Chapter Text
Jimmy was difficult to spot from the road. If Skizz hadn't noticed the tuft of blond hair poking out of the foliage, or the still hand that accompanied it, perhaps he would have continued home, none the wiser. Still, he spotted Jimmy and made a beeline to the Southlands.
Martyn and Impulse followed. Grian and Mumbo were out and about, looking for untapped resource sites. The last raid had come only two days ago, and the Southlands needed supplies - specifically, food. With the safe assumption that the raiders wouldn’t attack again - they had snatched a lot - Martyn and Impulse followed the distressed soldier Skizz away from their home and towards his own.
They stopped at an intersection; the road split off in several directions, each headed to the last remaining factions in the valley. With a trembling finger, Skizz pointed out where Jimmy lay.
Jimmy lay on his back, his limbs spread out. One stab wound in his chest pierced through the white shirt and stained it red. His open eyes gazed into the unknown forevermore. His face was neutral, giving no indication of what he was feeling when he passed away.
No. When he was brutally murdered.
“I found him like this,” Skizz explained. “Didn't touch him. Didn't feel good to leave him behind either, but… someone ought to know.”
Someone. Such as his friends at the Southlands.
“Thanks, Skizz,” Impulse said, and Skizz merely nodded.
Impulse kneeled down next to Jimmy, closed his eyes. It made him look like he was only sleeping, if you only looked at the face and disregarded the obvious wound on his chest.
A clean wound. One stab, unsure it was frantic, quick, clean, or something else. What they could be certain of, however, was that raiders didn't usually venture this deep into the forest. The wounds they dealt were numerous shallow cuts and bruises. One deep stab did not fit how they usually operated. Jimmy still wore everything, too - the clothes hadn't been ripped from him, torn to pieces that could serve as bandages and the like. The raiders would not have left him like this. The raiders were not responsible.
Just like that, a taboo has been broken in the valley. An unspoken, unwritten rule between the factions. Do no harm. Already, resources were scarce; kindness should not become a luxury. Only if they stood tall together would they be able to fend off these raiders and perhaps persuade them to leave. However, the raiders were still present and someone else - someone they would consider a friend - had killed Jimmy.
Impulse glanced at Martyn. He must have drawn the same conclusions.
“It wasn't me,” Maryn said, perhaps a little too casually.
“I know.” Martyn could never hurt Jimmy. They were both Southlanders. Brothers don't kill one another. “Did he–”
“I didn't hurt a hair on his head,” Martyn elaborated. “I just took the backpack. Told him he should never come back.”
Now, Jimmy indeed never would return.
Impulse shook his head. Why did Jimmy have to run? Why did he have to run away with supplies, of all things? Martyn chased after him, returned with the backpack. Never gave a reason for Jimmy to leave, only the certainty that Jimmy would return to their doorstep. The other remaining Southlanders also believed he would be back. As time passed, Mumbo had even made an off-hand comment wondering if Jimmy meant it because he hadn't returned. Now they knew why he wasn't back.
And, more importantly, what happened to him? Who had taken his life, and why?
Movement, from the road. The three lifted their heads. Tango was sprinting down the road, at a pace none of the three were quite familiar with. He eventually came to a halt, panting like a madman as he tried to catch his breath.
“Tango?” Skizz asked, a frown on his face. “Why are you–”
“Where is he?” Tango spoke between breaths. “I've heard– Bdubs– Jimmy–”
He went silent when he spotted the corpse. Almost instantly, tears rolled down his cheeks. He sank to his knees, unable to come any closer. A painful, agonizing wail escaped his throat - one that would not relent.
Impulse approached his good friend. He hadn’t experienced heartbreak in such a way that Tango experienced now. Grief didn’t wait - it grabbed you by the throat and didn’t let go in the best of circumstances. While Impulse’s mind may not have fully grasped the situation, grief had overwhelmed Tango. Impulse had lost a brother, but Tango had lost a lover.
They had tried to keep it a secret. Unfortunately, neither was very good at coming up with excuses to see one another, and the way they acted around one another - an act that was too casual to be natural - betrayed their feelings for one another.
Without saying a word, Impulse sat down on his knees, took Tango and pulled him into a hug. Tango did not fight back, greedily taking in that hug and the comfort that Impulse provided. His whole posture was tense, his fingers digging into Impulse’s shirt and back, but he didn’t care. The best thing he could do now, was to make sure that Tango was taken care of. A little later, Skizz joined in the hug, too. All the while, Tango wailed and mourned the death of the one he loved.
“Don’t worry, Tango,” Impulse said. “I’ll find out who did this and bring them to justice. I’ll make them pay for what they did. You have my word.”