Mumbling.
And if it wasn't mumbling, it would be low whispering or weak and pained mewls, all the while he was shivering gently.
They had shifted somewhat in their sleep, and now the weapons expert lay on his back, deadly awake, his doctor draped across his chest in his sporadic slumber.
For a man so usually quiet and even cold, as he drifted through the dominion of unconsciousness, the slim surgeon was almost vocal, obviously something playing on his mind enough for it to toy with his erratic dreams.
The Heavy didn't have the willpower to stop his hand moving from tracing a line down his friends back, following the curve of his bare spine, feeling every slight ridge of the bones. Vertebrae. He remembered that name from the very man laid across him himself. He remembered watching him align the Soldiers back one too many times after being blasted to pieces by his own weapon.
He remembered watching him yanking out a bullet from the Demoman's spine after a lazy shot by the BLU Sniper.
He remembered watching him having to begrudgingly massage a healing yet heavily wounded Scout until he was able to crack a broken and dislocated shoulder back into place before fixing part of the Bostonian's back.
He remembered a lot.
A lot more than he should, he spent far too much time watching the man work.
As he traced the hard column under the Medics flesh again, catching the odd scar or two, he couldn't help but feel guilty. He distracted the man at work more often than he truly should. But if the doctor had a problem with it, he would have said something, right?
A soft groan brought the giant out of his thoughts and he looked down at the physician, who shifted slightly, eyebrows almost furrowed.
What the Russian remembered most of all were the looks of hurt and pain and suffering that were becoming more and more frequent on the younger man's pale features. Torment coming through his dreams, distant thoughts plaguing him more than useful ones.
And there was one man at the source of it all.
That чертовский BLU Spy.
He wasn't the one dealing with the doctor's nightmares, he wasn't the one reassuring that the brunette will be safe at night, he wasn't the one who was starting to make sense of midnight rumblings and muttered pained drones while the other slept.
But the Russian knew exactly what was on the smaller physician's mind tonight.
The fact that the BLU had returned, back from the dead.
And so, he decided to turn to the one person who could make sense of it.
Tenderly and hesitantly, he lifted his dozed doctor from him as he slipped from the bed, and lifted Sascha up from her resting place. Gently, he put her on the bed, lowering Medic onto her, and hoped that he would not notice the sudden shift from flushed, heated, deeply breathing skin, to cold, hard, unfeeling steel.
When the brunette remained asleep, the weapons expert smiled and pulled on his old dressing gown, and started to walk, closing the door behind him to allow his friend to sleep in darkness.
Now on his way to his destination within the base, he let his mind wander more, mainly on plans to tell his Doktor his real name, or even at a stretch that he loved him.
Its not like he could just walk up to him one day after battle and say 'Doktor, my name is Viktor and I love you', or blurt it out in the middle of a medical examination when the doctor himself was so focused and probably wouldn't even hear him.
. . . . That actually wasn't a bad idea, but the Russian shook his head.
Maybe the smaller man already knew? He was never good at being unobvious, but he knew flaunting his feelings clearly would perhaps scare the German off.
At least he was more subtle than the Red Spy and Sniper. All other REDs knew of what went on behind closed doors and base boundaries, and even some of the BLUs, the pair of them obviously displaying everything they had for each other. Bedroom eyes and cigarettes. Bloodlust and promises.
Viktor only hoped it was less unhealthy that it seemed and that the pair would actually stick together, the last thing their team needed was more heartbreak and arguments, distrust and a drive to get back at one another. He barely clung to the weak hope that the Sniper never finds out about the circulating rumor involving the Frenchman and a certain navy clad Scouts voluptuous mother.
He sighed.
He had truly thought that would just be one of those people that never fell in love. It hurt more than he imagined, but he reasoned to himself that it was because the object of his affections didn't even realize, but then he cursed himself in his own mind for calling his doctor an object.
He shook his head again. He really was in this deep. He was a killing, feared giant of a man for god's sake, he was meant to strike fear in men's hearts, not have another steal his own without even realizing it.
He was following his feet by now, not even focused on anything in particular, going wherever his legs took him.
He caught his own refection in a window as he passed, scarcely slowing his pace, the night hovering over the silver sands beyond cloudy and starless, his own face staring back at him fatigued and drained of colour.
With another weighty sigh, he continued on his way, and upon opening the door to the Respawn room, he found the man he wanted, not even doubting initially that he would be in his own bed.
The Engineer had his back to him at first, but turned to the Russian as he opened the door, the Texan sat a few feet from the machine.
" . . . .Couldn't sleep either?"
"Too much to think about, needed opinion."
"M'all ears."
The larger of the two stooped to the floor and sat next to the stout builder, who was equally in his pajamas and cradling a cup of cocoa.
". . . I want you to tell me how dis machine works. . . .how it brings people back."
The goggle-less American look up at him, the massive man towering over him. "That's an awful big question, partner. What's brought this on?"
"The BLU Spy, the one who hurt Medic, we saw him today. Not this new man, it was the old one."
The usually helmeted man frowned, and then took a big sip of his drink.
"I saw that frog today too, I could tell, it was definitely the same fella . . . Well, usually, how it works, Respawn is like taking a picture." The light and short haired man gestured with his hand to the machine in the middle of the room. "It remembers exactly what you look like before battle, so when you die out there, it brings you back exactly as it remembers you."
The tall, bald man nodded philosophically.
" . . . The Spy – ours – told me that he and Pyro killed their Spy. Properly, with sappers on their machine. . . ." He made eye contact with his teammate. "How is he still alive?"
A long pause.
"That's somethin' I can't answer, pal. Maybe he has a twin or something?"
"Couldn't, the way he taunted the Doktor today, it could only have been him."
The intelligent worker frowned in thought. " . . . Solly was the one bringin' the news. You saw how quiet he was. Maybe he knows somethin' we don't?"
Viktor risked a smile down at the laborer. "Are you telling me slow Soldier knows something Engineer doesn't?"
"Aw shush, you." The Engineer chortled and gave the taller man a slight shove, then took a sip of his cocoa. " . . .But mah point still stands, pal. HQ would definitely know about this sorta thing, and Spy and Soldier are the only ones who really contact 'em, Sol more so than Spy."
Another nod from the Russian.
"Will ask in morning. Do not want to be yelled at for disturbing his sleep."
The shorter man nodded as he drained the last of his hot chocolate drink. "Prob'ly best."
" . . . ..So Respawn is like a picture, hm?"
"S'right. S'why if you have an injury and it doesn't heal before the next battle, it would stay even if you respawned, you'd be stuck like that cus the machine would think you always look like that, get me?"
"Yes, I think. So that's how often it's taken? Each battle?"
"'Fore each battle, big guy. On both sides, to make it fair."
The older of the two was quiet for a moment, thinking. " . . . .then how did the BLU Spy come back? He died, he really died, the machine was sapped and he was killed properly."
"Again, partner, a question for Soldier."
Silence overtook the two mercenaries, theorems upon theorems mounting up over their heads until finally an unanswered question pushed its way to the front of the Heavy's mind.
" . . .Do sappers even work on Respawn machine?"
"Mh-hm. Them sappers are Mann Co products – they work on any other Mann Co piece a tech, includin' the Respawn machines, but only Mann Co stuff. Same as how the Respawn only repairs injuries by Mann Co brand things – say you cut me with like. . .a knife from the kitchen, they ain't licensed in the machine, so I'd still have the cut even if I died and was brought back. S'why Demo's never gonna get his eye back, not only did it happen before the machine could touch him, it was done with an unbranded bomb."
"I see."
Another small silence, which lasted naught with the Texan.
" . . . .So Doc's really getting to ya, huh?"
If the builder was as vigilant as the Russian thought he was, he would spot the crimson flare across his cheeks.
" . . .He is a credit to the team." He shrugged it off. He shrugged it all off, everything, including the guilt of hiding his feelings and the laborers knowing gaze. "I would be worried for anyone else if they have been through the same as he has been."
The stockier man chuckled and stood, patting the mans shoulder as he began to turn.
"As long as you can cover it better than the Spy and the string bean, you'll be fine."
"That depends on who I want to cover it from, Engineer."
A soft chuckle and then the man was leaving.
"I see ya. Turn off the lights when you're done, and get some sleep big guy."
And then he was gone.
With another hefty sigh despite his smile, the tall man stood himself and leant against the live-preserving machine. It was build like some kind of slab, white surfaced all over but the faint whirr of electronic life that burned inside it was warning enough that the machine was definitely not inanimate. This was the machine that saved them everyday, that kept them alive, that taught them to hold no fear. It was a living miracle in itself.
Viktor patted the shiny, almost shimmering surface of the machine, and then turned; trudging out the door and closing it, heeding the Engineers word and clicking the light switch back off with a dull 'pop'.
With a more relaxed mind and feeling towards the day ahead (or was it already here? It was too late and/or early in the morning to tell), the giant of a man trudged back towards his currently shared room – not that he minded its current inhabitants in the slightest.
He opened his own door and couldn't help but smile when fake electronic light from the corridor he was leaving appeared in a long beacon slithering across his floor, bed, weapon and comrade as straight as an arrow from the huntsman, but then he stepped inside and let the wooden door shut and the room be suffused in a comfortable and unhaunted natural darkness.
Again with startling gentleness that he bestowed only upon his prized weapon, (and now the man in his bed), Heavy held one hand under the slimmer males deeply breathing chest and kept him still as he lifted the weighty mini-gun from the indent on the bed and lay her on the floor, slipping back into his place and settling back down, letting the still sleeping man get comfy yet again and hoping that the movement did not rouse him from his much needed and much deserved rest.
Still, it took him a moment to register the fact that his friends eyes had opened.
Smoky and cobalt, he may as well have been looking into a fresh morning sky.
" . . . . Где ж ты был?"
The use of his home language from the other almost startled the larger of the too, and despite its jumbledness and slurring from sleep, the pronunciation was crisp, and only proved how much his Medic had been learning from him. For him.
"Nowhere." His reply was as quiet as the ruffling of the sheets he lay on. "Go back to sleep, Medic."
"Nhn."
The physician let himself take in a deep, slow breath and settle once more, tired orbs fluttering shut again and his mouth became slack.
He was drained and worked far too hard for his own good.
At least tomorrow was an earned day off. A lazy day. Sunday.
Viktor let himself sleep.
By the time his doctor stirred, the Heavy was already awake, glasses resting across his once broken nose, a book in his hands, the soft noise of turning pages finally rousing the exhausted physician.
The brunette blinked once, twice, and then looked up at the taller man unfocusedly.
The blue eyes of his comrade where fixed on the book, scanning the page in silence, and the Medic poked his side gently to get his attention.
" . . . Guten Morgen."
The other chuckled and his warm eyes flicked from the page to the healers sleep relaxed face.
"And good morning to you." He beamed, obviously wide awake, pushing a solid thumb between the pages to keep his spot as he looked down at the smaller man curled up in his bed.
He had the eyes of an overworked underpaid old fool and the smile of a late teenager who had just had his first night with a lover.
A warm hand came up and ran itself through the doctors' dark hair, and the still half asleep man leant into his friends' palm, a deep chuckle vibrating through the others chest and broad shoulders
"Still asleep, Doktor?"
"Mm."
Another soft chuckle and the larger of the two spoke, voice quiet. "Then go back to sleep." And the Medic got comfy again, only marginally drowsy, more relaxed than anything, and curled closer.
". . . Vhat are you reading . . .?"
"It's a book that says things from Russian to English." The heavy artillery specialist smiled and reopened the pages. "Looking up vurds I do not yet know. Vant to get better."
The younger let out a dopey half smile, resting his right temple against the others strong shoulder. "I understand you vell enough, Herr."
"Vell, never too old to get better." Heavy contradicted, wrapping an arm around the slightly slim waist of the doctor, moving the book so he could see.
"I am stuck on dis vurd though."
He pointed, and the doctor found the word 'compassion' scrawled in fluid Russian text, and the brunette smiled.
"Zhats 'compassion', kamerade, it means. . ."He gesticulated, looking for the means to explain. ". . . like, zympathy, or pity, you know?"
"Ah, I see, сострадание, I think." The taller of the two nodded, smiled and brought the other closer by his hip, who then returned his smile and tried to will the spark of heat he felt appear across the bridge of his nose, but did not hesitate to nuzzle the shoulder he was resting on.
The page was dog-eared, the book put down, the glasses were slid off, and the other hand of the tall Russian ran through chocolate shaded hair again.
". . . Are you still tired?"
"m'not too bad."
" . . . .ve should get up."
"Ve should."
They lay there for at least the next half hour.
"We're not going anywhere, are ve?"
The German chuckled softly. "Not for a vhile." A long, deep, comfortable breath and a warm nose pressing slightly more into the Heavys collarbone.
". . . m'comfy."
"Is good way to start Sunday morning." A soft chuckle from the other, and the smaller man grinned.
"Cannot zhink of a better vay to start it."
"It vas pillow fight last time."
" . . . .Is zhat anozher challenge?"
By the time they had gotten up, breakfast was over, and it was well past noon.
Trailing into the living room, the Heavy and Medic found the rest of the team doing what they expected – taking a well earned break.
The Spy and Pyro seemed to be playing some intricate game of cards as the Scout pestered the Frenchman, the Sniper flicking through the televisions appalling amounts of static, and the Demoman, Engineer and Soldier sat telling some war story or another.
The Medic slinked up behind his masked European friend and set down a card, earning an annoyed mutter from the other masked man and the young Scout, while the Heavy sat with the three comrades, interrupting an outburst from the dark-skinned demolitions expert and the hard-headed Soldier. There were a couple of open bottles around them, but none empty.
"That helmet's clenching yer brain! I'm tellin' ye, ya rocket-jumpin' arse, it's physically impossible ta change weapons once you've drawn it!"
"NEGATORY! I have done it before, and I will do it again to show you, you bomb-bouncing bastard!"
"Vhat seems to be problem?"
The voice of reason, Engie, muttered something as the other two mercenaries were refraining themselves from throwing punches.
"They're arguin' over some weapon or another."
"Ah."
Viktor blinked at them, used to their bickering, and as the tall American drew back a fist, ready to knock the Scottish experts other eye out, the Russian easily grabbed the Soldier by the collar, and began to drag him out into the wood crafted corridor, ignoring the shouts, kicks, swung fists and sharp threats.
The patience-draining fighter was dropped into the hall, and the door shut with a faint click – the taller, broader man leaning against it, crossing his arms. Under his helmet, the American blinked.
"What's your problem, commie?" He challenged, unmoving besides his growling lips.
"What did headquarters tell you?" The bald mans eyes were scanning him, serious, and the Soldier shifted his balance slightly, not wanted to take a step back from the stern face.
". . . About?"
"Spy. BLU Spy."
He swallowed slightly, glanced to his left, then his right, then back at the heavy artilleryman.
"They . . . Kinda told me how . . . he can't. . . .Die, so to speak." The American gave an ugly frown, wrinkles creasing his nose where he was refraining himself from snarling.
This new information took a moment to sink into the taller mans brain.
" . . . .But none of us die; we have zhe Respawn to stop that. Or do you mean . . . properly?"
A short, tense nod.
"Properly, he can't die. . . .Ever."
The Heavys strong jaw clenched, and so did his fists.
"But." Soldier intervened before Viktor could say anything. "Neither can we."
The oddest of smiles played on his lips.
"Basically, they put it to me like this, getting new guys if the Respawn ever fails, new people have to be hired, new details filled in, and the Respawn system is sensitive and expensive to program, ya get me?"
". . .Da. . .?"
"Well, rather then get new people in, one both sides maybe, they've found a way ta keep us guys here. Like . . . you know Respawn sorta saves us how we are?"
"Like a picture, yes."
"Yes, kinda." He was grinning by now, happy to explain something, unused to being relied on for information besides battle tactics. He wasn't as mentally reliable outside of war like the Engineer or Medic. "Affirmative, well, it saves not just how we look, and our injuries and all that crap, its out memories, and favorite things and the stuff in our head that makes us who we are, get me?"
The Heavy nodded, understanding.
"So, those guys at HQ, they made it so if Respawn ever glitches, fails, gets sapped or something like that, those photographs as you say are saved before each battle, incase we go down and can't get back up, in case we properly die. So yeah, if we die without Respawn, it has this kinda. . . ." He muttered for a second. "How'd they put it. . . ." He got it. "Back-up, that's the word, this back-up feature, so we get brought back anyway."
" . . . .so, we can never die, never ever?" Viktor finally questioned, eyebrows furrowing somewhat."
"Basically, cadet, correct. But I don't know myself if Respawn or the Docs Medi-gun slow down aging, so we can only go for so long. I don't know what happens after that."
A little frown again, and the Soldier pushed up the brim of his helmet with a thick thumb.
". . .So why do BLUs look like us?"
The shorter, but firmer man blinked. This was not something he had thought through.
"I . . . . Don't know, private. I really don't" He shook his head somewhat. "I guess that headquarters just saved our information twice or something, so it isn't expensive for the other side to get new guys in either. Although, if they didn't, it could be a bit of an advantage, them losing money and having new sissies on their side every fight. But what can we do?" He shrugged.
"They look sort of different to us. Perhaps changed our 'back-up' a little?"
The rocket-jumper nodded with a grunt, and scratched at his chin.
"I guess. I mean, they can't be the originals, they must have come from us, right?"
"How do you think?"
"I'm just thinkin', we have all our memories before coming to RED, right? I remember fightin' for America before this, and I bet you remember being in your piece of shit commie-land too."
The taller of the two growled and clenched his jaw again, but brushed it off. He didn't need a trip to respawn himself if he started his fight with the hot blooded fighting machine.
"But you said yourself; back-ups have memories too. For all we know, we're just the duplicates."
The Russian frowned and let out a slight sigh.
His memories were perhaps not even his own, the thoughts of his home, mother, sister, niece, his school, education, skills, childhood, it could all just be lies.
His Doktor, he could just be a lie too, a fabrication of information, containing someone else's thoughts and feelings and personalities, memories for his own brother and mother and their deaths.
They were just shadows.
The Soldier shoved his arm.
"Cheer up there, King Kong, we're probably just thinkin' too hard about all this kinda crap. Let Engie and Doc worry about it, those guys are smarter than us, they'll make more sense of it all."
Heavy looked at the shorter man, and gave a slight nod, then a tiny shove came from the door he was leaning on, and Viktor moved away.
Kris' head appeared around the edge of it, a slight frown of concern marking his eyes.
"Are you two alright? You've been out here a vhile."
Sparing a slight glance at the American, Heavy nodded, and smiled.
"Da, we're coming back in now."
The Soldier to the side nodded and stepped in first, Medic standing to the side so the helmeted building of a man could come in, and he sat down, sliding back into his seat next to the Engineer, picking up his perspiring bottle of beer.
As Viktor stepped inside, he wrapped one arm around the shorter doctors' midriff and lifted him onto his broad shoulder as he had done what seemed a long time ago, only this time he didn't have to worry about the doctor reaching for a pillow to smack him with.
The doctor barely struggled, but merely squeaked in surprise, albeit loudly, and despite a few eyes, goggles, and masks turning to look at them, they watched with humor and a shine of respect for the two of them.
The Heavy slumped into a chair, his own end of the sofa inhabited by the masked gamers, as the physician rested across his lap.
Viktor abandoned all thoughts, whether they be of life or death.
"Is good Sunday. Good day of rest."
"It is."
The smaller of the two gave a smile and settled in the artillery mans hold.
They were surrounded by their friends and teammates in the warm, autumn desert, the faintest wind stirring the windows of a large, safe building, despite the rage and pain that circulated its walls.
Life was short, and war was long, but comradeship outshone both.
The Heavy gave a slight smile in return, voice quiet from the enclosement of teammates.
"Are you happy, Doktor?"
"More zhan I thought I ever could be in zhese circumstances."
" . . . .Good."
Contentness was rare and treasured among barracks.
Medic could only hope the next day that the never-ending wrath of battle didn't kill them.
Heavy could only hope that one day he could feel the same bravery outside the battle, where he was side to side with his Doktor as when he was in battle, in front of him, his guardian and protector.
Kristian and Viktor were safe, at least until the next morning, a lukewarm, stale Monday.
Midday, and a light breeze stroked across the faces of the mercenaries and a fine mist had descended over the sands, the usual tingling feeling of pre-war nerves and bloodlust beginning to boil, and the chestnut haired physician loaded his syringe gun and rotated his scarred leg, hoping to good Gott in himmel that it would not let him down on today of all days.
The usual screeching howl of the Announcer harped across no-mans land and the gates opened, the physician loyally following the Russian.
The war raged as war does, as despite the odd scratch here and there and the slightest twinge of trapped nerves in his leg, the Medic was unharmed, protecting his faithful friend against the barrage of steel bullets and unrelenting fire. One or twice the uncloaking sound of a no longer hiding Spy echoed behind him, but it was quickly drowned out by French screaming and the rumble of a hard-working flamethrower and its owner.
As the Announcers screech of crimson victory shrieked, somewhere in the midst of settling adrenaline and dust, a rasped cry rang out, quieter, that of a pained Frenchman, the cry short, but wholly noticeable, the rest of the mercenaries unhearing of the call as they returned to the base.
"Medic!"
Kris acted upon his well honed instinct and ran to the source of the shout, dodging and ducking between rubble and wreckage and half faded corpses of the Soldiers and the Scouts, until he found the injured Spy.
The wrong Spy.
The BLU lay against the torn apart pieces of a crippled RED dispenser, a Snipers shot had clipped his side and he was bleeding badly, sinewy muscle torn from his side and a half gaping hole that the doctor could fit three fingers into visible between pearly, bloody ribs.
The masked man wearily looked up, voice hoarse, and saw the doctor who he had taunted, who had cut off his head in revenge, whose Respawn trip he had sapped, who cut his head of in return yet again, and the man he had tortured.
Smoky, hazy, dying, ice eyes met the serene blue of the brunette physician, and after a half second of deciding upon the difference of justice, honor, and the realism of the indubitably unfathomable doctors' heart, Kristian knelt down at the mans side, the man who had kept him prisoner for almost four days, who had shredded his leg muscle to fine fabric, who had died before and come back anew.
" . . .Vhat are you?"
A short cough, a hacking up of blood, and a rasped answer.
"I'm a Spy, you idiot."
The doctor smiled, uncruelly so, but the Frenchman could have taken it that way, if he was petty and stubborn enough.
"Zhat you are."
"Vhy are you here?" The semi gasping survivor growled bluntly, gloved hand grasping his side.
"You called for a Medic."
Unexpectedly, BLU gave a slight chuckle. "Oh, such bitter irony, vous connard."
The Medic smiled wider, unable to help it, and sat down in the bloodied dust, some part in the back of his extensive mind muttering the dangers of the knife wielding killer, but the majority stating that either way the holey prick was dying, and there was no way he had strength to do anything but throw dampened insults.
" . . . . Kris." He snarled. ". . . .I just vant you to know. . . Zhat I fucking hate you."
The doctor laughed in the face of the dying Spy, who gave a slight, weak grin.
They were enemies.
They had done wrong.
They had killed before, both others and each other.
They were laughing at each other.
Breath dying, the Spy pulled off his mask.
The last time he had considered this, the roles were reversed – Kris was the one on the brink of death and the Spy tired from work but completely unharmed.
The Frenchman could not have been older than thirty; thick black hair, formerly tanned but even skin stretched across skinny but firm and sturdy cheekbones, and a deep, bruised scar disrupting the back of his smooth neck that had obviously been opened at least once before. Medic raised an eyebrow.
"I don't apologize, you know. For vhat I did. Your head and all zhat."
"Zhats because you are a bastard, mon ennemi RED."
"I know, but so are you, so its fine." The doctor shrugged. He still hated the Spy, and although would never admit it, show it, or say it even to himself, was scared.
He was terrified.
"You know," The now unmasked boy gurgled. "by zhe next battle, everyzhing will be as it was."
"And how do you figure zhat?" The German crossed his legs gracefully.
"I will alvays aim for you first, I vill alvays hate your guts, and I vill never, ever stop trying to degrade you, never stop digging up dirt on you, and we vill continue in zhis var till we both die for good. We are immortal here."
"Truth be told. . . . . I don't know how I could cope if it vas any ozher vay. Because of you, I'm . . . happy, so to speak. Content enough to live. I still hate you zhough, just to clarify."
The ebony haired man choked out a bark of a laugh, blood drooling from his lower lip.
"Bon. I vas vorried you had gone . . . soft . . . . For a second zhere." His eyes were getting more unfocused and his intake of air needier. Medic stood.
"You're going to leave me here zhen, hm?"
Kristian was a doctor. He was not heartless in any form. He had respect, he had faith, he had a future, and he knew how to deal with men in wars and men with pride.
And he shrugged.
"Vhat kind of RED vould I be if I helped you?"
With a smile, he turned and started on his way back to his home with his forever injured leg twitching weakly, the sound of the Spys last gargled laugh behind him.
Until his forever hated enemy drew his last breath and his body crumbled into fine blue power.
Respawn had found him so far out in the desert, picked him up, took him home.
Kristian smiled.
He would fight the Spy the next day with the same gusto they both shared.
And the next day.
And the next day.
And the day after that.
He could live with being immortal.
Content.
Home.