Scars

Four had never been a colourful man, preferring to dress only in darker shades. Now, however, his body was a sickly rainbow. His left eye was a black hole that took up a good portion of his face. Around his cheekbone it faded, melting into deep purple and blue spots that trailed down to his jaw. Ugly yellow finger-shaped lines circled his throat.

His right side had faired only slightly better. Small pink cuts littered his face, varying in degrees of seriousness. There was a large gash that had to be stitched shut, starting from his temple and ending near his upper lip. It was thick and angry red and stood out dramatically against his skin. He runs his finger over the bumpy surface, frowning. The bruises would heal, but the scar would always be there, a constant reminder of his own weakness.

Earlier, he had caught a glimpse of his reflection dancing on the edge of his blade.

Pathetic. He looked pathetic.

It was day number two hundred and forty six, and Four was still recovering from a beating that he had taken a few days earlier. And by "recovering", that was to say that he was continuing with his daily routine as if nothing had happened. He was a perfect soldier, taught to treat any obstacle like an enemy to be conquered, and personal injuries were no different.

Right now, he was in the storage area, aggressively going through crates as if they had done something terribly offensive to him. Like trying to initiate conversation.

"I would advise you not to do that." The voice of the Android rang out behind him as he struggled to lift with his one good arm. He stiffens, angrily. "The stress of this activity could cause-"

"Thank you." He says, curtly, and in one swift motion he crosses the floor, shutting the door in her face. On any other day, he might have felt a pang of guilt, but not today. The mere thought of pity-even unintentional-causes his stomach to turn with disgust.

…..

"You look like shit." Three commented as he dragged himself into the mess hall. Four gave no sign of acknowledgement, instead grabbing a bowl and trying to eat. Discomfort flashed across his features when the simple act of chewing caused him pain. The older man watched him carefully, concern peering out underneath layers of arrogance and apathy.

"Surprised the robot even letcha out of bed," he quipped, lightly. "Shouldn't you be resting or something?"

Four's gaze seemed to pierce through him. "I refuse to let anyone keep me from my duties."

"What, you can't catch up on some Zs in between jobs?"

"It's not only that. The ship needs work. And I need to continue with my training."

A smirk. "Pretty sure you can go a few days without playing with your stick."

Three was expecting at least an annoyed glare, but he seems too tired even for that. He continues eating, his body on autopilot. Three lets his façade drop completely and gives him a sympathetic look.

"Hey buddy, here drink this. It's pain medicine."

He pushes his glass in his direction, and Four gulps it down without a second thought.

"This is not medicine. It's really shitty bourbon."

"Oh, but it is medicine." He insists. "Medicine for your soul!"

The cold air stinging the cuts on his skin and the slow, throbbing pain from his ribs told him that it wasn't his soul that needed healing. Still, the slight buzz he felt was pleasant and it made him forget all his failures. He motioned for a refill.

…..

He is never going to take medical advice from Three ever again. The next morning, his body was intent on punishing him for his foolish actions. A drum pounded repeatedly in his head, and with every tiny movement, a fresh surge of nausea would roll through him, each one even more powerful than the last. He moans, rushing to the waste bin in the corner of the room and falling to his knees, vomiting. With every heave, his insides would twist painfully, and he felt the strength escaping his muscles like a deflating balloon.

Above him, the circular light glared harshly, burning his retinas. Suddenly, a shadow eclipsed over it, large and imposing, and slowly, it began to change. The blurred edges sharpened and came into focus, morphing into the familiar shape of a woman.

Two.

She watched him with a blank expression. He stood, with a surprising amount of dignity for a person with blood and saliva trickling down his chin.

"You're running yourself into the ground." she says, not bothering to hide her judgement.

"It's only a minor setback."

"Oh? Is that what we're calling it? `Cause from where I'm standing, it doesn't look that way."

"Perhaps-" He gags again. "You just need a change in perspective."

"Maybe. Or maybe you just need a goddamn nap and some fluids."

His body trembles with barely concealed-dizziness? Rage? Shame? He doesn't know. All he knows is that right now he's in a very vulnerable position, and that is unacceptable. He needs to regain some control.

"No. We are going on a mission in a few days and I need to learn how to pilot this ship."

At the moment, Two was attempting to teach Four how to drive the Marauder. With Six gone, it was in need of a new captain. But, try as he might, he couldn't listen to her instructions, couldn't pay attention to anything beyond the cold sweat that he was drenched in.

There was a flash of kindness from Two.

"About that. Four, you won't be coming with us."

He whips around. "What?"

"Don't look so surprised. You're practically dead on your feet. We both know you'd be a liability."

He can't argue with that no matter how much he wants to. Still, he can't help but cling to his pride like a shield.

"Who's taking my place?" he demands, stubbornly.

His leader sighs, and he hates the look in her eyes.

"The Android. She's going to be our getaway driver. You're going to stay here and get some sleep." She softens. "It'll do you good."

Without another word, she leaves the room. Four sees himself once again in the windshield of the ship. That stupid scar is still there, brighter than ever, mocking him.

He turns away. He can't look anymore.

…..

He could feel that he was being watched. His eyes were closed but his body told him that something was wrong. His muscles tensed and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He doesn't react immediately, and continues his forms as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Then without warning, he struck outward, thrusting his sword towards his audience. He opens his eyes, only to find the tip of his blade pointed directly at Five. He immediately retreats.

"You shouldn't sneak up on me like that." He snaps. Normally, he would be able to stop himself before he sliced her throat open, but his reflexes had been slow of late. What if he had slipped?

Five just tilts her head at him, not at all fazed by the deadly weapon being pointed at her face.

"I thought you'd be here." She says. Of course he is. He's always in the training room. She, on the other hand, is only ever there when he's giving her self-defence lessons.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, bluntly. The others had all gone out for the night. She should be with them.

Instantly, the girl begins to fidget.

"Nothing…" she falters. Four briefly wonders how the hell someone who hangs around with a bunch of mercenaries could be such a terrible liar.

"Two sent you here, didn't she?" he says, flatly. She relaxes.

"Yeah. She was going to send Three, because he was annoying her, but he said 'send the kid, he's less likely to impale her'. And she agreed. And-"she blushes slightly.

"-AndIwantedtocome."

She stares down at her feet, embarrassed. He assesses the young woman in front of him, but the warmth he should have felt was drowned out by his insecurities.

"I don't need a babysitter." He spits, a bitter taste coating his tongue. "Leave."

She shrank back, but only for a moment, before she regained her confidence. She pulls herself to her full height, broadening her shoulders in what he had taught her as a fighting stance.

"No."

"I wasn't asking."

Her delicate features, usually tranquil as a lake on a summer day, began to freeze over, shrouding her expression in a blanket of ice that mirrored his own.

"Neither was I. I'm just as much a member of this team as you are. I don't need your permission."

He's really starting to miss the days that she was afraid of him.

"Fine." His jaw quenches. He begins to walk away, but she speaks up, sounding apologetic.

"Come on Four, don't be like that."

"I don't want your pity."

"It isn't pity!" she shouts, her words echoing off the walls. Four stops walking and looks back at her, surprised. Even Five seems startled by her own outburst. She hesitates, and then continues, her tone thawing.

"We're worried about you, Four. You know why we're worried about you? Because we're afraid that if we leave you alone, you'll do something crazy like try to train while you have a conclusion, a broken arm and three cracked ribs! Can't you see how lucky you are, stupid head?!"

He frowns down at this tiny, five-foot tall sliver of a girl who just called the crowned warrior prince of Zairon a "stupid head".

"And why am I lucky?" he asks, quietly. Five shoots him an exasperated look.

"Because you have so many people that care about you and you don't even know it! I would have given anything to have somebody worry about me all those times I got beat up!"

At that, he felt the last of his fight leave him. Even though he always suspected that Five had a bad home life, to have it confirmed still felt like a bucket of cold water being dumped on him. He wants to say something, but words have alluded him. So, he changes the subject with a clearing of his throat.

"So, what does one do to…Recuperate?" he prods.

"I don't know. Maybe…I got some tea from the market. It's supposed to be good for your immune system. You want some of that?"

And so the two of them sat on the exercise mats, sipping tea out of plastic cups. It tasted awful, but it eased his headache, and with every mouthful he felt his eyelids grow heavier. But even in his tired state, he could feel her eyes on him. Instinctively, he ducked his head, trying to hide his scar. She notices this.

"No, don't-it's not bad, really. I just thought it was fascinating."

That is decidedly not how he would describe it, but he could tell she was being sincere.

When he doesn't respond, she continues, smiling gently.

"The human body is really amazing. Did you know that there are three different kinds of scars? Yours is called a hypertrophic scar. You can tell because the skin is slightly raised…"

She carries on rambling about the natural healing process and the rate of cellular reproduction. Normally he hates when people talk too much, but now he finds that he doesn't mind. Even though he wasn't listening to the words, the sound of her voice washes over him in waves, and he feels himself slowly drifting, drifting…

…..

At some point during her little biology lecture, Four must have fallen asleep. When he opens his eyes again, he's still laying on the floor, but this time with a blanket covering him. He sits up, surrounded by pitch blackness, and listens intently. He hears nothing but the occasional groaning of the pipes, and he comes to the conclusion that it is late at night and everybody else is already in bed.

He claps once, activating the lights, and begins to make his way to his room when he realizes something. While he was unconscious, his teammates had apparently written little notes on his cast.

There was a message in small, light cursive that read,

Get well soon-One

By his wrist, a blocky number 2 was scribed in felt pen, and underneath that was a badly drawn penis that was undoubtedly from the ever-so-mature Three. And-he notices with something that was dangerously close to fondness-a small picture of a clock, sketched in the spot beside his elbow.

He almost smiles but his face hurts too much.