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The cascade of dirt from his shovel to a growing pile beside a chipped wooden cross rendered Robin’s hands dirty. The repeated action had for a long time now, thirteen years of the methodical relocation of soil from a shallow grave to the side as he ran his eyes over the remains of who had been a person before. Sometimes all that was left was a skeleton. Sometimes Robin could still see the flesh rotting off the bone. He tried to avert his eyes from any faces.
To him they were just ghosts of people that once were and were now no longer, who no longer necessitated these belongings. He’d been taught long ago that what was left in the earth to rot was up for taking from anyone who thought to take a shovel to the grave. Rings and necklaces that were caked in dirt, caps that rusted in old clothing pockets, and weaponry that slowly lost any sort of defensive value as the desert swallowed whole what had been someone’s life. These could still benefit the living, who still had to fight for the dignity these people had been buried with.
This grave had been left along the Colorado not too long ago, marked by a white painted cross that stood at the head of it. Some people still believed in a God, that there was something divine about the way that hundreds suffered, or the cruelty that men had to learn to adapt. Or maybe they wanted to believe that there was someone, something up there willing to forgive them for the unforgivable acts that many men were pushed to daily.
Faith brought comfort to few, but Robin never understood the appeal of a god so unloving.
The cross itself was constructed of scrap, rotting wood. Most likely torn from the ruins of a shack in order to honor the dead even if the living had so little. The appearance was fitting for the corpse below the earth, as the Mojave slowly reclaimed what once had been separate from it. Robin didn’t care for the names etched in the wood, the histories of the dead. He cared about securing his next meal, round of ammunition, what sustained him when he just couldn’t make ends meet that day.
His mother had taught him how to wield a shovel, though only time had smoothened the process as the medic stripped bones of any valuables over and over again. Different grave sites, different histories now steeped into the desert. Hundreds of names, births and deaths, faces that looked the same when stripped of flesh.
The Colorado could be heard running ever so quietly as Robin placed the last few shovel loads of soil onto the pile, setting his tool down with a dull thud against the sand as he lowered himself to his knees with a spade to unearth the last few stubborn ounces of packed dirt. Feel around bones with gloved hands looking for anything that could be of use to himself. Pocketing any caps he could find in the pockets of the old, torn and damp clothing to begin.
Many creatures prowled at night, coyotes, cazadores, and men; cruelest of all.
Robin was such a man, found it easier on his eyes, his skin, his conscience to work when the world was quieter.
The breathing he could hear was his own, but the eyes he could feel on his back weren’t. A trained hand could only draw a gun so quickly from its holster, expecting maybe a ghoul or a lakelurk looking for it’s next meal. He didn’t expect to see another man standing behind him, arms crossed and an unreadable expression on his face as he watched Robin’s other hand brush dust from the ribcage of a dead man.
Robin didn’t still; Stopping was an admission of guilt, and Robin was not a guilty man. He didn't speak, even as he knew the face behind the other’s mask as well as his own.
He instead pocketed a silver ring, placing his weapon on the ground at his side to return to his task. Running hands over old weaponry he was trying to determine the condition of, a simple hunting rifle this man had lived by and had been buried with. Robin understood the sentiment, from a logical perspective, but he had convinced himself long ago that he would never truly understand the sentimental reasons behind the ‘hoarding’.
“You find use in waking the dead.” Ulysses spoke from behind Robin, his voice quiet. He didn’t often disturb the quiet the night cultivated, found the stillness to be nigh sacred to keep. Robin didn’t turn to acknowledge him fully as he responded. “The dead won’t find any use in these items, will they?”
It was a sharp retort, granted Robin disliked having eyes on his back as he did what was needed. He disliked the judgement he could feel in the other’s gaze, disliked that Ulysses seemingly never took his eyes off of him. Appraising him as if he were a different man than the one he had known for years, now.
“Taking what little the Mojave has yet to.” Ulysses hummed, keeping his tone so tantalizingly neutral as Robin continued to feel around the grave for anything useful. It was a short process, with experience. Such quickness did not go unnoticed by the man behind him, but wasn’t commented on as minutes ticked by.
Robin was only growing more uneasy with the man at his back, Ulysses had always unnerved him, yet he still was intent on finishing his task and rising to his feet to grab his shovel. Just as he always had, he’d recover the body. Put everything back nearly where he found it, minus a few tokens for his efforts.
“Plenty of scavengers.” Ulysses remarked, “Yet the same disregard for the grave.”
“Men still alive have to struggle for the very same things left undisturbed in these graves.” Robin shoveled another scoop of dirt back into the hole as he replied, the tool firmly in his hands as he made quick work of refilling what had been freshly disturbed by him, despite his statement.
“Like a vulture. Does the weight below your step mean nothing to you anymore?” Ulysses took a few steps closer, eyes narrowed as he stared Robin down. Robin shook his head in reply, unsure how to answer. He was increasingly getting frustrated with the commentary in his ear. On his actions.
Robin packed the earth down with his shovel, though not as dense as it had been before as he stepped back once, twice from the desecrated grave.
“No longer lies a record beneath the ground. Just a body.” Ulysses evaluated the scene before him, “Not enough to end the life, but to take the history still attached.” he loosely gestured toward the grave before refolding his arms.
“I didn’t kill this man.” Robin replied, voice clipped as he stared down at his handiwork and brushed the dust off his coat. Wasn’t of much use, as nothing would ever return it to the pristine white it once had been so long ago. Clean before what Robin had made of it.
“No.. Erased remainder of the story.” Ulysses clarified, an exhale as he stared down at the loose earth below the two. As if again the ground had split beneath his feet, though this was no mass grave, and no fear was smeared on the air.
Robin felt the condemnation in Ulysses’ words, the perceived moral grandstanding. Ulysses was always so ‘high and mighty’, held his morals tightly to his chest. Robin resented it. “Getting a choice is only if you don’t have to worry where your next meal will come from. Otherwise, if someone hands you a shovel and tells you to dig, you dig.”
Ulysses returned his gaze to Robin, tilting his head down slightly as if studying the man before him. “The Mojave cannot command." He returned, glaring the courier down. Robin's eyes meeting his own, he sensed more than well enough the wait of guilt that had attached itself like a milestone to Robin's neck, one Ulysses could so easily toss him into the river with, and watch him drown. Ulysses knew Robin wouldn't fight back if he took a blade to the medic now. It would be righteous for the atrocities committed so long ago and just freshly onto this grave.
Ulysses had thought about it.
Had been following Robin after the Divide, lingering blame maybe. Ulysses had wanted to stay on the overlook of Hopeville, give his piece and fade like a sentence scratched from old history books.
But Robin kept returning to talk. Not frequently, but all too often. First it was requesting a recipe. Then it was advice. And the third time Robin appeared he hadn't quite come so close. Watched from afar then left.
Ulysses thought about it and thought about it until he found his legs moving under him after a few days of silence, and he saw himself track the courier down across the breath of the Mojave.
This had been the first time he allowed himself to get too close, though sheer apprehension drove his every step.
The courier had destroyed his life.
The courier had singlehandedly turned the tides in the Bear's favor.
The courier held so much control in just the palm of his hand.
And yet Robin was digging up a dead man off a river bank. Ulysses couldn't reconsile that with the thought he had built around the courier. That Robin would strip an already dead body of further history. That there would be a perceived need to it.
Ulysses felt the familiar burn of venom in his throat, but remained silent. Let the silence talk, because for once he questioned the strength of his voice.
Robin felt the weight of the glare. Dared Ulysses to say anything about it. The medic would be defiant till the day he died, and it would leave a bitter taste on his tongue even as he rasped for a final breath.
Night creeped, and it felt as if hours had passed.
Though it had only been seconds before Robin caved.
"Oh can't it?" He sneered.
"Its inhuman." Ulysses scorned, mouth moving before his mind did. Robin pushed him to this more times than he wanted to acknowledge.
"You know who else is inhuman-" Robin started, but the courier wouldn't let him finish.
"Excuses." Ulysses' hands curled into fists at his sides as he dropped his arms. "Excuses."
Robin was silent. He wasn't given a chance to use his fort of words.
Ulysses continued. "Least I don't strip bones of meaning. Voices from the damned."
"You've never had to." Robin shook his head, digging into his pocket. The medic held up the silver ring he had just looted from the grave, bringing it to Ulysses' eye level. "This is a meal. A round of ammunition. A room for the night."
"That is a man's history." Ulysses bit back quickly. "Scavenger. All you do is take."
"When the wasteland has failed to provide." Robin shook his head, stepping back. The words hit him harder than any hand would. He would die with this ideology. He would die in his mind a man who hadn't robbed men of history. He would die with the feeling of necessity.
But as he met Ulysses' glare he knew he was wrong.
Robin was a guilty man.
The medic snapped and dug a small hole in the fresh grave with his foot, tossing the ring back in and recovering and patting it down with his boot.
"Will that please you. Will you finally leave me alone."
Ulysses stepped back as Robin snapped on him again. The other had never left him alone, he wouldn't hand out any favors. "No."
Robin huffed and turned around, picking up his weapon and holstering it again before walking off. Didn't like the eyes on him. Didn't like the guilt. Didn't like Ulysses. He hated his guts.
Robin was never good at lying.