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This, Ashton knows, is the second-worst job they’ve ever run. Not by much, which is fucking surprising given the worst job they’d ever run before now was the Hexum hit. Actually, this might be the single worst job ever, period, in their fucking life, because at least Hexum was a prissy ass noble and not Otohan goddamn Thull. And at least Ashton never had to deal with the getaway, with the waiting, the --
He puffs out their cheeks and pushes, unsteady, to his feet. Damn that - everything. Everything! It’s all bullshit and - they start to pace, to move, to do - something. Anything. His hammer glitters slightly in the dim light, leaning against the wall, and if he were marginally less fucked-up they would absolutely pick it up and start swinging. That, and they don’t think Joe would much appreciate it if they started wrecking his crawler shop in the middle of a dust storm.
He keeps pacing, adding a few light punches to his steps.
“You’re making me nervous,” Joe comments from the door to his private workroom.
“Be nervous, then.”
Any retort he might make gets cut off by the main door blowing open with a swirl of dust and Chetney, Laudna, and Letters stagger their way in. Ashton abandons his pacing and darts forward, weak and - and fucking vibrating, somehow. “Fucking finally! Where’s--”
Slap.
The burn in their cheek processes last. Strike that, actually - the fact that Laudna was the one who slapped him processes last. They barely manage to catch her voice, so fucking behind on the sound and the burn and their new view of the floor instead of the three Bells.
“You are a coward, Ashton Greymoore,” she hisses, voice throaty. Like she was crying.
“Where are the others,” he gets out. His cheek burns, and if it were anyone but Laudna--
She sobs.
“Fearne and - Fearne and - Fearne and Orym’s bodies are in-in the hole, Ashton,” FCG stutters out.
Fearne. Bodies. Orym. Bodies. Hole.
Bodies.
There’s a window in front of him.
Their head isn’t his anymore and instead turns of its own accord to look at the trio. To really take them in - battered, certainly, dusty and grimy and like they just crawled out of the Nine Hells. Laudna - Laudna - is still in their face, trembling - no, shaking. Even as they make the observation Letters rolls up and leans against her hip, supporting her slight weight. She briefly leans against them with one hand, and with the other tears her goggles and scarf off her face. Black, gooey tears drip their way down her grimacing, ghoulish face to stain her clothes. She staggers forward another step and grabs their jacket. Automatically Ashton’s hands come up to grab her wrists, but he doesn’t pull her off.
Everything feels slow. Like molasses.
Like falling.
“They’re dead, because you ran,” she snarls, face contorting into something truly nightmarish.
“Because that was the plan,” he fires back, finally summoning the will to push her off him. “We agreed to run and to meet at Joe’s, remember?” Run. Leave him, he’s already dead. “Where’s Imogen?”
Her breath hitches on another sob. “She’s gone. Otohan and - she - they both disappeared.”
Bodies. Imogen, gone. The window receding.
Out of the corner of his eye Ashton notices, detachedly, Chetney turn and throw the hole open on the wall. “As you can imagine, we haven’t had the best of times since we last saw each other. H--”
His creaking voice gets cut off as he sticks his head into the hole, presumably to yell at Treshi to get out here.
“Yeah, I can fucking imagine. Which is why we all agreed to run,” they growl back, frozen reaction crystallizing into rage. “Otohan fucking Thull is not someone we fight, and the smart thing to do is run.”
She laughs, brittle and wet. “Oh, and you’ve been so smart this entire fucking time, Ashton? Running from your memories, running from Jiana, running from anything you think you can’t handle and everything that scares you. You are a coward,” she spits, enunciating every word, sharp enough to cut - sharp enough to sharpen Ashton’s building rage in turn. “And you let Fearne and Orym die, and you let Imogen sacrifice herself--”
“Laud-Laudna, there’s no call for any of--”
“No no, Letters, let her finish,” Ashton growls. “Let her tell me how she did so fucking much more there than I did sitting on my ass waiting for the rest of you here. Tell me, Laudna, what exactly did you do to help? Did you get Orym and Fearne back? Did you keep Imogen here? Because as far as I’m aware, Imogen was on her way out, too. Now why the fuck would she have gone back? Hm?”
“For the record, Ashton, she got me up once,” Chetney butts in, emerging from the hole with a pale and shaking Treshi in tow.
Ashton barrels right through the interruption. “We all agreed to run, because trying to fight Otohan goddamn Thull was a suicide mission and only an idiot would try!” Idiot. Idiots, all of them.
“That is enough, both of you!”
Joe’s authoritative voice is jarring enough that it gets all four members of Bells Hells attention. He’s glaring daggers at all of them - mostly Ashton and Laudna, but it’s impressive how dedicated he is at making eye contact with all of them. Suddenly Ashton is very aware of the fact they’ve commandeered Imahara Joe’s renowned crawler shop as their safe house. “I don’t know what mess you’ve made in the twelve hours it’s been since I saw y’all last, and I don’t know how Otohan Thull factors into it, and frankly I don’t want to know. But what I do know is that there will be no in fighting in my shop, am I understood? Why don’t y’all try helping each other, hm?”
Helping. Orym would’ve helped. Imogen would’ve helped. Letters - Ashton takes a second look at them. Letters is swaying slightly, even under Laudna’s marginal weight, eyes flickering like they were right before he buzzsawed Chetney.
Ashton grits his teeth and swallows. Then they dig into their pack and press his final healing potion into Laudna’s hand. “Drink. You look more dead than usual.” It’s like a checklist. Potion, delivered. Now turn and pick up the hammer. “Joe, please fuckin’ tell me there’s something I can hit.”
He appraises them - for a moment Ashton feels like a half-broken crawler Joe is deciding whether to repair or scrap. “I’ve got a pile of scrap outside that could do with some un-denting, but—“
“Fine,” Ashton interrupts, heaving his hammer over his shoulders and making their way to the door.
Open the door. Ignore Joe’s warnings. Find something hittable, and hit it. Hard.
Hit it again. Harder.
Hard enough to get the images out. Fast enough to escape the memories. Loud enough to drown out their voices. Angry enough to ignore his other emotions.
‘You’re a coward, Ashton Greymoore.’
No maybe about it; this is, by far, the worst job they’ve ever done.
Coward.