A Story of Cinders: From the Ashes

Chapter 18: The House of the Rising Sun

             Sitting in the medical wing of the Saint's mansion, the doctor finally was able to pull the bullet from Brawler's side. It hurt like hell, yet he didn't let it show on his face. "Alright, that's that. Now it's going to need a few days to heal, but you should be good. Just don't do anything to open it up again. We're short on supplies as it is."

Brawler looked at the doctor with an expression of almost amusement. "I'm fine, Man with Glasses." The doctor did have glasses. Large ones with thick rims. Some stubble could be seen on his lower chin and on the sides of his soft face. Green eyes could be seen magnified by the glasses large frames.

"I also noticed some other injures." The doctor flipped through some papers on a clipboard. They seem to do that a lot, doctors with glasses who flip through papers. I wonder if this doctor has any booze. Stereotypical doctors always have booze. "You should have been in a lot of scraps throughout you time in the desert. Concerning me are those scars you have on your eyes and cheeks." The doctor said head bowed, browsing through his paper, then looking up occasionally to eye Brawler's face.

"Those were a rite of passage in my clan. Those who survive without blindness were a part of the clan, those who didn't were exiled to roam blind until they died in the waste." A glint in Brawlers eyes, and a distant memory shown. Remembering the pride and sense of brotherhood at surviving his wounds.

The doctor raised his eyebrow a small smile curved his chapped lips. "I'll take your word for it. It's a wonder you survived. Anyway, you're healthy as can be. Considering. Now if there's anything else, I'm quite busy."

Brawler got up from his chair. The steel chair with a small pitiful faded blue cushion gave a small groan, as if glad to be rid of his bulk. "Thank you, Man with Glasses. Where to the War Room?"

"Down the hall there's a map of the mansion. This used to be a historical mansion to be showed off." The doctor said sitting behind his desk. And then just to add to Brawlers stereotypical view of doctors, pulled out a flask from under his desk and took a swig of whatever liquid was in it.

"I see." Brawler said turning to head down the hall, a faint smile tried to appear on his face. But the scars refused to form the expression

Gray Wolf lit a cigarette. The filter was broken off. Bits of tobacco fell onto his lips. He exhaled a long drag, making sure to spit out the pieces of tobacco. He shook his head, finding himself staring at the ceiling. He looked straight ahead, to see the bartender's look of shock.

"What the hell are you doing? You can't smoke in here!" the bartender said angrily.

"Kiss my ass," Gray Wolf retorted, placing his revolver on the bar, taking care not to remove his hand from it. "This says I can." The bartender shook his head, giving a disgusted look, and started walking away. "Hey, what about my drink?" Gray Wolf yelled.

"We just ran out!" the bartender yelled back, retreating into the back room and slamming the door. Gray Wolf started grumbling under his breath. "What kind of bar is out of booze?" He eyed another bartender. "Will you take my money?" This man was much older. Probably late 50s or early 60s. He nodded. "What'll it be?"

"Oh thank God, somebody here's friendly. Give me a triple of the strongest stuff you've got. Neat." The bartender gave him a quizzical look, reaching under the bar. "Work or a girl?"

Gray Wolf laughed. "Work. How'd you know?"

"You're getting a triple of Mojave Moonshine. Nobody gets that unless they've had a rough day. Especially before happy hour."