Chapter Text
It’s not surprising when the Drifter feels that first claw of heat start to seize his chest. He expects the pain that follows, the debilitating, sharp stab that stops him in his tracks. The crimson-spattered cough that follows is as harsh as it is routine. Sitting down is almost thoughtless, one practised motion that he’s done countless times before.
It’s quiet, thankfully, no one around to see the state he’s in. It’s almost a relief to let the cold hand of unconsciousness take a hold and drag the nauseating pain into a gentle nothing.
Waking isn’t always easy. Sometimes it’s just a case of dusting off and continuing on his way. Other times, like now, consciousness is gifted a tiny doses. The Drifter gets a fuzzy view of a campfire and a pair of pink boots stretched out opposite him, but no time to worry about whose they are before the nothingness makes itself too difficult to fight.
The first time the darkness allows itself to be shaken off could be a minute or an eternity later. Sounds of the outside world trickle in—something mechanical is humming somewhere nearby, a dog barking in the distance. Whatever he’s lying on is comfortable, something soft and plush beneath his head, and it’s here that survival kicks in—he’s been moved.
The place seems deserted from what he can tell when he carefully opens his eyes. Nothing moves, none of the noises change when he slowly shifts under what he now realises is a bed cover. It feels better to sit up, to feel more alive, to act like nothing is wrong. He quickly collects his sword from where it’s been propped up in the corner—a concerning distance from where he was were he to need it—and makes for the door at the opposite end of the room.
The day is bright and blinding. There’s a town outside, the bustle of people getting louder as the door grinds open. The civilians here aren’t exactly pleased to see a new face, if the few hard stares he’s getting already are anything to go by. That, or they know what he is. Not many are happy to see a Blu even in passing, but if the feeling that he’s in the right place is anything to go by, he won’t be leaving any time soon.
Best to just get used to it. He simply ducks his head down, wraps his sword and gun in the folds of his cloak, and sets out to explore.
There’s enough here to live off—shops dot the town, merchants selling any and all types of stock that the Drifter has no doubt will help him on his way. A useful place to stumble upon, even if he can’t say he happened upon it himself.
He gets more stares as he moves through the crowds. People mumble as he passes, and he tucks his face into his mask a little more like it’ll block out the whispers.
His illness comes and goes when it pleases. The fire slowly kindles in his heart again, a mocking warning of what’s to come, as he’s checking out the wares in the tech shop. It seems rather foolish to turn up as a clearly disliked stranger and immediately show weakness, so he quickly makes his exit and ducks into a nearby alley to wait it out.
The coughs wrack his entire body. Leaning against the wall takes some of the pressure off his suddenly weary legs, using it to slowly guide himself down to the ground. Blood stains his hands when the next cough forces its way up his throat, forever a startling contrast against the blue of his skin, accompanied by the familiar beckoning of nothingness that promises relief from the suffering that comes with being alive. He has to wonder when this beast will finally tear him open from the inside, finally succumb him to this nothing one last time.
Darkness happily pulls him under the waves, and all he sees in the abyss beyond is his inevitable day of judgement.