though-I got no one to extend my life for, no wife or kids or girlfriend. Hell, the closest thing I have to a pet is made of wiring and metal wrapped around a circuit cluster.
The reason I smoke, I recall, as I bring my fingers to my lips for another few drags, is the shakes. Uncontrollable trembles that started the minute my mother shoved me into that sardine-can-sized recruitment office, and the sergeant stared me down.
I remember after my parents left, my mother rushing out with her nose in the air like even the smell of the place was too low-class for her, my father lingering for a minute to give me a pat on the shoulder of half-encouragement, the sergeant slid over a box of cigarettes and a lighter. He smiled gently, saying, "You're gonna need those, son." Maybe he was telepathic. Maybe he'd just seen the way my teeth chattered as I filled out my draft forms.
He was right. I need them. Then, now... probably forever.
But who knows.