Jasper's new piece of shit is a 'lie where you sit, shit to the left' tin can. Crampy, tiny, and deadly. It was for tight maneours and artillery. Happy was twice the size but the same shape. It had none of her luxuries, though — just Esme Platt's ruined throw draped across the back of the pilot seat. Jasper feels a twinge in his spine, and his jaw flexes as he grits his teeth.
Maria would laugh in his face if he'd ever say 'my back hurts'. Like she could give two shits.
But he remembers, the first physical the doc ever gave him when they boarded, the first tentative offering of trust.
The doctor clicked his tongue as Jasper turned onto his back.
"What is it?" Jasper asked, concerned.
He shook his head. "Bad posture, son."
Jasper had sat ram-rod straight out of a mixture of nerves, respect and plain manners. "I don't think so."
The man smiled, huffed out a breath of a laugh, and Jasper was a little surprised. He could count on one hand the amount of times he'd made someone laugh for a kind reason. "You've been tucked up too tightly somewhere," he elaborated, "Any more strain and you could have permanent nerve damage."
So the twinge in Jasper's spine sends a shiver of nerves along his back and the nagging feeling that if he isn't blown up for being so out-of-practise rusty, he may well live to have a few more problems.
End