His reflection in the metal chest plate was distorted, the features blurred into shadow-filled holes in his face as he cut his hair using a pair of scissors borrowed from Crazy Bones. He'd already trimmed his beard down, as much as possible. The metal showed him back a man he could barely recognize as himself.
For one long moment, he considered the reflection, scissors stilled in their effort to rid him of the grimy mop. It had been so long since he'd cut his hair, yet the length had remained at a rough shoulder level.
Just another perk of being on the Island, he supposed. His hands shook slightly as he resumed cutting.
"Here," the girl said, extending a hand to him. "I'll get the back."
He didn't meet her eyes. She'd edged closer and closer to him while he was trimming, shooting well-placed looks of antagony toward Crazy Bones. Kasimir could feel her knee bumping his every so often, as she shifted her weight from one side to the other.
Crazy Bones was threading together a bola in the corner, one glittering eye watching her. The suggesstive grin on his face had worn away into a faint and deliberate smile. Kasimir ignored the man as much as was possible, knowing the annoyance would be short-lived.
Still wasn't sure what to make of the girl. Her determination, shown frequently in her face and the actions she'd taken to retrieve him from the Stalkers, assured him that she was at least reliable. That was certainly something one looked for in a tribe mate.
"Kasimir, let me have the scissors," she prompted him, her voice mildly agitated.
He handed them over, staring into the shadowy depths of his reflection. The thought of having the Iron March under his control, brought to him more memories best left forgotten. Trying to imagine the girl being so capable, talented even, to do what he had done... was amusing, but ultimately seemed incredulous.
She stood up on her knees, gently tugging at his head as she moved closer. "How short?" she asked.
"All of it," he answered.
Kasimir could feel an immediate change in temperature, a chill running down his back. Dirty hair fell to the floor around him. He'd absolutely needed a haircut, if only because he'd been so lacking in hygiene.
She had short fingers and strong hands. He closed his eyes as she cropped it down to the skin, the coolness of the obsidian tool offset by the warmth of her skin. Having someone cut his hair for the first time in years... she didn't bother with nicety, either, pulling at his scalp with impunity.
It seemed such an intimate act. The girl had neither the patience nor the skill to give any illusion of that, destroying what she touched. She brushed a stray hair from his shoulder to the floor, scooted backward and studied his head, then nodded to herself. "I think that's it."
"Maybe you should cut my hair," Crazy Bones said, grinning at her.
"You don't have any hair to cut," she muttered, glaring at him.
"Do my beard, then," the old man coaxed.
"Fuck off," she replied, succinctly.
Kasimir rubbed a hand over his scalp and chin, feeling for any rough bits, but was satisfied that the job was done. He turned to the girl, contemplating.
She'd had tied her own hair back with a strand of fiber. A thick shock of it hung down over one eye, unavoidably, but the amount of disgust she managed to squeeze into half her face was impressive.
The furious look on her face as she glared at Crazy Bones―who was attempting to feign wounded feelings―was enough to stir him into movement. They had to leave. The sooner they were away from the rocky shore, the sooner he could get answers, and the less likely that someone would find him there.
Stalkers didn't care who they killed in the pursuit of their targets. They would attack and kill anyone or anything, including the ex-RAF man's animals. Much as he and Crazy Bones "got on", Kasimir didn't think it was worth risking the man's ire in order to draw the mercenary tribals to a trap.
Their cautious truce was still only a truce. If it never evolved back into war, he would be satisfied.
Kasimir roused himself from the floor, wiping hair from his clothing, and took the scissors back from the girl. She turned her eyes onto him, and stifled a snorting noise. Ignoring her, he moved to his pack and withdrew the cooked meat he'd brought with them, tossing the lot to Crazy Bones.
"For your trouble," he said.
The old man's eyes lit up, but he grumbled under his breath and looked offended at the same time. "Get on with you lot," he shot back. "Coming in my home, insulting me. Go on."
Once outside, the girl made a beeline for her spitter. Kasimir hoisted his pack onto his back and scanned the nearby area, watchful as always.
It was a nice place, this outlet. It was protected from most of the rain by the rock shelf above, near to a shark-free source of water. For a moment, Kasimir remembered the hustle and bustle of the place, when time had been more kindly. All the tribes had been working together. The Iron March had been fifty-strong and growing, Mara leading the Shock at his side as they scoured watery caverns for artifacts.
He turned away with a sour heart. Remembering was not only painful, but also kept him trapped in the past. He'd let go of more than enough agony to hold onto.
"Wait!" Crazy Bones called out, scrambling over the rocks like he was part-lizard. Maybe he was. The sheer tenacity of the man had been proved time and time again, and the only reason he kept himself to himself as he did was due to his age.
Crazy Bones stopped about twenty feet short of them, crouching on all fours. "Kasimir." He made a salute to him, carefully. "Mind yourself out there."
Kasimir nodded back at the man. "Until we meet again, Duval."
The girl watched in silence, as Crazy Bones crawled back whence he'd come. "Why'd you give him all our food?" she asked, suddenly.
"Debt," he replied, and began walking away.
"Yeah, but now we don't have any food," she pointed out, following. "We can't afford to make good on stuff like that."
"It can be replaced." Kasimir stopped at the water's edge, staring down into it.
"Not this shit again," she muttered.
He sighed to himself.
