Husker stirred, opening his eyes slowly as the pitter patter of rain against the tin roof above him shook him awake. He looked around slowly, taking in his surroundings, multiple other men wearing tattered clothes sat under tin shelters or in corbelled together homes, some barely had that, but most wore the uniforms they'd come home in. He sighed, pulling the blanket that was placed over him off and putting it to his side. He sat there for a moment and looked up, his eyes peering through the small gaps in the tin roof and up towards the concrete highway above.
He pushed himself off the graffitied wall and grumbled, adjusting the jacket he was wearing, adorning the brown leather was the symbol of the 101st Airborne, the Screaming Eagle. He looked around, stretching before looking down and around, finding his cap and sitting it atop his black haired head. Stepping out into the still covered area, he looked over to his left, a yellow cab driving past. He sighed and moved out of the small shack, the rain now landing on him, his jungle boots sloshing in the puddles of water that were underneath his feet.
Stepping out onto the sidewalk, the small chitchats of civilians filled his ears, the engines of cars and their horns, the distant jet engines of airliners, the sounds of many languages he'd heard a million times. He scratched his cheek and looked across the street, a neon sign flashing a symbol of a bowl with chopsticks in it, his stomach grumbling as he stared a little too long. He reached into his jacket pocket, taking out the old worn leather wallet and flicked it open, a picture of four soldiers looking back at him, one of them being him, one was black, the other two white, Daral, Montes and Tucker, in the corner of the picture, 'July 4th, 1967.'
He half smiled, then opened up his wallet, a nice wad of cash sitting firmly inside. He nodded and stuffed it back into his pocket, "Hey baby killer." A voice called out from behind. Husker dropped his head before turning around, being met with a group of three, all three wore leather jackets and red headbands, one was tall, the other short and the last was around Husk's height. "How 'bout you give us what we just saw and we won't have to smash your' head in for killin' all them Vietnamese."
Husk turned his head away, squinting before looking back, shaking his head, "No I don't think I will." He stepped forward, "What's with these headbands? Are you a bunch of commie faggots?" He smirked, pushing the centre and smallest one, the other two stepping back as he stumbled, "I bet you wouldn't be able to fight half the NVA soldiers I've killed. You're just a couple of fuckin' punks." He gave a toothy smile. The one to the left of Husk, the tallest, stepped forward, winding up a punch and throwing it, Husk throwing up his left up and blocking it, a low snap coming from the attacker's arm. Taking the advantage, Husk brought his right fist forward, swinging his body forward with a step, the hit knocking whatever air was still in the attackers lungs out as well as whatever was in his stomach. As he dropped, the attacker vomited, another now louder snap coming from his left arm as he fell, the attacker rolling to the side and yelling in pain.
Husk looked just in time to catch the second attacker swinging, this time throwing a proper punch but still slow, Husk quickly moving himself back, dragging his front foot to keep his balance before reaching over, grabbing the attackers wrist with his left hand and putting his right onto his face, pushing it away, Husk twisted his arm behind his back, quickly wrapping his right hand around to regain control of his head. Sliding to the side and dragging his attacker, Husk without any hesitation or remorse, slammed his head into the wall of the overpass, the sound as like throwing a melon against a wall, the attacker then falling to the ground, his head hitting the concrete, now sounding like a coconut smashing open.
Husk watched the blood pour from the back of the young man's head, his eyes rolling up into his head. He blinked multiple times, taking in what he'd just done, analysing the scene. He looked to the shorter one, the group leader, looking up horrified, he looked down at the faller one, holding his left arm to his chest, bent, the bone very much pushing against the skin. Both turned and crawled to their friend.
Husk stared for a minute, his ears beginning to ring and all noise turning muffled like someone had put a set of earmuffs on him. The ringing only got louder before he closed his eyes and opened them.
Husk stood, staring off into the harbour, the red waters crashing against the seawalls and docks, the rain pelting down hard, the distant lights of the bustling city peering between the droplets of rain. Husk looked down over the edge, staring down at the walkway below, the top of umbrellas looking up at him. "So. What are you going to do?" The tinny voice of his friend broke him from his trance. "Are you going, take it to the next level?" Alastor smiled widely, tapping the microphone atop his cane.
Husk closed his eyes and took a deep breath before standing up, holding onto the railing and pushing against it, stretching his legs before standing upright, sitting his top hat back onto his head, "Now it's the time Smiles." He said lowly, his gruff voice carrying a more sombre tone. Alastor tilted his head stepping away from the railing to stand in front of Husker, the sound of the subway car preventing him from speaking for a moment, "Then when will be the time old boy? He's not going to wait around for you. None of the others have." Husk turned away, slipping his hands into his pockets, "Maybe it's better that way."
Alastor rolled his eyes and shook his head, his common smile disappearing and being replaced by a frustrated expression, "Husker. You keep, fucking, doing this. You punish yourself by not opening yourself up to others that, dare I say it and may Lucifer smite me for it, love you." Husker turned his head away on that word, love, the fuck was love, all love did for him was hurt him, destroy him. Last time he'd properly loved someone when it wasn't for a quick fuck was back when he was alive and that didn't last long.
Huskers expression turned sour and he snapped to Alastor, "Don't you dare try to understand me Al. You wouldn't know anything about what I've been through so you have no fucking idea how hard it is to… Tell someone." He steps back, putting his hands on his hips and shaking his head before turning around, "Last time I told you about my past you went and blabbered to multiple people." He snarled. Alastor looked down, obviously taken aback by that memory. He nodded and raised his hand for a moment and dropped it to say, 'what can I say.' He looked up, "Husk… Those were early days. Back when I didn't have any… I guess, emotional attachment to you. Back when I got a kick out of annoying you and I admit, I took it too fa-"
"Too far? That's the fucking understatement of the milliner." He looked away, his eye twitching, "You just had to, when I was blind drunk. I cried my fucking heart out telling you exactly what was wrong and all you did was, play it on the fucking sound system of the joint." Alastor dropped his shoulders, "You're the one to fucking talk about telling people to share." Husk stepped away, tugging at his coat and reaching into his jacket pocket, taking out a packet of cigarettes and his Zippo, half assedly shoving one between his lips, flicking open the top and swiping at the shark wheel. "FUCK!" He roared, throwing the lighter at the crowd, throwing his cigarette over the railing before quickly walking down the stairs and out of sight.
Alastor watched as Husker left his eyes staying where he'd last seen him for a few moments before walking over, his footsteps clicking as he did. He stopped and knelt down, picking up the lighter and holding it in the middle of his gloved hand, on one side an engraving of a skull with a beret in what looked like a flash, on the other, writing, 'Happy Birthday you dull bastard - Montes, 1968.' Alastor clenched the lighter in his hand and closed his eyes before stuffing it into his jacket pocket, turning and walking towards the opposite set of stairs.