Chapter Text
It’s Harvey’s fourteenth birthday. The gun his father gave him weighs heavy in his arms, still a bit too big for him. He presses it into his shoulder, prepared to take the knockback of the shotgun. It's not a big gun so much as Harvey is small.
Gilligan claps him on the back. "Come on, little man. Take the shot."
Harvey huffs and pulls the trigger. Little man. You don't have much choice, do you, little man? The centaur's chest explodes in gross little bits Harvey will try not to think too hard about. Little man. Gilligan laughs, loud and boisterous. He hates Gilligan's laugh.
"Come on inside. You need a drink."
"I don't like being drunk."
"You will, with time. Come on. Sheila will want you. There’s a celebration."
His fourteenth birthday, his first centaur killed. A rite of passage. Gilligan's people are all so young, Harvey is certain all of them underwent the same ritual at the same time. It doesn't bother him. At least the people here get him, mostly - they get his missing home. And most of them don't have parents. Though, they say Gilligan rescued them.
Harvey isn't so sure he did.
They go through the wasteland back to the camp. It's nigh empty, all the people too afraid of Gilligan to come close, and the gang sweep out just about every bit of wildlife that comes close.
Once back at the base, it's loud. Green and orange streamers are hung everywhere. Sheila stands in front of a poorly iced cake that says Happy 14th H in a radioactive looking green.
Harvey grabs her in a hug. She laughs and pushes herself off of him, but not before digging an elbow into his side and giving him a soft punch in the arm. For show, mostly.
"Like the decorations? They were my idea!" She chirps.
"Where'd you find them?"
Sheila turns to walk backwards and grins. "Gilligan sent me and Davey to the store. The one in town that had all those ferals in it."
"You killed them?"
"Well, I'm in one piece, right?"
Harvey raises a hand for a high five and gets a punch to the gut. Sheila laughs so loud. She sounds like Gilligan.
He takes the knife from beside the cake and cuts into it to take his first, and probably only slice. As soon as he’s taken his, the rest of the company swarm the cake. Sheila is the first to break free of the mob, and she bounds over to bump shoulders with Harvey again.
He turns and flashes her a smile. The place is grimy, and falling apart, and the edges are more than frayed, but it’s the closest thing he has to a home. And there’s always Sheila. A bit mean, maybe, but steadfast. She was the first person to speak to him when he arrived, and is the first person to defend him when trouble starts.
“Now you’ve killed your centaur, what’s your plan for the day? Clean your dad’s shotgun? Drink?”
“You’ve already started. It’ll make up for me not taking any.”
“Aww, you’re missing out.” She ruffles Harvey’s hair, pulling out loose strands from his puff. “Too bad. More for me.”
“Yeah, a real tragedy. I’m going to bed, Sheila.”
“It’s only seven.”
“And I’m real tired. Bed time.”
Sheila groans and throws her head back but doesn’t protest any further. Instead, she turns about face back into the crowd to cause trouble. It’s her speciality.
Harvey goes and climbs up the stairs to the floor with all the bedrooms. Sheila has a room on Gilligan and Killian’s level, a place of honor for those they deem family. Sheila just took to the life in a way Harvey never did - he sleeps on the bottom level, with the other little ammo leeches.
He collapses into bed with a dramatic puff of air. Barely anything has happened, but the boredness is tiring, and he doesn’t care for alcohol. Gilligan can chew him out for it later. He’s safe from being hurt at least, mostly, because Sheila would lose her mind if Gilligan hurt Harvey.
Sleep comes quickly, thank God. The dreams, the nightmares, they come soon after. The view from under the bed. The spatter of brain on the floor, Harvey’s shaking hands holding his father’s shotgun, Come with me, little man. The brahmin dead outside. Harvey’s father lying in the dirt with them. His mother..
He wakes up screaming. Again. He tosses the blanket off, unable to deal with the sweat, and changes clothes. Then he goes up to the watch tower.
Davis is there. Harvey tells him to go take a break - his shift is supposed to start in two hours anyways and he needs the air. The blood must be completely gone from his face because Davis doesn’t complain or say a word at all.
He sits at the top of the watchtower just like every other day, letting the cold wind snap him awake, holding his father’s shotgun.
It was never, ever meant to be used like this. He just hopes today he can stay up on watch and just go to sleep. That’s all it ever is - watch, raid, sleep, repeat. And Sheila. There’s always Sheila.