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A door creeks open, the light shining on a beat up and bruised body. Said light alone is enough to wake the exhausted solider from his sleepless rest.
"Aye... oh! Sir, er, Count," he struggled to cough out while gripping the top of his head.
From the door a man in a velvet cloak and hat stands in the doorway, looming over the stammering brute, "Save it O'Chunks, Count Bleck wishes to know why you're dozing off in a storage room."
He looks up to his cloaked leader, just minutes before he almost died fighting in his name, though he survived the battle, it was one he lost. He would have taken his own life in the Count's name, wished his life got taken in his name, but here he is curled up in a ball with the very man he honours looking at the sack of skin and shame he is, still alive.
"Oh, teh lil' Maria and his gang really messed me up badly, chunked me up almost to paste."
O'Chunks, though having a tight hand on his skull, doesn't mention what lies under his palm. A hole he has no memory of how it was made. He patched it up as well as he could like his other injuries, but with not knowing it's origin it's just something else he blames on his self proclaimed inability to fight. Little does he know, he, nor the enemy is to blame for it.
He can't even face Bleck, his orange eye gets tougher to look into simply knowing his faults. The glow emitting from it makes him want to shut his own eyes and for the first time in Grambi knows how long, let out pent up sobs.
"That bad? Count Bleck would assume that you would come triumphant on your second battle against them. Suppose they really are,-"
"I'm SORRY, COUNT!" he cuts him off in a voice louder than he'd wish to yell out, "I'm incompetent, dead weight to this team. If ye wish to strike me for it, or just end me game right here, I won't stop ye."
"O'Chunks, if Count Bleck were to kill for that, the other 4 might as well meet the same fate-"
"Keep em' out of my failure, and just take me."
"Which will not be happening," the air disappears until he speaks again, "Count Bleck doesn't have a clue on what had gotten into your head, but he is not complying with it. You, just like all the others, have failed in battle, what we need is work, NOT your execution!" how he says it, it sounds more like a demand than anything, but his point has been made.
O'Chunks' tense expression loosens up into one of compliance, his breath slows to a walking pace, as he gasps out,
"Fair enough, Count."
Bleck sighs and re-adjusts his monocle, then lets out a hand to the now understanding solider, expecting him to grab it, but it takes a while for him to notice the hand in the first place. Though he finally notices it and grabs it to pull himself off of the floorboards. The second both of his sore legs are set straight however, he comes close to collapsing and instinctively grabs Bleck's shoulder to support himself. The Count props his staff against the door frame, and now with his free hand helps his shaking minion stand, questioning what in Grambi happened to leave him worse than limping. And after a glace up his scalp makes his confusion verbal.
"..How on earth?" he takes O'Chunks' arm and places it over his shoulder.
O'Chunks, still trying to keep himself stable, is unsure which injury he's looking at, "Aye?"
"Your head, Bleck can not tell how deep how it goes. I know the heroes have left you beaten but Bleck doubt's they would attack that gruesomely, if it is as deep as it seems."
"Ah, it is, fairly deep. No idea how it got 'ere."
"Surprised that you remember anything at all, or how you're even moving now," he makes sure he has a firm grip on O'Chunks', "Count Bleck will walk you up to Nastasia, she should have better knowledge and aid equipment than what I can give you and what is left down here."
"Thank ye, Count."