Chapter Text
Someone once told him that every good story begins with an end.
Ha, how fucking hilarious, Ash thinks bitterly, laid down in the middle of a deserted landscape. The taste of copper permeates his mouth. This would be the perfect time for a tumbleweed to pass by, rolling and rolling onward with no worries in its life. Ash has also never thought that he’d be wanting to metamorphose into a stupid meaningless plant.
He was supposed to be better than all of them. He is better than all of them, even if his legs have given out and there’s a trail of blood leading to him, as if he was tossed into the middle of a wasteland like a scrap piece of paper with all of its purpose used up. His leg only now aches with a dull throb, which is much better than searing, burning pain from earlier. His shoddily applied tourniquet seems to be doing something at least. Sand and gravel dig into him, a perfect chamber for incubating an infection. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been staring at the sky for.
He’s never been one for contemplating life much -- if death decides to take him, then so be it, even if this is particularly embarrassing. Fuck this.
This fucking sucks, he thinks. Missing his eye was already bad enough, he doesn’t need to bleed out.
But he’s also so, so unbelievably lucky that it’s only midday. Zombies are night-dwellers, stuck in dark corners of malls, apartments, molded into the shadows. He’s heard about the mutations that make some of them slink out of the depths but he hasn’t run into one yet. Maybe he never will, at this pace.
It’s not a Zombie, but Ash’s head snaps up -- or well, he hits it into the ground trying to look behind him, and god, everything hurts -- and he’s trying to desperately look around when he hears rustling. It’s too close to footsteps, and he still has some semblance of survival instincts.
Forcing himself to sit up, he struggles, trying to ignore the aching pain that sets his back ablaze, tries to force himself to stand on two feet again--
And the open sky crashes down with him when he falls down, head knocking into the ground again. It feels like forever, it feels fleeting.
The footsteps are coming increasingly closer, even quicker, and Ash ends up nicking one of his knuckles against the survival knife buried into his dull purple trench coat, but he’s got it in his hands now. Fuck this, fuck this, the only thing keeping him going is adrenaline. Lying down and taking death doesn’t seem appealing anymore.
Apparently, Ash finds out, that having lost what could be considered a substantial amount of blood also slows down your reaction reflexes. Without warning, the sun is now blocked out by some guy Ash has never seen before which is both great, because his former teammates haven’t come to finish the job, but also extremely unnerving because fuck, this guy might as well finish the job for them.
Instead, the stranger asks, “Are you okay?”
This also might instead be the stupidest guy Ash has ever met. He keeps on staring at the stranger to see if he catches on to the blatant fact that blood is all over him, matted into his hair, gravel and other debris also tangled into his braid, but the guy just keeps on looking at him.
The sun halos him from behind, but there’s a sinking feeling in Ash’s gut that this is as far from an angel that you can get.
The stranger keeps on staring. Ash finally deigns him with a response, “What does it look like.”
It makes him laugh. He doesn’t know why but it makes him feel vaguely irritated.
Well, Ash can concede that the man isn’t the worst sight in the world, either. He looks as decent as you can in the apocalypse, he’s just -- nice on the eyes. His hair is bright red, blond roots starting to peek in, and it’s impressive that the guy has managed to find the time to dye his hair in the midst of the chaos. The lower half of his face is covered in a red face mask, fitting in with his whole ‘red’ theme. There’s even an honest-to-god sword resting on his hip.
He’s carrying a large backpack too, full of supplies, which is much more than Ash has on him at this moment. It’s sort of perfect. He even has sunglasses on. A little strange, but not the worst.
“Ha, yeah, sorry,” The guy waves his hands around, “I guess the better question is do you want help?”
This has to be a ploy. Ash might have gotten his ass kicked because of his poor life decisions, but he’s not going to fall for something like this. He might as well be begging to get scammed; to throw his life away. Pride is the only commodity he has left.
“I don’t know, maybe I just want to bleed to death in the middle of a fucking- desert, or whatever.” Ash deadpans.
“Woah- alright, I saw you struggling.” The stranger points out, oblivious to the sarcasm. Or maybe he knows, and it’s just in his nature to be annoying.
“Fuck off,” Ash says. It’s more out of his defensive instinct than anything else.
Something flashes over the guy’s face, and he’s crouching down next to Ash. It’s time, trying desperately to hit him, Ash stabs the knife straight up. Because -- because he’s not going to accept an obvious scam, and this guy clearly has everything that Ash would need.
Ash’s mouth feels dry. He feels almost like a cornered, especially wounded animal and he’s lashing out. Because that’s what life just does to you.
Instead of his knife connecting with the guy's throat or face or anything, he’s managed to swiftly grab onto Ash’s wrist. It’s a burning hot spot of contact between them, even with his gloves. Ash solemnly decides that he hates blood loss even more because without the exhaustion settling in his bones he would’ve gotten him.
“Alright, woah- slow down there,” The stranger tries to pacify him.
It really, really doesn’t work. He’s slowly, carefully guiding Ash’s hand back down, still keeping his grip, just to avoid having a knife pointing right at him.
This might be one of his life’s most demeaning experiences.
“I can help you, y’know?” He’s put on a tone of voice. Ash doesn’t like this sudden switch up. “I can heal you up. I have the necessary supplies.”
“Why.”
“I can see you don’t have any supplies.”
“No,” Ash breathes out, a little bit of frustration creeping into his voice. “There’s a fucking, catch to this, or something.”
The stranger tilts his head, and Ash can imagine the small grin placing itself up on his lips. It’s infuriating.
“There’s not going to be any death involved - unless you decide to stay here and become a perfect meal for the vultures. Ah, well, I guess zombies would be more appropriate.” He laughs at his own joke.
“Then what?”
“Well, if need be, you can owe me a favour. Later.” He subconsciously twirls a finger around his tie, and it all proceeds to click together in Ash’s brain.
God fucking damnit, this guy’s a capitalist.
It’s not exactly like capitalism is a thing anymore -- well, it still kind of exists -- shoddy little cities are only starting to rebuild, interspersed between the ‘safety zones’. A world eclipsed by apocalyptic ruin might as well not care about ideologies anymore, but it’s just the general prospect that makes Ash groan.
Look -- it’s not like Ash hasn’t partaken in his own sets of scummy business practices either. His old suit lies in tatters, somewhere lost long ago. It’s just that he doesn’t want to give in to this.
“What?” The guy tilts his head, “Look man, I don’t particularly like seeing dead people. And looking at the little blood trail coming to here,” He makes a little running motion with his fingers, ”You might have a few hours. You’ve been left for dead. You’re not goin’ to strike up any better deals than this. Dude, I’m literally going to help you out, practically free of charge.”
“It isn’t free though,” Ash bites back.
“I’m not robbing you blind. You don’t even have anything for me to rob you of.”
Ash frowns. His situation fucking sucks. He hates feeling like this -- powerless. It’s completely uncomfortable. Ash’s fist unclench, and clench again, leaving little crescent moon marks into his palm. His pride is a double edged sword -- it prevents him from giving up. Which is great, in theory, until there’s some suspiciously nice guy that’s offering you help.
And this guy seems like he could talk for forever.
He’s so, so tired. Blood has seeped into his clothes, he’s disheveled (cause that’s what state collapsing on the floor puts you in) and he’s so ready for everything to be over. He’s still not intimidated by death, but the idea of living is still appealing to his overtly human body.
“Fuck-” Ash breathes out, shaky. “Fine. I’ll owe you.”
Ash can’t exactly see the guy’s face, but he can definitely hear the clear grin in Red’s voice when he says, “Pleasure to do business.”
A gloved hand reaches out for his. Like a handshake. Like you’d do in a business deal. Ash stares at him blankly, a little unimpressed. This guy doesn’t say anything though, only staring at him. With hesitation, Ash slips his hand against his; leather against leather. It’s synthetic.
The stranger proceeds to try coaxing Ash upwards, to sit up. Oh yeah, the blood loss is unmistakably hitting hard as his head spins with the most minute, fractional movements. This is horrible. It’s all his own fault.
“What are you trying to do?” Ash asks, a little frustrated. He was expecting help, not whatever this is.
“Tryin’ to get you to stand up, what does it look like?” He parrots Ash’s words from earlier. Ash scowls in response. “There’s an outpost around here, it should be safer there than trying to give you treatment in the middle of god knows where.”
“Do you even have a base? Friends?” Ash asks, innocently.
Okay maybe he’s trying to rile him up a little too.
The stranger blinks at him, “Thanks for the reminder of my loneliness,” He says, dryly, but answers anyway, “Nah, it’s only me.” He seems to think of adding something, but shakes his head, and gestures at Ash, “C’mon, up you get. We’ve got walking to do.”
*
As it turns out, Ash didn’t have any walking ahead of him. Instead, he tried to sling his arm over the strangers back -- seeing how disastrously his last attempt went when he tried by himself -- and this time it might've been downright catastrophic. The moment he tried to stand up again is the moment where the whole world went all fuzzy and the directions of everything went inside and up and around, and his vision had briefly popped in bright, vibrant colours that were enough to leave him dizzy before flickering to black, like an old streetlamp, and he ended up passing out.
He’s kind of glad for it. Even trying to stand upright was agony, excruciating pain that rippled up from the cut on his leg. Everything was all a mistake. He’s only got his last shards of dignity to latch onto. Ash is used to taking whatever he wants, not any of this. Well, it’s what got him into this situation.
Overall, not many wins today.
He’s only woken up when the stranger -- fuck, he doesn’t even know his name, he might as well be a serial killer -- accidentally hit him into a fence when trying to traverse up the stairs of the house. Even then, the memory is fuzzy, full of aches and pains. It’s miserable.
The couch he’s laid on is painfully uncomfortable. The whole apartment that the guy has put them in is a mess. It’s not like Ash expected anything luxurious in the middle of the wastes, but there could at least be one other place out there that doesn’t have a large blood splatter on one of the walls, or what looks like mold growing from the corner. Maybe it’s just more dried blood.
“Out of every other building you could’ve chosen, it’s this one?” Ash complains, “You’ve decided to fucking- live like this?”
“Great to see you’re the same as always.” He answers. He’s busy rustling through his bags, unzipping pockets. It’s a mess. It’s sort of pathetic, too. “Don’t move a single muscle from that couch. You freaked me out real bad when you passed out.”
It’s an honest admission, and it’s- it’s weird. It’s strange.
“My bad. I wish I could choose which convenient moments I pass out at.”
Logically, Ash shouldn’t be pissing off the only guy that could help him. This is practically begging to get thrown out into the desert again. However, Ash deals with the present first, and then gets to figure out the fallout of all his decisions afterwards. Exactly what got him here in the first place. He will proceed to ignore any attempt of self reflection.
The guy sighs, and comes over to sit next to him on a stool. His gloves lay on the table behind him. He’s got rudimentary supplies, and Ash isn’t exactly confident that anything here is as sanitized as it should be.
Simultaneously, Ash is preparing for the worst first aid session of his life. The stranger (can he really keep on calling a stranger when he’s the only reason that Ash isn’t still on the floor?) rolls up Ash’s trousers, starting to gently wash the skin around the wound, and every touch makes Ash twitch out of burning sensitivity.
“I don’t think it’s infected.” He murmurs, cleaning out debris from it with a rag. It’s damp, and the water mixes with his blood to run down his leg and seep into the couch in a mixture of strange pinkish and gray fluid. It’s revolting. “Well. It might be. Maybe- okay, it just looks really messed up.”
Ash sighs, breathing out a quiet fuck. He was hoping that the guy at least knew what he was doing.
And it’s not exactly like he’s surprised, but it would’ve been pleasant for the news to have been something more along the lines of wow, this is great, you may have been laying there for god knows how long but your wound is perfectly fine! It’s a miracle!
“I have some old potions that I’ve stocked up.” His voice is softer now. “That would probably help-”
“Yeah, you did promise to help me,” Ash points out, trying to put his defense back up even in vulnerability. “Prevent me from dying from, tetanus or staph, or- whatever.”
He just hums in acknowledgment, uncapping a bottle, and red fluid is poured onto the wound, and it sends sparking tendrils of pain out like branch lightning through his leg. It’s almost comparable to the pain of what getting stabbed actually felt like, as increasing the rate that tissue forms and blood vessels regrow is the farthest thing from being pleasant.
“Ah- fuck,” Ash groans, trying to keep his voice steady, “Maybe tetanus would’ve been better.”
The guy just lets out a quiet laugh, and cleans the rest of the fluids off. The cloth stings when it's pushed into Ash’s inflamed skin again. Ash never thought that he’d be getting treated like this. He especially never thought that he’d be allowing himself to be treated like this. It’s not exactly gentle or clinical, sitting somewhere in between. It’s not like he’s more familiar with Ash’s body than he is, but he acts like it.
Ash eyes the suturing equipment in his hands. He can’t let this go on for any longer. He’s gotten -- comfortable. “I can do that myself.”
He raises an eyebrow back. “Your hands are shaking, I don’t want you to accidentally stab yourself.”
“Cause a needle is what is gonna take me out after today.” It makes Ash feel sort of childish. As if he shouldn’t be affected by all of this anymore.
Despite it, Ash leans back further into the couch, eyes searching the room warily. Trust isn’t something that he should be giving out so easily, just like this. It’s somewhat -- no, it is stupid to just be willingly led to some random place. If the guy notices Ash tensing up, he doesn’t say anything.
Ash hisses under his breath, fingers curling back into fists as the needle first goes through his skin. The guy is at least decently skilled with his hands. It’s still not enough to distract him from the general pain of sewing a whole wound shut.
He isn’t exactly sure whether this is an appropriate time to start up small talk either. And Ash isn’t really sure how to do small talk anymore either. Asking people how their day has been has become awkward, because no one can exactly say that it’s been good, because nothing has been good for the past few decades. Starting to talk about how nice the weather is seems inappropriate. And also a total, massive lie.
With the next stitch, the guy asks, “How’d this happen?”
“Got stabbed.” And, “Poor life decisions.” It’s not exactly a lie.
“They had to have been really bad, then.” He hums, obviously fishing for information as if it’s second nature when he tacks on, “There’s not much that can get you to end up like this.”
Ash thinks about lying. It’s obviously the smart decision here, because if he starts listing out how much he craves control, or power, then the guy would just leave him here. So, he says, “It was a mistake.” Because the best lies are closest to the truth, and, technically, it was, if mistakes include regretting it only in hindsight.
The room falls into silence as he continues suturing. It’s something Ash has become accustomed with. He sort of wishes that it was actually something like the texts from the world before all of this had described it as. It’s all about loneliness, survival and deception. There’s no cool, awesome zombie chases that leave Ash rushing with giddy adrenaline. It’s just walking, walking and fucking walking. It’s terribly boring but he moves on because there’s nothing else he can do.
Ash’s hands in his lap are still bloodstained, dyed crimson from the shitty tourniquet job that he did, as well as the thin cut from his knife. The assholes didn’t even leave him with a gun.
“I haven’t caught your name.” Ash says, trying to pose it as a question.
“I haven’t thrown it.” The guy answers as he finishes tying bandages around Ash’s calf.
After all, they had met the way comets pass by planets; seen once and then never again. If Ash wasn’t limping and indebted, he would’ve been thrown into the sparse galaxy again.
“You’re hilarious.” Ash says, straight-faced. “I’ve never heard that one before.”
There’s still bruises underneath Ash’s layers of clothes, but they’ll eventually heal. The blood on Ash’s hand is wiped off next, careful and deliberate. It’s dried by now, and it flakes off like snow. Only more bloody.
Being touched by someone else like this is even weirder. He’s not exactly careful with Ash; treating it all like a business deal, which admittedly, this all is. Ash can’t help the nauseous buzz it lights underneath his skin. He’s never let anyone do something like this. He thinks the last time he got touched was when he was stabbed in his leg, which was only four hours ago, but it reminds Ash about the range of humanity in touches.
It’s not as if it matters. He can’t imagine that he’ll stick around for long, anyways.
“Well, what’s yours?” He asks.
Ash thinks about antagonizing him further, but decides upon, “Just calling me A is fine.”
“A? Really?” The guy stares at him. “Like, the letter A?”
“God, aren’t you smart. Yes, the letter A.”
“Why?” He tilts his head, thinks about what he just asked, and continues, “Actually, it’s fine. Yeah. Maybe I’ll start introducing myself as R just to match you.”
“I do it better,” Ash says, playful. He doesn’t even question when he became so awfully comfortable to start joking around. He looks the guy -- ‘R’ -- up and down in front of him. “Would it by any chance start for Red ?”
He stares at him. Ash stares back.
“You’re kidding me.”
And he still doesn’t say anything, which makes Ash burst into giggles.
R-- well, Red now, sighs. “Well, I guess it’s been a pleasure to meet you properly now, A.”
“Same to you, Red.” Ash tilts his head slightly, “Did the name come before or after the whole outfit?”
“You were so much more bearable when you were passed out.”
*
Ash looks at himself in the mirror of the apartment. Cracks are splintering down from the top edge into the middle, like little spiderwebs. He looks fine. He’s wiped off all the blood that came with getting beat up already, and his split lip is still inconvenient but he’s still alive.
He has thought extensively about just sneaking out during the night and leaving his debt behind. He already has enough people trying to come after him, there wouldn’t be much harm in adding one more. The leg wound proves more problematic than he thought it would be, as it leaves him limping. Putting more strain on it isn’t the best decision he could make, but he was getting sick of spending the past day on the couch.
At least he’s still alive. That’s more than what could be said for a good portion of the past world population.
Red is leaning against the doorway, looking at Ash. It’s almost like a cheap imitation of domesticity.
“Is your eye like, okay?” Red asks, blunt.
Over Ash’s eye, bandages are extensively wrapped around it. It’s not recent by any means -- instead, being from another, stupider incident from long ago -- but he just prefers having it covered over. It still fucks up with his depth perception a lot. Fuck Leo and turning a blind eye.
”I can’t see out of it if that’s what you’re asking.” Ash replies, doing a little hand gesture. It’s not something that he’d normally just admit to, but it’s glaringly obvious that something is a little fucked up. “I wouldn’t particularly say that it’s okay, either.”
“Ah, yeah, that’s my bad,” Red apologizes.
Ash simply shrugs in response. “What’s up with the face mask?”
“Would you believe it if I said people want me dead?” Red jokes. But it is also kind of isn’t a joke, as Red keeps staring blankly at him. Ash sure could guess why people would want him dead. But it’s also kind of stupid, because doesn’t it just make him more recognisable? “Not even asking about the sunglasses?”
“Those too. Maybe just your whole outfit actually.”
“I didn’t know you were into fashion critique.” Red raises an eyebrow, pointedly avoiding the question. It makes him feel like he’s balancing on a very thin line.
“It’s just that your outfit sucks.” Ash supplies, instead.
Red laughs, sweeping a hand through his hair as he asks, “Is all you do just talk shit?”
“If that’s what you want to believe.”
*
“I feel like food poisoning is more of an issue than the zombies.” Red says, rifling through the shelves of the supermarket. He’s put down the fifth packet on the shelf that he’s even managed to find, behind debris and cobwebs.
They’ve slowly moved from the outpost -- Red had estimated that Ash would be able to properly walk again in a week, which was a gross underestimate as they couldn’t spend a week just staying there, doing nothing; their supplies had already started to spread thin, because Red wasn’t expecting to supply for Ash too. They had to get out of there quickly, Ash’s horrific no good leg wound be damned.
For the time being, he’s limping his way around a small market just off the highway. He’s put his plans of swindling, betrayal, larceny, on hold, as staying around for now seems like the most profitable option. Red isn’t that bad of company; he knows what he’s doing, he’s easy to make conversation with even if it devolves into petty arguments, it’s overall just fine.
“Is it?” Ash asks, deep in moving debris around. Finding another weapon is so much harder than it should be. Maybe he should just start throwing rocks at zombies.
“If they had the money to put into tryin’ to carpet bomb the zombies out then they should’ve had the money to make these things last longer.” There’s a crash as Red throws another out-of-date package out.
“And the carpet bombing didn’t even work.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying!” Red gestures, “Now we’re having to deal with both zombies, trying to survive, and potential food poisoning.”
“I think I’d take potential food poisoning over having to fight a zombie.” Ash says.
Ash had never really thought that he’d have to spend this life surviving from zombies. Maybe the next life he takes up will be better. With less undead trying to rip him apart and maybe more normalness. But still exciting -- there’s got to be a sweet spot between nearly dying and going for a walk. Maybe he’ll try gardening next.
“I dunno, food poisoning is its own type of hell.” Red does a little half-shrug. “Any luck finding anything on your side?”
“No,” Ash groans, “This place fucking sucks. You really think there’s gonna be anything left in some little market that’s been raided since the beginning?”
“Well, I don’t know- maybe someone just decided to drop off an AR-15 behind the counter. Have you checked behind the counter? Exactly.”
Pettiness is one of the things they’re equally good at, if Ash has to admit, only under duress. Good thing Ash was born with enough spite to outlast eternity.
It’s like a little game -- to see who can drop their outbursts and arguments first. It feels good -- intentionally pissing each other off. Red doesn’t hate him for it, but only plays back into it as if it’s just a game and it feels good behind the annoyance that simmers in his core.
“I have checked behind the counter,” Ash makes a show of standing back up, of humoring Red, no matter how much stress it puts on his leg.
“Maybe there's, like, an employee’s room in the back. Maybe you just missed it.”
Can this guy let anything ever just go ? “Okay, okay. I’ll go check out the mystical fucking employee room that will suddenly appear.” Maybe a little because he can’t stand being around him for much longer.
Ash shuffles towards the front desk. Carefully, he steps over detritus and broken shards of glass that flicker like little stars under the still-working fluorescent light. He remembers once that some told him that electricity in some old-world places still works because of the zones starting up parts of the national grids which is basically- and Ash had ended up tuning that same person out. It’s nice to be able to actually see, though.
There is a room in the left corner behind the desk, and Ash curses Red for being right. He’s never going to announce this. He steps behind the broken down security measures, and opens the door with a low creak.
He’s met with utter darkness, and the revolting stench of rotting flesh. It makes his eye immediately water, his stomach churning with disgust. It’s downright foul, and has Ash choking for air. Fuck, is the immediate thought, and that maybe he should start thinking twice about opening up random rooms.
Zombies are lying still, waiting. The undead, with their flaky pieces of flesh and exposed bones and muscles that keep them moving on and on forever until they run out of energy. They’re all laid over each other, in a weird criss-cross amalgamation of a flesh mound.
Though -- they don’t seem to be exactly alive anymore. There’s flies buzzing around them. They peer up at him with glazed over white eyes, red at the edges, completely empty and unthinking. If they were alive, they would’ve taken the chance to pounce at him. Maybe they’re just in a zombie's version of hibernation. Either way, Ash really doesn’t want the chance to find out which option it is.
He slams the door shut, blocking off the disgusting smell. It still lingers, too overpowering to fully diffuse back into the air. The early spring warmth doesn’t help its case either.
He makes the walk of shame back to Red. If the loud bang of a door didn’t alert him that something went wrong, then the smell definitely would.
“What happened?” Red asks, blinking at him over his sunglasses. “You alright?”
“There was a fucking room off in the corner, fucking- dumbass fucking zombies piled up in there. I’m fine.” Ash answers.
“How many?”
“I don’t fucking know- they seem to be dead? Can they- whatever, I don’t know. They don’t seem to be a threat if that’s what you care about.”
“Alright, it’s good that you’re okay,” Red nods, more to himself than to Ash, “Look what I found.”
In his hands, he’s holding out a metal lead pipe. It’s certainly better than his current hunting knife, but it’s still nothing close to an AR-15. Rust and scratches coat its surface, but otherwise than that, it’s a perfectly normal lead pipe. Still as lethal as it ever would be. Completely effective at bashing a zombie's head in.
“Sick,” Ash says, lamely. He’s not used to this -- at all. “Why was this in the foods aisle?”
“There’s not a dedicated lead pipe aisle. Guess it had to settle for second best.”
Ash lets out a sigh. He still reaches out to take the lead pipe, brushing against Red’s gloved hand. It’s a suitable, heavy weight in his hands. It’s much less glamorous than what he’s used to but it’s not like he has anything else.
It’s not exactly a gift, either. There’s no pretty bow stuck on top of it, nor something that feels like he’d unwrap in old traditions. He reminds himself that he only met Red a week ago. He still doesn’t like him. It’s a weird transaction he’s gotten himself into. He’s only indebted. Nothing else.
*
“Where are we heading?” Ash asks, casually. They’ve started to hit the road for the past week. Slowly, they’ve managed to build supplies back up. It’s a careful process.
“North. We should arrive at the next zone in two weeks.” Red says, scribbling something down on the map that was laid out in front of them. It’s impressive to have something as up to date as this. “Well, unless you have your own place to go.”
It’s not like Ash has had anything going on in his life prior to this, other than dying.
“I don’t.” Ash answers, his eye scans over to the zone. He’s pretty sure that he hasn’t wronged anyone there.
He’s never really been one for choosing impromptu travel companions -- having someone else other than him is always a liability, but he’s been through this whole process enough times. It leaves him apathetic.
“I need to meet up with one of my friends,” Red says as an explanation, rolling up the map and turning to stare at Ash. “I’m surprised you haven’t tried to run yet.”
It catches him terribly off guard.
Ash bites his tongue, “What?”
“Y’know,” Red gestures up and down, enigmatic, “Nothing is really forcing you to stay here.”
Ash stares at him. Tries to decipher him like he would to a machine; run through internal problems, half tempted to prod and poke at his insides. Nothing is revealed to him. Red furrows his eyebrows, waiting for an answer.
“You’re… useful. And I can’t really run.” Ash says, in lieu of his actual thoughts, as he points to his leg. Being out of control, for once in his life, has put him in a miserable situation.
It’s not exactly like he wants to be here, either. He keeps quiet.
“Useful?” Red asks, looking at Ash as if he’s monitoring him.
“It’s good to have you around. Profitable in business terms.”
Red laughs, muffled underneath his face mask. Ash watches Red turn away, packing up his bags. Key word his, as Ash doesn’t have anything to put his own things in. Getting everything stolen does that to you.
Instead, he looks at the back of Red’s head. He tightens his grip around the lead pipe. It’s all synthetic.
*
It’s really a shame that they can’t pick up any of the cars that are lying by the road.
Ash does know how to hotwire -- purely picking it up when he was younger because yeah, it could come in handy one day, but also it made him feel cool. Which was much more important to a teenaged Ash. The main problem with cars is gasoline. Ash could find as many abandoned cars as he wanted with their keys still in ignition, and he still couldn’t drive because they didn’t even have a lick of gasoline in them.
Therefore his skill in hotwiring is pretty useless; but it still sounds cool to say to people.
It’s been a few days since they’ve set out. He’s getting tired of walking. His leg still aches. Ash has never really gotten people who say it’s about the journey, not the destination -- if it’s not about the destination then what’s even the point?
Red has shed his jacket to tie it around his waist due to the overbearing desert sun. Ash still virtually knows nothing about him. He’s talked with Red a lot more than some people in his past groups, but this guy has his wits about him -- he knows what he’s doing and it’s kind of infuriating but also not exactly unwelcome.
Ash knows that Red is a criminal -- either the scamming or murder kind, he’s not too sure yet -- that he occasionally talks to himself, a businessman, and that his second favourite colour is red. Overall, that isn’t much.
And Ash knows that he shouldn’t care because people like them always end up with spilled blood trailing behind them. A fire that will burn so bright from their collision that it will starve the neighbouring galaxies to feed itself. They’ll cause the universe to split apart into splinters of atoms and molecules because Ash finds trust difficult.
But want and need and ought all live in different universes at times like these.
“Is traveling all you do?” Ash asks, because he knows it’s important to build rapport before the fire catches up with him.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Red kicks a pebble in front of him, the highway soon coming to an end. “I do some business on the side, though.”
Ash eyes him, thinking about business. It’s purposefully vague, and he still takes his chances by asking, “What do you mean by business on the side?”
“Business deals. For credits.” It’s even more intentionally unrevealing that it makes Ash want to rip his hair out.
Ash has also done aforementioned business deals. He’s not clueless -- he knows that it almost always ends in a scam or violence. He can’t even eliminate whether or not Red is a scammer or murderer, or both.
This means that the only other thing that Ash has managed to add onto his list is that Red is a traveler, and that he does business. Which is practically nothing, because offering a guy on the side of the road to owe you after finding him bleeding out is already scummy enough. There’s no leverage that Ash can find.
“We’re heading up to a savannah in a moment.” Red alerts him.
Ash only hums in acknowledgement, a trail of gentle burns left behind them.
*
The process of sneaking into a zone is uselessly tiring. Ash gets that it’s for the people’s safety, and that they don’t want another zombie-in-zone outbreak like the one that happens every few years, but Ash really doesn’t get why this means he should be having to stick his head out of a floorboard.
“There was an attempted raid on here a few weeks ago, so they’re not allowing outsiders in for a while. I overheard some people talking about it, a few weeks back.” Red had explained to him, “I know the route around here, though.”
The room they’re in kind of sucks, though. Ash can clearly see the particles of dust fluttering down through the dawn light that shines in from the window. It’s very clearly abandoned, as anything that would have any personal sentiment is wiped clean from it. The only real semblance of life from it is the sound of birds squawking outside, and Red yanking the only door out of this place open.
Ash follows behind Red, seeing as he’s the one who’s been here before. He gets to appreciate parts of broken down pre-wasteland infrastructure, which is also the same as despising everything in his way. The route Red takes is complicated, clambering down ladders and pieces of rebar that jut out from the walls. Ash is concerned about falling, but also about the parts of the steel rods that are just a bit too close.
It’s not even worth the effort, as the moment they step outside is immediate busyness. He’s always known that places that brand themself as safety zones are bad, but he just gets reminded of how chaotic they are. It’s just plain noise, civilians, annoying and never-stopping.
“Stay close,” Red reminds him.
“Ohh, I was planning to start running around and screaming to blow our cover. What a shame.”
“Are you ever not an asshole?”
“For all I know, you could just be leading me into a trap.” Ash points out, and hates the way that something in him sinks at that. He doesn’t want things to end like that.
He redirects them to arguing, because that’s more familiar to Ash.
They can share private little laughs together; Red can go to lightly shove him whenever he says something and Ash can sidestep it easily, avoidance of contact almost natural to him; and some days it’s silence to each other; other times it’s outbursts like supernovae.
“You’re still following me.” Red points out.
It’s easier, to hide in the shadows, than Ash remembered it being. People already have enough going on, Ash guesses, and that the security is laughably bad on this side of the zone. It’s overpopulated, a measly two or three guards isn’t going to be enough.
These places are meant to be safe from the outside world. To provide people here with an idea of safety and what normalcy would’ve been. It’s a place for people to pretend that this is all going to get better, that they can shut themselves out and still starve, but it’s much better than being outside because they delude themself with the idea of community. Humans are sociable creatures, after all.
“It’d be a loss for me to leave. Should steal your kidneys first. That’d net me a lot of credits.” Ash says, and adds on, “You have your back turned to me.”
“C’mon dude, you’re not going to commit a murder in broad daylight.” Red sighs, checking a piece of paper from one of his many pockets. “I know you’re not that stupid.”
“It makes me so happy to hear that you have so much faith in me.” Ash mutters.
And Ash isn't stupid, so he doesn’t stab him in broad daylight. He’d like to say, for the record, that he’s pretty smart, actually.
He still doesn’t exactly trust Red. It’s not like can afford to constantly doubt him, as he is the only other person in Ash’s life. It’s a thin balance of control. It’s a combination that’s almost perfectly made to taunt him.
Red lifts up a plank of wood on the door, leading them into another semi-abandoned housing complex. Only this one has a person eyeing them at the entrance, cigarette in hand. Ash, for obvious reasons, does not like this very much. Red hasn’t done anything to harm him so far, but fuck, sue him for being worried. The stairs creak underneath them, as they go up and up and up until the top floor.
The door that they end up in front of is faded, with paint peeling from the top left corner. Red is completely unphased.
“You can wait outside if you want.” Red says after knocking on the door. Ash is surprised it doesn’t crumple underneath his hand.
“No, I’ll go in with you.”
Red shrugs, “Fine, suit yourself.”
The door is pulled open by a woman with blonde hair. She looks earnest but surprised at their arrival. There’s graphite smears all over her hands, as if she was in the middle of planning, maybe something like an architect, Ash muses.
“Hey Mid,” Red greets her, a little awkward hand wave.
“Red! Oh my god, it’s been so long.” She pulls Red into a loose hug. Ash feels out of place; mostly because he is. She looks at him, and asks, “Who’s this with you?”
“I’m A.” Ash introduces himself, clipped and awkward.
“Well, pleasure to meet you, A.” She smiles, and it’s kind, but also clearly assessing him. “You can call me Mid.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” Ash internally cringes. He hasn’t had normal human interaction in ages. He doesn’t classify arguing with Red as normal human interaction.
She and Red trail off to another room soon after she lets them in, leaving Ash to sit in the living room -- which honestly, he’s fine with; he barely even knows Red, he tells himself, and he only met Mid seconds ago. The room could be in worse condition, considering everything. It’s clearly well maintained, it has a lot of character in it, the wallpaper is painted over in rough coats of purple paint, and there’s pinned up papers and notes, and a half abandoned drawing on the table.
Ash feels like an intruder here -- mostly because he is. He wasn’t supposed to follow along Red, the universe has a funny idea of fate. Faintly, he can hear Red and Mid talking, too far away to actually make out the words, but he’s too distracted.
In front of him, there’s photographs pinned to the wall. It looks like she had ran out of picture frames, and ended up just pinning them as is. Cameras are a rare commodity, even more impressive that it could print out the pictures. They’re slightly faded around the edges, but they’re -- they’re obviously cherished.
There’s a lot, but his eyes lock onto two with Red in them.
In one, he’s surrounded by tons of people; obviously Mid, but there’s also a guy with shades and peach-orange hair, another guy that has a -- god, what’s it called again? -- rubix cube on a necklace. He recognizes Vitalasy, though, because, well, he was involved with Spoke; and he recognizes Subz too, because that kind of comes with Vitalasy. There’s also a boy with headphones and similar red hair to, well, Red. The other is of him, Mid, the same guy with shades and a collection of other people in the background, with writing underneath saying the hunt is over!
Normally, he wouldn’t care. Because -- because he doesn’t know Red, not really. Ash has been trying to keep his distance but this feels too much -- too close.
It’s intruding. He shouldn’t be seeing this -- maybe he should’ve ran for the hills as soon as he could have. Maybe he still could. If he survived the tear in his leg, then he could maybe survive jumping out of the window. Maybe he wants to light everything aflame, too. He shouldn’t see these things.
And like all things, the universe loves screwing him over. Mid has taken this opportunity to come into the room, and Ash is too slow to look away from the photos.
“Oh, sorry-”
“No, no! It’s okay,” Mid smiles at him, choosing to stand at his side. She seems to grow fonder when looking at the photographs. “These are all from a few years ago.”
Ash isn’t really sure whether Mid should be telling this to him. He’s not going to be permanent in Red’s life. Ash’s stringing him along, and Red is probably stringing him along too, and that’s the extent of their relationship. But this is Mid and not Red, so he plays along.
“That’s cool. Who’s everyone else in the photos?” Ash asks, because he’s still curious.
“Oh, that one’s Pangi, that’s Cube, then those two are Vitalasy and Subz, and that’s- that’s Spepticle,” She stutters over the last name, and Ash pretends to not notice. “And then Red and me.” She points at the group photo, listing people off. Ash nods along, as if these names mean anything to him.
There’s something else lingering in her gaze too -- something more somber than plain nostalgia. Ash doesn’t comment on it.
“What exactly does it mean by the hunt is over ?” Ash points back to the second photograph, this one pinned by a purple pin. He now knows the orange haired guy is Pangi.
“Red and Pangi were participants in a scavenger hunt that I had hosted - well, it was a bit more than a scavenger hunt. It was for a pre-wasteland artifact that we all called the Dragon's Egg, it was a piece of machinery that- well, you don’t need to know the details. But they were the ones who won it, though Red let me keep it.”
This is -- more than Red has ever told him about his life.
He doesn’t know Red like this. It’s a different side than Ash is familiar with. It’s like turning over circuits, expecting to get shocked, electrocuted, maybe. Instead, he’s allowed to run his fingers over the engravings -- not pressing too hard or else it’ll snap, but still able to touch.
“Well, it’s just- surprising. I’m not used to having Red come by with anyone with him.”
Rationally, Ash should ignore this.
Instead, before his brain can catch up, he asks, “Really?”
“Yeah, he’s- quite introverted. He doesn’t like doing the whole duo kind of thing anymore y’know? It’s nice to see that he has someone.” She looks at him as if she’s judging him. Scratch that, she’s definitely judging him.
“Oh. Well,” Ash hesitates. There’s no right response to this. “He’s useful.”
Mid laughs, and Ash thinks that he’s getting somewhere. “He is, he is.”
“I can hear you guys.” Red pops in, leaning on the doorframe. “The soundproofing is bad.”
“Right, I’ll get the card-”
“The card?” Ash asks. He regrets not having listened closer. Not being in the know makes something gnaw at his ribs. He pretends to ignore it.
Red cuts in, “Mid is having me run errands for her.”
“Red, come on, it’s not an errand.” Mid protests, rummaging through cupboards before pulling out a small slip of paper. “I already have the storage bought in the town, I just couldn’t complete it myself back then.”
She says it more to Red, than him, but he still pries, “What is it?”
He thinks about the credits he could make. It’d be nice to have something to his name, again.
Like the calm before a storm, Red shrugs, “It’s, well, we’re gonna have to go to True North.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it basically comes down to that,” Mid sighs, and passes the paper to Red. Ash peeks over, his height has always been an advantage, it’s a rough drawing of something. “There’s just, I’ve always wanted to include something from there in one of my projects. It’s been described as a star.”
Ash stays silent, thinking it over.
“I’ve always been good at paying.” Mid grins, as if reading the strings and lines that run through Ash’s mind.
“...Alright.” Ash says.
“So, he’s coming with you, then?” Mid asks, to Red. The decision was kind of made without his input, but;
“I mean, sure. Alright.” Red parrots his words, looking between the paper and Ash.
Ash’s attention gets stolen away by Mid talking, a basic rundown of the job, saying the amount that will be paid to both of them (it’s a lot of zeroes, more than enough that he doesn’t think of trying to wrangle or argue against it). Red seems to know a lot of it already, so it’s more directed towards Ash. A road-trip, Ash muses. How fucking exciting.
Red seems to be looking directly at Ash. It’s different from the ways he looked at him before. It unsettles him, right down to his core.