Chapter Text
(Illustration by the masterful mister-stalker)
2nd of December, 1948:
It occurred to Micky that there may definitely be something wrong with him.
He’d always suspected growing up that he was fundamentally different from your average person. Not just from your average Australian. He seemed immune to Australium in all it’s forms: he never put on muscle, never grew ridiculously shaped chest-hair, never fancied a fist-fight over a camping trip… in that way he was different from his countrymen, yes.
But as he seriously debated leaving the unconscious man in the dirt and letting him perish rather than interacting with another human, he realized that his strange personality was a bit darker than the “quirks” his mother had always attributed it to. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he was crazy. A sane bloke would be falling over himself to help a fellow human in dire straits.
He stood motionless and regarded the passed-out man, listening to the sounds of the wind howling past his ears. Not a lot of animals in these parts. Not a lot of anything unless you really knew where to look. Which Micky did, which is why he was out here. Honestly, he was real fuckin’ confused as to how an obviously unprepared man could even make it out this far without being extremely dead.
The way the man was dressed made it clear that he definitely had not planned on ending up way out here in the bush. Nice shirt, dress slacks, shoes that were once shiny and posh and not meant for hiking. Trouble with the mob? They’d been known to drop a poor sucker out in the wild and let the snakes sort it out. No tire tracks nearby. But the man could have tried to walk to civilization and gotten lost. Easy to do if you don’t know what you’re doing.
Micky shook his head and kicked a rock. City folk… can’t tell North from their own ass.
The man was thin, probably tall from the looks of those legs, and good-looking. Fingernails were dirty but not broken or chewed up, and the beginning of a very bad sunburn was the only thing marring the smooth skin of his face. His hair was messy and drenched with sweat, plastered across his forehead in a slick black tangle. Clearly not an Australian. Didn’t even have a mustache. Had a vaguely European look about him, but Micky couldn’t put his finger on exactly what made him think that. Probably the suit.
He didn’t ask for this trouble, he didn’t want a charity case. Now he was going to derail his camping trip halfway through because some stranger was mixed up in something that wasn’t any of his business? He’d have to get this guy back to civilization. He’d have to feed him and keep him hydrated and keep him from getting himself killed. And even if they made it, what if word got back to whoever had put him out here in the first place? He didn’t want the bloody mafia coming after him… or his parents.
Bugger.
Dropping his rucksack, he knelt next to the barely-breathing man in the dirt and slapped at his cheeks. “Oi mate. Still kickin’?” He turned the man over onto his back and cradled his head, leaning over to block the sun from the stranger’s eyes. “C’mon then, give us a blink.”
A sound of sun-baked agony came crackling from behind the broken lips. His eyelids clenched, but did not open.
Micky grunted. Best thing would be to get him out of the sun, but his camp was at least a kilometer away. Still, he doubted this guy would be in any condition to walk anywhere, even if he could get him to wake up.
Micky yanked the man up and hauled those gangly limbs over his shoulders until he had a decent fireman’s carry going. It was going to be a long trip back to camp. He just hoped he wasn’t going to be carrying a corpse by the time he got there. Lot of bloody fuss…
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