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Munroe was, frankly, a mess.
He and Eriche were soon approaching their transfer from the Northern-front to the Southern-front—the latter of which, however, was still nowhere to be seen when he should have been back by now. Spat out by the Rezzer, a little worse for wear, a little scuffed, but all around fine. He wonders what’s taken him so damn long—or what’s taken the Rezzer so long? It’s anyone’s guess with that damned thing. Munroe knew how this sort of thing went: you wake up, get dressed, get whatever bearings you’ve got, and you’d be mostly brand new. Rinse and repeat.
Yet it had been days, and still there was no sign of Eriche’s return. Munroe had been hesitant to visit the Rezzer himself, which was ridiculous. He’d done wet work, seen the twisted bullshit of the trenches—if anything, the Rezzer was the opposite of all that; Eriche would be fresh as new. Nothing like how he was last he saw him, Munroe felt uneasy at the flashing memory of blood-matted white hair caked in dirt—the head it belonged to in the ground and eyes hollow. He swallows the memory down, despite himself.
He laid on his bottom bunk in their shared quarters, staring up at the old metal panels that held up the mattress above him. It was only the two of them, the rest leaving empty beds in their wake, whoever they were—and now, so did Eriche. Munroe felt a shameful lump in his throat at the thought.
In truth, he was never too fond of the Rezzer. Who was? It was a drab, awful place, whether you’re the one coming in or out. No matter how often it’s used, there’s a wickedness within its existence the soldiers recognized—but there was no point in acknowledging it. After some thorough contemplation, he makes the decision to finally see what’s taken so long. He put on his boots, tying the laces up tight. The soles were heavy as he made his way to the northern Resurrector.
The lift makes a mechanical whirling sound as he descends the levels of the base; his leg fidgets. By the time he got off, he was where he was headed, and he was never too fond of this level. He himself has woken up here before, and something’s always felt off about the place. Maybe it was the smell, old and mildew-like with notes of iron, crossed with something akin to an abattoir that lingered heavy in the air. Or the shutter of moving film flashing somewhere, “You are a soldier of the Crown Army"—it always rubbed Munroe the wrong way. For whatever reason eternity wasn’t as comforting as it should have been.
His footsteps followed the red arrows, and they echoed through the hall. His eyes darting across the individual vessels. While most were empty, Eriche was the last left of this batch. He finally spotted a body in the distance, pale and familiar. His steps hurry at once, but he’s caught off guard, almost tripping as his eyes trace over the body now before him. Pale and familiar it was, but something wasn’t right. It was Eriche; he was sure of it, but his sureness wavers upon closer inspection. He wasn’t very worse for wear, in fact, it was quite the opposite. It was a slim body, but not bone-thin—it had a healthy fullness to it. Softness wrapped around it’s chest and each shapely limb of it, not to mention the pristine, unblemished skin. Uncharacteristic for Eriche, a tattered and torn quality to his scars that stretched across his face down his chest.
Munroe shouldn’t have been as put off as he was. The Rezzer chewed you up and spat you out without much a care in the world, changing you however it saw unfit. Drastic physical change was far from unheard of here, but this was … different. Rather, care and intent seemed to drip from this new, pristine body. Munroe’s hand smoothed over Eriche’s arm, being careful to mind his nails. It was a hairless, tender, ghostly cold thing with a faint wet sheen to it still. His hand hesitates; it was a beautiful body, so much so it felt almost untouchable. He pushes his confusion down. It was Eriche, he’d be breathing, walking, and talking soon enough—alive in all the ways that mattered. Munroe got the basket next to Eriche with his uniform in it, propping him up best he could to dress him. His body just needed a while longer to recover from this rezz, which wasn’t unforeseen. Munroe didn’t mind tending to his upkeep.
His skin was so soft now against his hands, a milky pale rather than the sickly kind. His fingertips skim over his notably unblemished face, his palm smoothing over his plush chest and navel. His spare hand mindlessly found its way to soft hips and thighs—Munroe quickly retreated his hand as soon as he realized. He quickly swallows down whatever indecent thoughts began to form in his head, managing to keep his eyes somewhat averted for both their decencies' sake.
He thoughtfully put on his undergarments, threading his legs through his drawers, then pulling his undershirt over his head. As Munroe got hold of his hand. It unnerved him; it was too small, the fingers fitting differently in between his own now. It was a slender, unfamiliar hand. His nails were not chipped but were trimmed and clean. The back of his palm lacking any vascular definition, now replaced with tender skin. Dressing him in his uniform only further highlighted attention to the fact. He carefully buttoned up his shirt, the ends of the sleeves falling past his wrists and fingers. It was too big now. He ignored how off-put he was by this, holding the other’s shoulder tightly as he tried to guide him on his feet. He was unprepared, however, for how light he was, Munroe stumbling back a step or two. It had been easier to carry him properly than at his side, it turned out.
…
He and Eriche were now being transferred from the Northern-front to the Southern-front. The latter of which is still yet to awake. It was Eriche, he’d be breathing, walking, and talking soon enough—alive in all the ways that mattered, Munroe reminded himself.