[It sounds innocent enough... but he knows what's going to happen... or at least he thinks he does. Looking down at that deep, dark silence again, waiting for it to swallow him whole. He's afraid, but at the same time, he's calm. At least this time, things aren't going to be quite as bad. He's almost soft in Willard's grip, head sinking until his chin rests against his chest. The cigarette falls from his lips, and he notices, gently brushes it away before settling completely.
Ben is warm... not the big, sturdy frame Walker had, but comforting enough. He wonders if maybe this is what makes their times so different... men weren't so... bulky. They didn't have to be a goddamn Adonis to be strong. Lugo, himself, though he's capable of meeting requirements to be a sniper, is not some bronzed Greek god. He has always been more lean, more of a survivor's build than a warrior's.]
I don't have long now... I think. I kind of wish I could go back and just... just stop the nonsense... knowing what I do now. But if wishes were fishes... then... I...
[He shakes his head, lifts it with some effort and opens his eyes, shivering softly. It's taking a lot of effort. A lot more than it should.]
I don't want to go. [He grits between clenched jaws. His brow is deeply furrowed, eyes narrowed, determined.] I don't... I need to keep moving. I need to keep going. No rest for the wicked. And I've been a wicked child.
[He's trying. He's fighting to pick himself up, struggling on hand and knee, his muscles refusing to cooperate even though he's starting to feel that second wind of adrenaline. He growls sharply, managing to get to his feet and one hand, heaving himself up shakily. He looks around for a while, eyes tired, starting to blacken from the blood that pools. He snorts softly, trying to breathe a little better through his nose, but gives up and returns to mouth-breathing just as quickly.]
We should go North. Just... walk. Until we find something. I think... I think that'd be for the best.
[Grasping... grasping at something... Anything. He can feel something just beneath the ache all through his bones.]
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[It sounds innocent enough... but he knows what's going to happen... or at least he thinks he does. Looking down at that deep, dark silence again, waiting for it to swallow him whole. He's afraid, but at the same time, he's calm. At least this time, things aren't going to be quite as bad. He's almost soft in Willard's grip, head sinking until his chin rests against his chest. The cigarette falls from his lips, and he notices, gently brushes it away before settling completely.
Ben is warm... not the big, sturdy frame Walker had, but comforting enough. He wonders if maybe this is what makes their times so different... men weren't so... bulky. They didn't have to be a goddamn Adonis to be strong. Lugo, himself, though he's capable of meeting requirements to be a sniper, is not some bronzed Greek god. He has always been more lean, more of a survivor's build than a warrior's.]
I don't have long now... I think. I kind of wish I could go back and just... just stop the nonsense... knowing what I do now. But if wishes were fishes... then... I...
[He shakes his head, lifts it with some effort and opens his eyes, shivering softly. It's taking a lot of effort. A lot more than it should.]
I don't want to go. [He grits between clenched jaws. His brow is deeply furrowed, eyes narrowed, determined.] I don't... I need to keep moving. I need to keep going. No rest for the wicked. And I've been a wicked child.
[He's trying. He's fighting to pick himself up, struggling on hand and knee, his muscles refusing to cooperate even though he's starting to feel that second wind of adrenaline. He growls sharply, managing to get to his feet and one hand, heaving himself up shakily. He looks around for a while, eyes tired, starting to blacken from the blood that pools. He snorts softly, trying to breathe a little better through his nose, but gives up and returns to mouth-breathing just as quickly.]
We should go North. Just... walk. Until we find something. I think... I think that'd be for the best.
[Grasping... grasping at something... Anything. He can feel something just beneath the ache all through his bones.]