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Cicada Days
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i can feel something inside me say
[ *  *  *  * ]
((TW: Homophobic Language))

His fallen comrade kept his hand to himself, right there on his forehead. There were those quality Cochise manners at work.

Odd line of questioning. 'What do you want?' didn't seem any bit conducive to an efficient rescue operation. Like refugees in the tin can chopper under flak fire asking if they were there yet, all kiddie like. Ben had to assume it was all just a consequence of the fall. After all, Maxim looked shocked. Must have been the-

Maxim. That was the name. Three years and a party with illicitly acquired drink. Localized mental trauma and a mess for the sidewalk guy to clean in the morning.

Motherfucker.

Ben wore the horrified frisson, but not for others to see. Like a steel scalpel to the base of the neck. The perv faggot ass rapist who'd nearly put Alex in Dr. Woolsey's hands. PTSD with lips instead of guns. Shit Ben had tried his hardest to forget that shit the moment it had happened. He remembered now, unfortunately all too clearly. Backhanded by the worst humanity had to offer, left with a near broken friend and a definitely broken dignity.

Still. Hand out, even if 'comrade' was no longer a comfortable means of address. Ben would rather have said 'fucker', but he didn't have to respect the dude to help him.

"Want to not be on this island, mostly, but that's a blessing God won't be granting either of us anytime soon." Ben's tone remained just on the parallel that was neutrality. Not his providence, what Maxim was and wasn't in whatever his life had been and was yet to be. Only domain Ben had was a moral compulsion. A high ground he could hold, because the high ground translated to some kinda tactical edge. "We gotta hurry up. Someone with a gun finds us like this I dunno if I can do anything to stop 'em."
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