Post by Soldier 76 on Sept 30, 2016 20:32:08 GMT
Somehow, deep inside, Ansell knew as they fled the Gibraltar base and Hephaestus was left behind it would be the last he saw of George. Like some distant ache, a gut feeling. He'd hoped that George woudl arrive, weathered but alive on one of the ships left behind, no such thing occured. Whiskey had scoured the island, found a body and that was it. No life signs, the nanomachines had burned out. Gone. Just gone. One moment to the next.
Ansell sat in the room he and George were going to share, it had all of the things from Gibraltar in boxes around it. His legs were sort of working again, but he was still working on recovering movement. He didn't see much point in it now. Why walk when he could just lay here, staring at the ceiling wrapped up in George's dirty laundry? Hadn't been time to wash it they'd been moving everything out. He lingered for days, people came and went, he was sure they said sorry or something of the sort. Had George's kids called? Should he call them? Ansell didn't want to think about it.
Ansell didn't want to do anything. He nibbled on a snack cake, laying on his side. He was wearing one of George's sweaters. The old man never let much of anything go from years ago. The big block letters saying "NAVY" were so worn, it was impressive they still spelt anything. The wild man was sure he'd tried to cry a few times, maybe his tear ducts were ruined from the outback. Maybe he was still in shock. Harley ocassionally stopped by to try and get him to talk...but he'd decided to stop talking again. What was there to say? Who was there to talk to. Ansell curled up tighter. What was the point in staying here? He should disappear again, it'd be easy. He'd found his way from New York to New Mexico. He'd just go back there, find the house and there George would be waiting for him.
That was a fantasy. That was a lofty, stupid idea. He wanted to go home again, back to the outback. There was no pain there. Survival meant not thinking about all of this, people, the world. He pulled the hood up and closed his eyes. He'd worn this hoody before, George had decided Ansell needed real clothing, not just the rags he'd wandered in for ages. Before they'd gone shopping he'd dressed the wildman in his own clothes, far too big for the wirey emaciated form. Ansell hid his hands in the sleeves. It was soft, warm, smelled like George. He furrowed his brows, why? Why did this have to happen to him? Hadn't enough happened to him?
He found himself flipfloping from angry to numb. People kept taking things from him, and gave him nothing. Why did he bother staying around them? What did it matter if this world was burned up at this point? Buckshot was the only one Ansell cared about anymore. Everyone else was gone. It was selfish to wonder if Junkrat would just come back to Australia with him...disappear.
Ansell just wanted to be gone. When his legs recovered he could leave. What would he take? Knife, Rifle, clothes...no too much. Just one thing, a pistol, it was easier to handle. Didn't need clothes if he just disappeared. Boom. He should talk to Harley, right? George thought so. /I don't want to talk/ he thought to himself. He was still missing words, who would fill them in when he stuttered? Ansell turned to his other side fumbling around in George's things. He pulled out a bottle, half-full. Whiskey. It was unscrewed and he took a swig. Ouch. A cough. How did George drink this? The second sip was easier, the third even more so.
By the tenth he felt a warm hazy feeling spreading through his body, it dulled the ache, made him more comfortable. Finally, he cried, by the 20th sip he was bawling into the sleeves of the sweatshirt. He practically screamed, till his voice was raw and ruined. Why did this world take so much and give so little? Ansell was an orphan, Ansell was broken, Ansell just wanted release. He'd survived bullet wounds, broken bones, nuclear explosions, wastelands, and all manner of trauma. Now...now he was done.
He took another sip which burned his raw throat. What good was Overwatch anyway? How could they save him now? "George..." he croaked outloud. "Help. Need word." He sniffled. Was their a word for this feeling? The utterly empty pain? George would know. "Help..." George always knew. He was patient, he was strong, and good. Things were just empty now.
"...George help..." Ansell mumbled. "Help..."
The room was quiet, oppressively quiet as he lay there sobbing brokenly.
Ansell sat in the room he and George were going to share, it had all of the things from Gibraltar in boxes around it. His legs were sort of working again, but he was still working on recovering movement. He didn't see much point in it now. Why walk when he could just lay here, staring at the ceiling wrapped up in George's dirty laundry? Hadn't been time to wash it they'd been moving everything out. He lingered for days, people came and went, he was sure they said sorry or something of the sort. Had George's kids called? Should he call them? Ansell didn't want to think about it.
Ansell didn't want to do anything. He nibbled on a snack cake, laying on his side. He was wearing one of George's sweaters. The old man never let much of anything go from years ago. The big block letters saying "NAVY" were so worn, it was impressive they still spelt anything. The wild man was sure he'd tried to cry a few times, maybe his tear ducts were ruined from the outback. Maybe he was still in shock. Harley ocassionally stopped by to try and get him to talk...but he'd decided to stop talking again. What was there to say? Who was there to talk to. Ansell curled up tighter. What was the point in staying here? He should disappear again, it'd be easy. He'd found his way from New York to New Mexico. He'd just go back there, find the house and there George would be waiting for him.
That was a fantasy. That was a lofty, stupid idea. He wanted to go home again, back to the outback. There was no pain there. Survival meant not thinking about all of this, people, the world. He pulled the hood up and closed his eyes. He'd worn this hoody before, George had decided Ansell needed real clothing, not just the rags he'd wandered in for ages. Before they'd gone shopping he'd dressed the wildman in his own clothes, far too big for the wirey emaciated form. Ansell hid his hands in the sleeves. It was soft, warm, smelled like George. He furrowed his brows, why? Why did this have to happen to him? Hadn't enough happened to him?
He found himself flipfloping from angry to numb. People kept taking things from him, and gave him nothing. Why did he bother staying around them? What did it matter if this world was burned up at this point? Buckshot was the only one Ansell cared about anymore. Everyone else was gone. It was selfish to wonder if Junkrat would just come back to Australia with him...disappear.
Ansell just wanted to be gone. When his legs recovered he could leave. What would he take? Knife, Rifle, clothes...no too much. Just one thing, a pistol, it was easier to handle. Didn't need clothes if he just disappeared. Boom. He should talk to Harley, right? George thought so. /I don't want to talk/ he thought to himself. He was still missing words, who would fill them in when he stuttered? Ansell turned to his other side fumbling around in George's things. He pulled out a bottle, half-full. Whiskey. It was unscrewed and he took a swig. Ouch. A cough. How did George drink this? The second sip was easier, the third even more so.
By the tenth he felt a warm hazy feeling spreading through his body, it dulled the ache, made him more comfortable. Finally, he cried, by the 20th sip he was bawling into the sleeves of the sweatshirt. He practically screamed, till his voice was raw and ruined. Why did this world take so much and give so little? Ansell was an orphan, Ansell was broken, Ansell just wanted release. He'd survived bullet wounds, broken bones, nuclear explosions, wastelands, and all manner of trauma. Now...now he was done.
He took another sip which burned his raw throat. What good was Overwatch anyway? How could they save him now? "George..." he croaked outloud. "Help. Need word." He sniffled. Was their a word for this feeling? The utterly empty pain? George would know. "Help..." George always knew. He was patient, he was strong, and good. Things were just empty now.
"...George help..." Ansell mumbled. "Help..."
The room was quiet, oppressively quiet as he lay there sobbing brokenly.
