Gallows Humour | Watty's 2023

The Fight in the Weeds

In the grey of the early morning mist, they walked down the damp sidewalk towards an old law office. Neutral territory for the hodgepodge cluster of scavenger, civilian, and shadow dweller. Radio walked with them. It kept sneaking looks at the empty eye socket, even after True bit an earhole in their mask and pulled it up to cover both new and old scars.

The staring shouldn't have bothered them. They were used to it. Except from Radio. Did it matter that they were finally grotesque to it, the way they'd always been to the rest of the world? They glanced at it. After a night of rest, it was walking on its own, there was a little colour back in its cheeks. It had handled its impromptu surgery much better than True had.

No, it didn't really matter, it just stung.

There it went again, eyes darting to the covered eye socket. It looked away just as quickly, turning not quite fast enough to hide a wince.

"Quit that."

It fixed its eyes on the road ahead, only to throw them another side-glance when it thought they weren't looking. They shoved it, it staggered a few steps before it could right itself, mouth open in surprise. It turned and shoved them right back. It caught them by the jaw while they were off-balance. Throwing it off, they rounded on it. But it was ready and snagged them by the shoulders before they could storm away.

They weren't sure who threw the first punch, but it only took a couple seconds for both of them to be rolling on the sidewalk, grit grinding into hair, fingernails clawing at skin. For an instant they had the upper hand, pinning Radio to the concrete, then just as quick it heaved and threw them off, twisting with the motion to land a kick to their side.

They hit their knees and doubled over, agony turning their body into a white-hot pulse. Pain so bright it had snot running down their cavity.

"Ow, fuckin' asshole!" they groaned.

Taking their face in both clammy hands, it forced them to face it and unhooked the mask. Its lead-weight stare sinking into the bloodied socket. Brow knit low over its nose and lips pressed into a thin line. Like it was studying them and it didn't like what it was seeing. Funny, because they didn't really like what they were seeing either. True caught it by the wrists and pulled its hands away.

"Don't stare."

Its stern expression softened, much to their disgust. They didn't want its pity any more than they wanted its horror. They'd made their choice, and they'd make it again if time reversed. Radio was just going to have to get over itself.

Shivering, Radio pulled itself free and touched the place Otsana had stabbed it. A question.

"Fair trade," they said, firmly. A very tiny, tight knot below their solar plexus loosened with the knowledge that their renewed ugliness was not the cause of Radio's staring problem.

It rocked back on its heels, ever watchful. The seconds stretching out between the two of them while True walked a thin line between hyperventilating on too-shallow breaths and the molten feeling that clawed their insides when they took a full breath. They ran a thumb over the stitches. All intact.

"You look a dodo when you sit like that," they muttered when they'd remastered the act of breathing.

As if shaken out of distant thoughts, it clicked its teeth together, and reached down to scratch words in the grit.

Run away.

True pinched their fingers at it. No. Out of the question.

Smacking back down onto flat feet, Radio flashed a set of signs at them, a scowl settling over its expression. They cut it off before it worked itself into a frenzy. They hadn't learned enough sign to keep up.