Night had fallen, and even then Scout kept going until the moon was high, high above his head. That was when his energy finally reached its limit. It was a slow buildup of fatigue that dragged him down and by the time he realized what was happening, Scout couldn't even lift his arms out of complete and utter exhaustion.

He dropped to the grassy ground like a sack of bricks. Blinking was a no go, because Scout knew that if he did, he wouldn't be able to reopen them. And right now he needed to stay awake just a bit longer to roll himself onto his back. There was a chance he'd suffocate himself if he slept with his face buried into the dirt and grass and despite already feeling like death, he didn't want to die yet. With a groan, Scout shimmied and managed to squirm just enough to flop onto his back.

The night sky was clear for the first time in what felt like ages. Not a cloud in sight. Scout should be worried about that, he knew he should because that meant no rain. But he couldn't find the strength to care as the runner gazed up into the stars. So many stars and constellations he knew were there but didn't recognize. Boston never had this many stars. He shimmied deeper into his jacket when a chill breeze swept past his face.

Scout had been walking for hours, even sprinting when he managed to scrape enough energy together. But it was like he made no progress at all. He broke through the treeline about thirty minutes ago and was still a good ten miles from the nearest town. And Sniper was probably far, far past that by now. Halfway across the country for all he knew.

And Scout was lying on the cold, hard dirt, alone. All because he couldn't keep his stupid temper in check. Because he just couldn't keep his stupid ****in' mouth shut for once in his d*mn life-

Any negative thoughts were bottled up as Scout brought his hand up- dang it. His real hand was brought up and rubbed his temples. There was no more energy to think, too painful. It was causing thunderous headaches he couldn't deal with. Flopping his hand down, Scout just watched the stars shimmer and twinkle in the deep distance of space. Thousands, hundreds, billions of stars with the faintest of colors and he was the only one for miles to see it. Not forever though, tomorrow he'll stand right back up and walk on to find his last remaining teammate.

So many pretty stars. There was even a comet that flew by, faster than lightning. Those granted wishes, right? Davey always said it was just a stupid old lie for babies and that magic didn't exist. Well, Scout had fought wizards and used magic before so if he was wrong about that, maybe he was wrong about shooting stars too. What's the worst that could happen?

So Scout made his wish. It was a simple one. Maybe if he wasn't half asleep he would have thought up a better one. Maybe if his head wasn't full of clouds he would have worded the wish more specifically. Maybe if his eyelids weren't so heavy he'd appreciate the once in a lifetime chance more. But the runner's fight for consciousness was lost and he slipped away into dreams of towering waves and choking on saltwater.


Two days. One day, fifteen hours, twenty nine minutes and six seconds. Seven seconds.

Eight seconds.

Nine seconds.

Sniper watched the small hand on his wrist watch tick away. It would come to a stop, then jolt forwards. Stop, go. Stop, go.

One day, fifteen hours, twenty nine minutes, seventeen seconds and counting since he ran the brat off. A full day of driving back towards Sawmill. A day spent getting as far away from him as possible. And half a day spent here, in his camper, scratching at an old cigarette burn on his table.

One day, fifteen hours, twenty nine minutes, fifty four seconds and counting. A new record for how long it's taking to calm himself down. Sniper was human, that meant he got angry sometimes. Downright murderous on occasion like right now. Thing was, he was always able to keep his cool. Always able to keep it under lock and key.

Not so much this time.

One day, fifteen hours, thirty one minutes, five seconds and counting.

Yesterday he nearly drove right into a ditch from another reckless driver on the freeway. And that had led to the Australian sending the bloke into the same ditch from a less than subtle bumper hit. It felt like a good idea at the time. It felt amazing, honestly, as it got rid of some of this pent of rage Sniper had. But there were only two times he'd gotten true road rage like that, and both involved a certain American.

One day, fifteen hours, thirty four minutes, forty six seconds and counting.

And later that day, once Sniper had found a campsite to stay for the night, he wound up killing a squirrel. There wasn't a particular reason as to why he did it. Even now the marksman couldn't remember the exact train of thought that led him to killing the thing. If there ever was a thought to begin with. It was just scampering about and making those shrill squirrel noises and got too close. The thing was probably too used to humans from the campsite, maybe it was spoiled and looking for some food other folk throw to it. It just came too close and made too much noise and he simply crushed its head under his heel after a bit. Didn't even try to run away. Yeah, it was domesticated, he probably did it a favor, critter wouldn't be able to survive out in the wild like that.

Sniper wasn't really able to wipe the blood off of his boot completely.

One day, fifteen hours, thirty nine minutes, thirteen seconds and counting.

Now he was here, sitting at his table, picking absent-mindedly at the old burn mark while watching his wrist-watch tick by. Didn't bother eating anything, Sniper couldn't unclench his jaw. Didn't bother drinking any coffee, the headache he woke up with was keeping him awake just fine. Didn't bother changing out from the clothes he wore yesterday since he hadn't bothered to change into proper sleepwear last night. Didn't bother to do anything but watch the hours tick by with that exhausting heat that blind rage always brought.

One day, fifteen hours, fifty two minutes, two seconds and counting.

It was so weird, now that Sniper had nothing better to do and could actually focus. So weird how that ankle biter had gotten him this worked up. No, not weird.

Infuriating.

Somehow that b*****d was able to take hold of all of Sniper's short leashes for his emotions and cut them into ribbons. No one was able to do that. Not Spy, not his dad, not even that one bloke who left him to deal with the feds alone after a hit gone wrong. Not one of them managed to get under his skin this badly. And yet somehow-

One day, sixteen hours, two minutes, ten seconds and counting.

Groaning, Sniper sat up and rubbed his eyes. They had started becoming irritated from the length of time he sat there staring unblinking at his watch. They also weren't the only irritated thing about the marksman.

His hands were still pretty cold. Rubbing them together didn't make a difference. And wearing old mittens he found just made the itchiness on the back of his left worse. Right, the itchiness. It was probably a bug bite from sitting outside near a campfire; Sniper always tended to get them more often than the others which didn't make too much sense since he was one of the more slender blokes of the group.

Sniper, after another moment of just sitting and staring at nothing in particular, stood up. The action itself was simple enough and didn't elicit a response. Problem was that he knocked one of his knees on the corner of the table when he stood. And apparently that was all it took for the small interior to turn a hellish shade of red.

A rush of energy flooded his arms. The feeling of wind against his skin. And a sickening CRUNCH filled the air.

The first thing Sniper noticed after the red haze faded was his heavy breathing and the lava coursing through his veins. His entire body felt feverish in a figurative sense, like a warm gust constantly swirling through his muscles and tendons. The second thing was the table.

Fractured and dented, the corner sat there like a battered housewife. It even had a nasty, splintery split down the middle, threatening to snap off at the slightest touch. Shock was something that could describe what Sniper was feeling but it still didn't feel right. Maybe that was it, that there wasn't a word to describe what he was feeling. Because he wasn't feeling. Not surprise, not regret, not even pain. Which…

...wasn't normal. Punching a wooden surface that hard, so much that it's breaking and dented from the force taken, and only with a generic fist, would leave far worse than bruising. At best bruises, at worst a nasty broken hand. Thankfully it didn't feel broken.

But Sniper couldn't feel anything but that omnipresent itchiness.

He straightened up and out of the, slightly, exaggerated stance he took when beating his furniture and looked at his left hand. It wasn't a pretty thing to look at, not that his normal, uninjured hands were works of art or something, but it was still cringeworthy. Especially to the guy who owns the hand.

Splinters dotted across his white knuckles like a dead forest. Already, the swelling of blood and bruises began to blossom in his skin and said blood seeped out from the puncture wounds. It formed beads of red that grew and grew until their own mass dragged them down the marksman's arm, leaving intricate paint trails so unique that man couldn't hope to recreate them.

What a bloody mess. Now Sniper was going to have to clean up the droplets and smears this would no doubt make. Bloody fantastic. But first, First Aid.

Keeping his injured arm close to his chest, Sniper began to rifle through the duffel bag full of small Medkits that hung near the bed. He grabbed two, just to be safe. Then, he turned and opened a small drawer in the nightstand opposite to the bag and pulled out a pair of tweezers.

Sure, the Medkits would heal his hand but Sniper wasn't going to risk having any small pieces of wood get trapped underneath his skin once it sealed itself back up. It would occasionally happen with bullets on the battlefield and it was always an unpleasant and irritating experience to get them removed after matches. Or by yourself if you were brave and quick enough about it. So many times his kukri was stained with his own blood just trying to dislodge a stubborn bullet from his thigh. Always hurt like a b***h but it was quicker than waiting in the medical bay and Sniper was an efficient assassin machine.

Sitting down once more at his damaged table, Sniper laid his hand palm down and started his little operation. He began with the largest pieces, seeing as they were mostly just an obstacle hindering him from dissecting the near invisible ones. The largest stood embedded in his third knuckle, right above the tendon. One look at it's jagged ends made Sniper know that this one would hurt. A lot. Well, might as well get it over with.

He took the nasty bugger in the tweezers' tongs and, once certain the grip was good, yanked the sucker out. The pain that followed-

Was nonexistent. Sniper frowned. That wasn't right. He grabbed another, the second biggest, and pulled it out. Again, nothing. Wood shard after wood shard he pulled but still there was nothing but irritation and the urge to scratch away. Sniper resisted. So he continued dislodging the splinters until he forgot about the non-pain and more about how boring it was. Boring was too boring a word to describe this. So, so boring. It was more boring than him having to sit and patch up the brat when he brought him into his van after Sawmill.

Course, he didn't feel bored at the time. No, Sniper was… concerned. Worried for the runt's life and feeling even worse when he had to stitch together the sorry remains of that mangled arm. He was scared that another life would be lost without an answer as to what happened. Sniper made sure the tiny b*****d lived, and what did he get in return?

In hindsight, he should have just left the kid to bleed out and die. Would have saved him time, resources. Resources that were his to use. Well, better late than never. Sniper thought with a smirk as a fresh stream of blood dripped down his arm from pulling out a deep shard.

At least he made up for his mistake. Granted, it took him far too long because he was stupid enough to keep giving the brat second chance after second chance. Sniper should have just kicked him to the curb instead of giving him the choice to stay or leave. Would've made it easier for himself. But instead, the marksman waited till the kid himself scampered away into the dark forest to actually make his move. A bit lenient, too lenient since he could've solved his problems with a single bullet.

A single shot that Sniper hesitated with, giving the runt a pass to die how he pleased out in the middle of the woods. Maybe that was for the best. No, it was the best. He didn't have to break his code of conduct and take a human life without being paid, and the kid was no doubt going to die from exposure somewhere alone which was also a plus. Perhaps he hadn't died yet, and was currently lying in agony under the pine trees, wishing Sniper had just taken the shot. Maybe he was delirious from sepsis and wasn't even aware of what was happening to him, eventually dying in his sleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. Maybe The Counterfeit had found him, wouldn't that be some sweet karma, where it would do whatever it did to the brat before Sniper found him again, ripping his other arm off, all the while its victim crying out for anyone to help him but getting nothing but his own voice's echo. When he realizes his fate, he screams for any form of comfort, maybe even for his mom, before being disemboweled by-

Sniper paused, tweezers deep in his skin, itching for that last stubborn shard. He stared at it with furrowed brows. What… what was he just thinking about? The marksman watched the small puddle of red slowly grow as he racked his brain for his latest thought process. And after a moment, he recalled it and visibly flinched.

That wasn't karma, that was sadistic. It was wrong to think that but it was also so bloody gratifying to imagine-

Sniper frowned again. No, okay no. He was mad at the little bugger, yes, but he never took this much pleasure from others' pain and death. But that voice of reason was quiet. Very quiet, barely audible over that warm gust of rage. And yet, the warm gust couldn't push that thought down as much as it could when Sniper asked the question.

What is wrong with me? With that, Sniper plucked the last splinter and tugged it loose, watching the fresh wave of red gush through and onto the table. Still, no pain. That was one thing wrong with him. No pain in his left hand, just cold and itchiness. Was his other the same way? Sniper raised his blood soaked hand and pinched his right hand. A sharp stab of pain followed.

Maybe what he should have asked was what was wrong with his hand. Sniper dropped his tool and began to run calloused fingers over his glistening mess of an appendage. The long bumps of his very visible tendons ran under his touch. The puncture holes did too and instantly his fingers were slick with crimson. Muscles, veins, bone, it was all there so nothing was missing. Unless it was his nerves but that's impossible-

A bump. No one would notice unless they were looking for it. Right where his wrist connected to the rest of his arm, there was a small, tendon-like ridge that seemed to go deeper into his muscle, where Sniper couldn't feel it anymore. Beneath his chest, the sharpshooter felt his heart begin to pound.

He looked up towards where his kukri hung by the door. No, too big for something so small. Sniper stood and sifted through some drawers before finding what he was searching for. He sat back down and flicked open one of his many pocket knives.

The silver blade flashed under the light and Sniper wasted no time. It wasn't like he'd feel it anyway. Pressing the tip onto his wrist, Sniper took a breath and pressed down hard. His skin split open and only widened as the blade dragged itself further up his arm. Resisting the urge to sigh as he watched more blood exit his body and stain his table, Sniper set aside the knife and took the tweezers again.

It was safe to say that feeling a foreign metal object sifting through your wrist isn't a pleasant experience. And Sniper had a front row seat. He grit his teeth each time the tweezers' grip on the thing slipped off. Something that happened about eleven times before the grip was strong enough to pull something pink with blood out from his incision. At least, the end of it.

When the string's end popped out from his arm, it flicked droplets of both flesh and blood right onto Sniper's face. Well that was unpleasant. Twisting what little string was out in the open around the tool, Sniper started to pull the alien tendon out. It was stuck in there good. Real good. Which may explain why the brat hadn't been able to pull it out fully like the rest. The end was a bit frayed too. More proof of the fact.

Work was slow, and the more the string was removed, the more feeling began to crawl back into Sniper's system. It was barely there at first. Then it all came back at once and the Australian had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. His head hurt, he was tired, his hand was in agony and the Counterfeit's string was finally removed with a gross Sllrth.

He held the parasite at an arm's length, because that's how long it looked to be. A forearm's length more like but it was still something Sniper had no qualms in staring at with a burning loathing. This thing. Was in his arm. For a good five days now. Was it five? How many days had it been since he got strung up? Speaking of strung up.

Sniper plopped the thing down onto the table, looking at it like it was a wild animal. Then, he poked it with the tweezers. No movement. Thank goodness it wasn't actually alive.

"Bloody bogen." Sniper growled, stabbing it with the ends of the tongs. The nerve to be stuck in his body for so long doing who knows what to him and to just exist and…

And…

Oh bloody h*ll he was tired.

It hit him like a bus. No warning or anything. The effects of not taking his daily dose of caffeine was already weighing on him. Already there was a headache coming on except this one was in his temples. Much unlike the horrible pounding that threatened to burst his head open. Like the one he had for the past few days. And then the drowsiness and the calm-

Calm.

The concept shoved all other thoughts and senses aside. Calm was what he felt under all the pain and exhaustion. A drowsy, realistic calm. The kind that he used to shoot his targets. The kind he had when kicking back and cleaning his rifles. The kind he had when simply existing.

And there was a noticeable lack of anger left when the calm returned. Like dowsing a forest fire. It was still there, but so, so quiet and so, so buried and it left the marksman so, so tired. The thought of going back to bed was a tempting one. Even more so that he wouldn't have to fight with Scout to see who gets it-

Scout. Sniper snapped up, eyes wide in realization. The kid was alone and he had no idea what happened to him. And all that bloodlust felt earlier just... wasn't coming back. The anger was still there but it felt like his anger, not the violent wrath from before. His was far more reserved than what that whole thing was.

But did he want the kid back around again? Sniper didn't know. What the imp said had broken several boundaries and yeah, he wasn't going to forgive that anytime soon. And if that was going to be a regular occurrence, then yeah, Scout was still on his own.

Doesn't deserve to die though. Not in the ways Sniper imagined. He winced. Yeah, those are going to be a major stain on his conscience for some time. Bloody disemboweled, what was he thinking!?

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Sniper groaned. Regret was something he didn't have often, mostly because the decisions he made weren't bad enough to warrant regret. But of course, he typically didn't make rational decisions while in a tormentable rage. And there were several things that warranted a little evaluation of his moral compass.

The dried stains on his boot were proof of that.

Sniper, sighing, looked back down at the pool of blood on his table. It had stilled and there was enough of it to make a small lake of crimson. And in the lake Sniper saw his reflection. There were dark bags under his eyes and wow, he really hasn't shaved in a while.

Bloody h*ll he was tired.

Sighing again, Sniper grabbed a Medkit and stared at it. He really shouldn't have driven off like that. It was a petty thing to do, really. Should have just waited the next day to see if Scout came back and then he could drop him off at a town or something to get rid of him. Not just let the woods finish him off, that was lazy and sadistic and worst of all, a job half done. He groaned again. And he couldn't just go back, the kid could be anywhere. He could be lost in that forest, dead. He could have found his way back to civilization, alive or dead depending on if his body was found. Or Scout dragged his ragged excuse of a body out of the woods and is searching for Sniper to kick his *rse for leaving him behind. Sounds like something he would do.

Sniper chuckled. Yeah, that would be something the runner would do if he had the strength left. But something told Sniper that he didn't so that idea was a bust.

He made to open the white cap on the Medkit when he froze. Sniper sat in silence, not daring to breathe in case what he heard came back. It sounded like gravel being stepped on, but so quiet that he questioned if it was ever there at all. Maybe. Maybe not. It was a campground so people walking around wasn't a big deal. As long as people minded their own business, he would mind his.

And at that moment, the camper's door rattled from a single knock.


Hitchhiking was a real gamble. There were always risks involved in the practice. There was the risk of having no one stop to pick you up. There was the risk that the person was really freaking boring and made you wish you walked instead. And of course there was the risk of being picked up by a serial killer. Which honestly wouldn't be that bad anymore considering Scout knew how to kill someone with just about anything really, including fish. But still, Hitchhiking was always a gamble. And the guys said Scout wasn't a good poker player, what a bunch of jokers.

Well, this time the risk paid off as Scout managed, after a good hour of flagging, to flag down a semi to let him ride. Granted, the man who pulled over reeked of cheap alcohol and was constantly playing smooth jazz, but he hadn't threatened Scout's life yet so it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Now, a good twenty minutes after he was picked up, the driver was finally asking where Scout was going.

"'M just lookin' for a friend of mine." Was what he replied with. The truck driver huffed.

"Well just how do you expect me to find this friend of yours? Does he live in the next town over?"

"We were campin'," Scout began, for once thinking over the words he was about to use, "and we got drunk. I woke up in da middle of da woods and he just disappeared. Probably got a real nasty hangover, guy would deserve it." Scout chuckled to sell the half truth. It seemed to work as the driver nodded and laughed to himself.

"If your friend was driving drunk, you'll probably find him crashed in a ditch somewhere either dead or dying." he chortled. Scout tried to laugh to. A laugh that died a slow and painful death when the driver turned the horrible smooth jazz radio station up. Jazz is supposed to be, well, jazzy! Not whatever this thing was supposed to be. It wasn't jazz, that's for sure. There weren't even any saxophones playing. And those were the king of jazz.

"So what's the plan, runt?" The driver asked after a bit. Scout grit his teeth before answering.

"Just checkin' every campsite there is until I find him. And don't call me a runt."

"Ohhh hit a nerve, didn't I? Alright then, I'll drop ya off at the next campsite we come across, but I ain't sticking around to drive ya to the next. I ain'tcha personal taxi and I got a schedule to meet."

"Fine by me."

They sat in mostly silence after that and Scout didn't know which was worse: that he found a guy he did mind talking to or that the silence filling the truck's cabin was filled with smooth jazz. And the misery lasted a good two. Whole. Hours. Two whole hours of nothing but smooth freaking jazz! Scout learned the true meaning of pain that day.

But hallelujah, a campground eventually emerged into sight! The truck was pulled over and Scout hopped out, thanking every deity he could think of, which was only one. Just as Scout stood, the trucker called out.

"Hey, ya think you're gonna be fine even with one hand?"

"Yeah." Scout stretched his arms out, "I've lasted this long."

"I don't think you ever gave me your name, kid."

"Neither did you so I guess we're even." Scout flashed a smirk and the driver chuckled.

"Fair. See ya around kid, and stay safe."

"Right back at cha." The semi started up again and the truck soon joined its brethren on the freeway.

The sign of the campground Scout was dropped off at was pretty big. It was made of wood from what he could tell, painted a dark green with golden outlines. Written on the planks were the words ECHOMIST CAMPGROUND. Scout looked around him at the fir forest. No mist to be seen or echoes to be heard. Talk about false advertising.

Straightening himself up, Scout marched into the campground. The road itself to enter the darn place was long and gravelly. Despite everything, Scout still had his shoes, a blessing as the sharp rocks underfoot made his steps uneven and unbalanced.

As the runner walked he passed several tents, campers, and trailers. None of which were Sniper's. But this was just the entrance of the place, there were still at least fifty more spaces left to check.

The cold wind blew past and nipped at Scout's cheeks. He sneezed. Aw man he wanted to sleep. Maybe eat something too. When was the last time he had a bite? Scout stumbled on the uneven ground. He didn't have any yesterday. And that same day he ended up puking up everything he had the day before from just feeling like complete s**t. It was probably the alcohol's fault that happened. And the nasty kick he got served by Sniper's pointed boot.

"So… like, three days technically." Scout mumbled to himself. It wasn't the longest he'd ever gone without food but yeah he was feeling the strain. What he wouldn't give for a cheeseburger right about now.

The further he went into the camp, the more he passed other campers. And with each one he passed, the more he wanted to tell them to buzz off. Every single one looked up when he passed. Some went back to their business of starting campfires or roasting hotdogs, making his mouth water. Others stared at him like he was some kind of freak with wide eyes and hushed whispers. There was a family he passed with three kids playing outside with their mom watching from a beach chair. When Scout walked by he saw one of the boys point at him and shout "Mom, look, that guy doesn't have a hand! Look Mom!" which had led the other kids to stare at him and rush up to meet him.

"-Why do you only have one hand?-"

"-Woah, did a mountain lion scratch your face?-"

"-Ew, are you sick? You look sicky.-"

"Uh-"

Once their mother noticed her kids all up in Scout's business, she called them back and herded them into their trailer. Not before Scout caught the disgusted glance thrown his way. And although he didn't say it outloud, Scout gave her a proper response.

B***h.

After that encounter, Scout walked through the camp with his hood up and "hands" in his pockets. He wasn't here to be ogled at by some rude mother****ers, he just wanted to find Sniper. And he was fine looking. He was still a handsome guy even though he only had one hand and a scab-covered cheek.

But Scout still didn't lower his hood.

"How big is this freakin' thing?" He hissed to himself. He'd been walking for a good, like, twenty minutes by now and there was still no sign of Sniper. Well, this was just one campsite of… a lot, so giving up hope was stupid. It was just so big though! And if every other campsite he looks through is like this…

Scout groaned again with his voice cracking at the peak. How did he know if Sniper didn't just leave just before Scout arrived? He didn't know. What if this was just a huge waste of time?

"You lookin' for somethin', son?" A gruff voice cut through the creaking trees and cracking gravel. Snapping his gaze up, Scout looked to his right to find an old pickup truck connected to an even older trailer. And the man who sat outside both on a lawn chair looked even older than both.

"What's it ta you?" Scout grumbled. The man, taking a drag from an old pipe, gave him a wheezy chuckle, like someone squeezing the air out of an old accordion.

"Ya just look lost, is all," He replied, puffing out a swirling smoke ring, "what with you walkin' and lookin' every which way and that."

"...I'm lookin' for someone." Scout admitted, set on staring at his shoes.

"Do I know 'em?"

"Depends," Scout scoffed, "Depends on if you've seen a grumpy Aussie with a camper truck stayin' here." He kicked some gravel away. "Seriously doubt you've seen him, bet I'm wastin' my time-"

"Oh are ya talkin' 'bout that silent fella?" He paused his kicking and stared at the old man who was smiling and puffing away at his pipe.

"I…" Scout swallowed, "I mean, maybe? If we're talkin' about da same guy."

"Lanky fella with a slouch hat and a green toned truck camper and looks like he'd kill ya if ya got too close?"

That definitely sounded like Sniper.

"Y-Yeah." Scout nodded, chest filling with warmth, "Can, can ya tell me where he is? Please." He added that last bit real quick. Didn't want to seem rude to the one guy who could help him. The old man chuckled that wheezy chuckle again.

"Eager little beaver ain'tcha? Got here yesterday and parked," he leaned back and pointed towards a slight hill with the occasional tent, "waaayy over there. My guess would be the very back, the young man seems to be the solitary type."

"Heh, yeah. Uh, thanks. And he really ain't a "young man", least I think so." Scout scratched his neck in thought. Just how old was his teammate?

"Son, when you get to be my age, everyone's a young man to you. Now git going and meet'cher friend." The man leaned back and puffed on his pipe, content to leave their conversation at that. Well, so was Scout.

With a little awkward nod, Scout trotted up the hill's road. At the top stood a clearing of very sparse tents and about two campers. One of which was hidden slightly by some budding trees that Scout didn't recognize. But he did recognize the trailer. And it brought both a smile and obvious fear to the runner's face.

A step was taken, then another. And soon Scout was walking towards the secluded van. A van that held his fri- his teammate, who would either be indifferent to his arrival or was going to gut him like a fish. Scout swallowed what little saliva he could muster from his dry mouth.

Oh boy, how the **** would he salvage this? Two whole days of separation, and no doubt Sniper would've been brewing on what Scout said. And who in their right mind would forget something like what Scout told him? Well, someone in their right mind could also understand that he himself wasn't really in his right mind when he said all that crap so…

Yeah, no, like that was ever going to happen.

But if there was still a chance to get on Sniper's good side again, Scout had to take it. Right? Because… because it was the right thing to do, wasn't it? He wiped his clammy hand on his hip. And because… and because Sniper was a really… he just… he was a really cool dude and… and cool dudes like that are really hard to come by, especially the kinds that are just… are like Sniper.

There was a dead squirrel right outside the van. The only way Scout recognized it was from the bushy tail because the thing's head was just a red and brown pancake on the ground. Little bone shards peppered the bloody mess and lying in the middle of the flattened flesh was a pair of orange-ish buck teeth. Scout felt the color drain from his face and turned away from the rancid rodent.

Maybe he should just leave. Or write an apology. Or do literally anything other than walking up to the camper and raising his fist to knock on its door like he was right now.

Knuckles just centimeters away from the paneled surface, Scout held his breath. Something happened. Something that was so rare for the Bostonian that he could count the amount of times it did happen on one hand. That something was the complete loss of words.

His mind was completely blank. Nothing, nada, zilch, zip. What was he going to say? What if it went horribly and Sniper chased him off again? What was he going to say? What would he do once Sniper chased him off again, just wander around and hitchhike some more? What was he going to say?

Heart pounding like a church bell, Scout knocked and instantly stumbled away. He was actually doing this. Ohhhh no he was actually doing this! He watched the door with unblinking eyes, waiting for any sign of movement or noise. There was none. Maybe Sniper wasn't in there?

"Uh, hey man, ya in there?" The words worked faster than his brain. Why did he say that!? Now Sniper knew he was here and was going to shout and chase him off again and Scout was going to end up alone again and he'll have to survive all by himself and-

"I just… um, well, I kinda have somethin' I need ta. Ta tell you. Ta- yeah, ta tell you. It uh, it took me kinda a long time ta find ya since, y'know, ya left me behind." Why did he say that now Sniper was going to think Scout was trying to make him feel bad for him and s**t like that freaking words so freaking hard to use right!- "Not dat- dat what… uh… I mean uh, I just wanna talk, y'know, about somethin'-"

The door opened. It felt like Scout's shoes were replaced with cement. He was trapped. Trapped and forced to watch as the door opened to reveal Sniper.

The marksman stood there, hand on the door handle, staring at him through sunset shades so bright Scout couldn't see his eyes. His expression was unreadable and his aviators didn't help. If Scout had a knife, he would be able to cut a hole in the air.

"I uh…" He started before looking away to clear his throat, "...hey." Sniper didn't respond, only crossing his arms and leaning on the doorframe to stare down at the runner.

"Look I just… wanted ta…" Scout licked his chapped lips, eyes darting around at everything but Sniper. "Ta, ta say dat…" he stopped and stared at the jacket he was wearing.

"Ta say thanks for lettin' me borrow this." Scout said as he unzipped the hoodie and slipped it off. Once off, he attempted to fold it but that idea was quickly snuffed due to his lack of hands. All that did was make everything even more tense and Scout just wanted to run. But he didn't.

Instead, he swallowed, darted his eyes towards Sniper's, and shuffled over to hand the sharpshooter his jacket. No words were spoken as Sniper took the jacket and crossed his arms again, looking at Scout with that hollow look that made him squirm. He backed away again.

"...And," he started suddenly before taking a breath to quell his shaking voice, "and thanks for… everythin'. For everythin' ya did for me, I mean.

"You… You didn't even hesitate ta just. Just patch me up and keep me from bleedin' all over myself like a complete moron. Back at Sawmill, 'm mean. Ya. Ya didn't do dat. And, and ya just kept doin' dat kinda crap, even when ya didn't have ta. I mean, w-we ain't related, we ain't brothers, and- and you said yourself dat we ain't friends. But… you still let me stay. You still let me stick around even… an… and dat's more than I can say for a lotta people…

"And… and maybe dat's for a reason because," Scout stopped. He opened his mouth again but no words came out. But it had to be said, no matter how much it hurt to admit it. Scout cleared his throat once more and tried again.

"And maybe they didn't let me stick around because I'm a huge ****in' *sshole. Yup, I said it," Scout gave a weak smile, "Scout's a huge selfish jerk, who coulda guessed. And… it shouldn't've tooken this long ta realize dat. But it did. And I'm... I'm sorry." Once the sorry actually escaped his lips, it was like a floodgate opened, and there was no stopping Scout now.

"I'm sorry for treatin' you like, like s**t. Y' never deserved it, especially cause of everythin' goin' on right now. And I'm sorry for bein' mean and, and cussin' you out, and just bein' a huge d**k. I just… I never meant any of it, it's all just lies. I mean, I do at da time because I just… I don't know. A-And it ain't an excuse cause it never is and I went way too ****in' far but… but dat's why I told you dat. Back at da little campfire thing. When I told you to…" Scout swallowed. "To kill yourself cause no one would miss you. I, I never should have said dat. Yeah, I was freakin' drunk and mad and hurt cause ya said we weren't friends but… I said dat cause what you said hurt. It just, I don't know. But I never meant it." Scout met Sniper's hidden eyes.

"A-And ya wanna know how I know I didn't mean it? Because if you did I'd miss you. There's at least one person on this stupid planet who'd care a ton if you went and offed yourself. And buddy you're lookin' at him. And I'm sorry for ever makin' ya think otherwise. I'm…" there was a familiar pressure building behind Scout's eyes. "I'm, mm… 'M so sorry… 'M sorry for everythin'. Ain't none a ya deserved any a this. 'M sorry for everythin'…"

The last few words Scout had to force out due to his constricting throat. It was getting hard to breathe. Really hard without letting some pathetic whimper escape him too. But real men don't cry. Strong men don't cry. He wasn't going to cry because that would be selfish; Scout shouldn't be feeling this way, wasn't his turn. He caused this so why was he…?

"...I guess dat's it, really…" Scout whispered, mostly to himself. The soft breeze ruffled his hair and the closest tree branches. Now that he was closer, the blossoms were a soft white color. They were almost completely gone too, having been replaced by the small green leaf buds. The runner's fixation on the trees was broken by a rough voice.

"Whoi should Oi believe you?"

Scout's eyes snapped over to Sniper's, still hidden under those golden aviators. And what wasn't hidden couldn't be deciphered. A completely blank expression with an even blanker voice.

What Sniper said wasn't phrased like a jab or a jaded 'gotcha!'. At least it didn't sound like it. It was a question asking for an answer. Even though the answer Sniper was looking for was also one Scout was looking for.

"Because…" He bit his lip in thought and squinted his eyes. "Because I mean it…? No, it's not just dat but it's da truth. Well, I mean-" Scout couldn't meet Sniper's gaze anymore.

"I don't know. I, I just don't know. Can't force ya ta believe me. Don't want ta either. Cause ya would probably hate me more than ya already do. And I'd probably deserve it. H*ll, if I were in your shoes, I'd probably just give myself a real good beatin', dat's what I'd do." Scout mumbled. Then he felt his heart drop after a thought came to mind.

"You could do dat, actually." His voice was barely over a whisper and shaking like a leaf in the wind. "Won't fight back or nothin'. Cause then we'd be even. Eye for an eye or some s**t, I don't care. Don't care if ya beat me black and blue, just. Just don't run me off again."

Don't leave me all alone again.

Scout, in fact, did care a whole bunch whether or not he was about to get pounded into a pulp. Just like the squirrel to his right. And if he had the choice, he would of course not get pummeled. But it wasn't his choice anymore. That was Sniper's. And Sniper looked like he was making his choice.

For the first time in over five minutes, Sniper moved. He unlatched himself from the door frame and began walking towards Scout, expression never wavering. It took all of his concentration to not book it back the way he came. Instead, Scout dug his feet in the ground and clenched his jaw in preparation for a mean right hook. It took what felt like centuries for Sniper to finally reach him. The marksman stood only a foot away, looking down at the runner from behind those reflective shades. Scout forced himself to keep eye contact even when his companion raised his hand-

"What da h*ll happened ta your hand?" He asked. It was coated in blood. Looked fresh too. There were tons of little pinpricks along the marksman's knuckles.

Along with a pretty lengthy cut from his wrist all the way up Sniper's forearm.

"oh ****...!" Scout uttered, completely oblivious to everything but the wound. "Y-you didn't actually try ta-"

"No."

"Oh thank goodness." The smallest of twitches at the corner of Sniper's mouth before he sighed.

"...Scout, listen," Sniper began, taking off his glasses with the arm he had raised and revealing a pair of concerningly tired grey eyes. His voice wasn't much better. "And don't interrupt me while Oi'm talkin', awright?" Scout nodded. Sniper sighed again.

"Oi… Oi believe ya. That you're sorry. If ya weren't, it'd be pretty easy to tell. You're a horrible liar. Kinda helped that you looked like you were about to break down blubbering at the end there too. But…" Scout's heart dropped as Sniper fiddled with his shades, a complex emotion filling every line in the mercenary's face.

"But Oi don't forgive you." Scout's gaze dropped to the dirt. "Not yet, at least. Whot ya said was… nasty. Even for you."

"I know, 'm sorry."

"Oi know you are." Sniper conceded. He sighed for a third time and looked around the campsite, hands in his pockets. "And Oi'm sorry too. Oi shouldn't have driven away like that, ya could've easily died."

"Psshh, like a few wet nights could kill a hunk like me." Scout grinned lightly, "'Sides, deserved it, I was being a real jack*ss."

"No, no you didn't. You also didn't deserve it when Oi blew up at ya back when the van wouldn't start. Well, maybe a bit." Sniper chuckled, staring up at those white blossoms. "We were both actin like d**kheads. One more than the other." He gave Scout a pointed look and Scout nodded as he turned away.

"Yeah. 'M sorry, I'll, I'll try not ta be such a major d**khead."

"...Think we may need to turn over a proper new leaf." Sniper said after a bit. Scout nodded again. "At least till we get back to Sawmill."

"So dat's still da plan?"

"Yeah."

"And… "we"? Like, I'm included?"

"That's the idea as long as ya behave." Sniper slipped the shades back on. "If you don't, Oi won't hesitate to kick ya to the curb. Got it?"

"...got it." Scout affirmed.

"So… truce?" Sniper held out his hand. The runner hesitated, watching for any hidden laughs or motives. When he found nothing but a genuine offer, he took the marksman's hand eagerly.

"Truce."

"Awright," Sniper started back towards the camper with Scout right on his heels. "So how did you even get here? Couldn't've got here on foot."

"I walked and ran basically all day yesterday and hitchhiked today. So what happened to your hand?" Sniper gave the bloody appendage a glance.

"Punched the table, got splinters, and ended up finding one of those nasty nerve-lookers still stuck in moi arm making moi emotions run rampant."

"Oh crap." Scout winced, "dat. Dat's not good."

"Yup. Oh, and also, while Oi appreciate the concern, ya can't really kill yourself by cutting your arm like that. It's the underside you need to worry about. That's where the artery is located."

"Oh. So ya can't bleed out from da other side?"

"Probably could if you let it sit for long enough. Oi'm guessing you're hungry, right?" Hungry couldn't even begin to describe what Scout was feeling. It was like someone had just up and ripped his stomach right out of his body. Didn't even feel anything there. It was kind of nice actually.

"Maybe." Sniper turned to give Scout the stink eye.

"Bloody "maybe", last thing Oi saw you eat was an affront to smores everywhere and even then the stains on your shirt are proof enough ya couldn't keep it down."

"Hey, dat time wasn't my fault, okay? It was you're stupid "moonshine" dat tastes like s**t dat made me hurl, not da cookie smores- I mean," Scout paused after another look from his companion. "It didn't taste like s**t. It was just real spicy and it didn't mix well with getting kicked in da stomach with sharp toed boots. Why are your boots so freaking pointy anyway? It's stupid. Well, not stupid, they look real cool and da bruises I got are proof enough dat they can be weapons so I guess just ignore whatever I said for da last thirty seconds or somethin'. Don't listen ta me."

"Oi've been doin' that since day one, ya don't need to tell me twice."

"Hey!" Scout cried, entering after the marksman. Sniper chuckled, and said Scout didn't hear. He was probably just kidding, Sniper did that a lot. Everyone on the team kidded Scout at least five times a day.

But it didn't sound like kidding.

It didn't sound like kidding at all.


Man, this took forever to write. I have no excuse other than I got really burnt out and lost motivation. There was another part I was planning on adding but it just didn't seem to mesh well with the main plot of the chapter so I'll save it for the next. Also, I kept trying to draw scenes from my story to show what certain parts would look like but I just couldn't draw for some reason when doing so. Maybe it's because I have a hard time drawing Sniper. His face is really hard for me to get right for some reason. But if there's anyone who wants to draw anything from this, go right on ahead, I'm in no position to stop you. I can't even stop myself from making weird lattes because they taste good. Speaking of lattes, if you're binge reading this and/or are reading the whole thing after I finish the story, this is a good place to stop and get some snacks and drinks or to just take a break. Welp, i've said my piece. Later!