2P!Italy Veneziano's POV
The sun was beating down on me for what felt like hours, and not in the good way. I hated every second of it, and I didn't even have water to relieve me of my dehydration. Despite that, I forced myself to keep moving. Sweat was slowly soaking my clothing, but I didn't feel like taking them off to expose my skin to the fresh, irradiated air. I already took enough shit from nature itself as it was, so why should I have opened the floodgates any more than I needed to? I groaned and dragged my tires legs through the sand, clinging to the weather-beaten backpack I'd plucked off of a deceased survivor like my life depended on it. Which it did, to an extent.
I remembered seeing the man lying face down half-buried in the sand. I couldn't find any evidence that suggested that he'd been killed by fellow survivors. Besides, if he had been murdered, I wouldn't have gotten to the backpack he had with him. No one's so fucking stupid that they leave some dead guy's backpack behind in the middle of a desert. I recalled tugging at the backpack and yanking a finger or two off with it. They made a crunching sound that made me abnormally sick to my stomach. Normally, I'd be cutting fingers off of living people, but literally yanking them off a dead man didn't sit well with me.
"Shit. What the fuck am I doing not checking that backpack?" I found myself talking to myself again. It wasn't a habit I'd had until recently; not having Lutz, Kuro, or Flavio to talk to was driving me crazy. I had no friends to tell to fuck off, no country to go back to. Even Feliciano had up and disappeared on me. For the first time, I felt truly and undeniably alone. It wasn't something I wanted to acknowledge, so I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and checked what supplies I had gotten ahold of.
"Some dried almonds...instant pasta. Bleh. Berries. I could use those. A cutting knife. Nice. And...no fucking water. Great. Just great. I'll die of dehydration out here. Just how I've always wanted to die." I grumbled in a slightly sarcastic tone. I zipped up the bag again and slung it over my shoulder, slipping my arms into the straps. I started moving again, but just as slowly as before. Besides, I suspected that it might be worth the trouble to get the fuck out of Europe. There was nothing left for me there, after all.