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"Get up."
It'd been decided that the Japanese punk had little to offer and was more trouble under their thumb than he'd be released back into the wild. Xeno had given the word and Stan was in charge of making sure he made it to their ship, rather than snooping through the vents or messing with their comms.
Their captive, Gen the fucking magician of all things, jolted from his cot. Not that Stan believed for a second that he was asleep. Not a single word that left his lips was trustworthy, so why would his actions follow suit?
He rubbed his eyes theatrically, smearing whatever he'd used as make-up (and oddly enough, what looked like some of the scar from his petrification. No matter.). "Another interrogation?" The man whined, stretching until his shoulder popped. Then his neck and each knuckle.
Pop.
Pop pop.
To call it grating would be an understatement.
"Nah. You're not our prisoner anymore."
The popping stopped. "Oh- I'm no longer under suspicion?" A pause, and then a full body melt of relief. "Oh thank heavens, I was worried I'd escaped from one mad scientist into the clutches of another."
Stan chuckled. "I don't think Doc'd appreciate bein' called sane."
Gen laughed in tow, brightening the tiny room he'd called home over the past few days.
"Follow me."
The man all but floated as he followed Stan, padding across the metallic floor, almost dancing along. Through the hallways, past the entrance, and into the cornfield.
Under the cool autumn sun, Stanley watched how the man's posture shifted, as if he couldn't decide between relief and fear. Not unlike an actor in front of a mirror, testing different line reads before going out on stage. "Now, since I'm not your prisoner…may I…?"
"Not yet."
"So I am your captive."
"Not. Yet." Stan repeated.
Gen tilted his neck.
Pop.
Every other member of their outpost saluted Stan, marching to the beat of a repetitive "at ease" with every twenty steps. Not once had this Japanese kid even asked how to salute. Xeno had told him earlier that the country's respect lived in their language and bows, that he shouldn't expect salutations from a civilian foreigner. When asked if Gen gave him the proper respect in his native tongue, Xeno's lips screwed into a peculiar shape. Apparently, he was too difficult to understand for a proper assessment, and Stan was never the kind to give someone the benefit of the doubt.
"Am I being shown my new assignment or...? I've never driven a tractor before, if that's the idea. Is my English so bad that you'll have me with the cows? Ushi-san to ore ha chotto..."
"English," Stan warned.
"I'm not good with cows."
"You know that?"
The man glanced upward. "Educated guess."
Further and further away from Xeno's castle, they walked. Gen hadn't commented when Stan took a detour to pick up his ghillie suit, though his head cocked sideways, an unspoken question behind his lips. The sounds of industry disappeared into the Californian countryside, the loud pops of an overactive radiator slowly being replaced by the cries of Steller's Jays and tapping of hungry woodpeckers.
It's not that he preferred the ambiance of the forest to modern life, but he'd come to appreciate it in the years he's spent reborn as Xeno's knight. Before, his time in the woods accompanied father/son time and a pair of rifles, ending with a five point buck tossed into the back of a Ford pickup and venison hot dogs. Nostalgic, in a sense, but new in a way that had him prematurely regretting the colony's plans to strip-mine. The air had a crispness to it, a mountain breeze that Xeno had joked would add years to his life had he not already been burning it away with every cancer stick he lit.
Speaking of.
His lighter clicked alive, and he took a smooth inhale, closing his eyes to fully enjoy the first light of the day. The rattling of the birds hammering for bugs shifted from irritating to soothing, the cloudless sky from oppressive to warming. It smoothed out his ward from annoying to almost charming, in the way a crusty white dog could be.
In a shaded clearing with a blanket of pine needles carpeting the ground, their hike slowed to a stop. Gen fidgeted, a question behind his eyes but mouth firmly shut for once. He stared at Stan's cigarette with an expression Stan couldn't quite decipher.
He pulled the stick from his mouth, let it hang in the air, and the man's thin eyes followed it like a cat to a prick of red light.
"You smoke?" Stan asked, returning it to his lips.
"No, no no." Gen replied, waving his hand in front of his face. "Not in a long long time. I had some..." He paused, searching for the word. "Producers, for my magic show, they smoked. It's um, eh. Natsuka.. ah, yes, nostalgic." He smiled. "Second-hand smoke smell, that is."
Stan took a long drag, allowing the air to marinate in silence.
"You want a hit?"
"Mm?"
Stan pulled the stick from his mouth, pointing it filter-first towards Gen. There's a purple stain along the white, a pretty splash of color along the ivory paper. "He may be a little bitch about it, but the doc makes a damn good cigarette."
Gen hesitated, then accepted the offer of good will, taking the stick of tobacco as gently as if it were made of glass. He tucked his lips tight to his teeth, biting the end of the filter, avoiding touching Stan's lipstick mark.
"You hypochondriac or something?"
Cigarette in his mouth, lips puckered, Gen stared at him blankly. "Aipokondiak?" He tried to repeat through clenched teeth.
"Scared of my spit?" Stan touched his bottom lip, then indicated where the lipstick had transferred.
Gen laughed, ears turning red. "No, not scared but.." He pulls the cigarette from his mouth- judging by the lack of smoke in his words, he must have not inhaled. "It's like second-hand smoke, you know?" He flips the cigarette around, cinders towards his palm so he can more easily indicate the ring where Stan's lips once touched. "I shouldn't steal a maiden's kiss without her permission. Cultural, you see."
"Aah." Stan plucked the cigarette from Gen's hand, returning it to its perch between his lateral incisors. Feeling uncharacteristically good-willed, he produced a carton with Xeno's goofy pompadour stamped on the front and offered it to the Japanese man. Beneath a list of every single chemical in ordered from most to least deadly read "This inelegant product absolutely contains carcinogens known to cause cancer, specifically lung cancer, even without the addition of nicotine. Anyone who smokes it is bound to the will of Doctor Xeno Houston Wingfield, new master of the new world, since it seems you already don't value your own life.”
Gen seemed to read it as well, judging by the giggle he stifled behind a sleeve. "Bound to the will...? Is this some sort of initiation ritual? It seems I truly have traded one mad scientist for another." He took a stick and placed it between his teeth, holding a hand towards where Stanley usually kept his lighter.
As requested, he produced his Xippo. However, instead of handing it off, he took Gen's chin and led it down towards the open flame. The man followed obediently, holding still and breathing in when prompted. A quiet moment in the woods, sharing a relaxing smoke break. It was nice, even if his guest had trouble stifling his coughs. His cheeks flushed red, and his eyes shimmered with painful tears, but he took the gift as graciously as he physically could.
"How is it?" Stan asked.
"G-" a cough. "Good, yes. Sorry."
"You don't need to lie."
"No, no it is good. Tasty." He spat a glob onto the ground, then held a mortified hand up to his lips.
It was charming. He might even miss the little creep.
"Though it's a bit plain aesthetically without your touch of makeup," he pushed ahead, ignoring the tear that escaped his squinting lashes. He pulled out the smoldering stick to study the paper wrapping the tobacco inside, a flirtatious lilt to his words that Stan didn't miss.
Stan raised an eyebrow.
"Say, why are we here in the woods? I'd worry that you're setting me up for a firing squad, but there's no blindfold around my head," Gen crossed his arms, cigarette still in hand and took in his surroundings. "I'd like to get started with my new life as a citizen of the United States of America. Xenotopia? Corn City?"
"Corn city? What the fuck?" Stan snorted. "Nah, nothing like that. We're just sending you home, little buddy."
"...Home?" Gen repeated, sounding bored.
"Yeah. Get along little dogie, back to Doctor Taiju's back breaking labor. 'M just here to make sure you make it all the way ‘n don’t get lost in the woods." He spoke casually, as if it were about the weather.
"You can't be serious."
Stan closed the distance between the two of them and leaned forward, looming over the man, barely able to see his right eye through the curtain of white. To his credit, Gen didn’t shy away, but the cigarette crumpled where it lay between his index and middle finger. Steadily, Stan tilted his head and pressed his lips to Gen's, tasting the ash still clinging to his teeth, enjoying the smooth feel of wax transferring from one mouth to the other. As the kiss continued, stretching into the empty forest, he reached down to the .22 caliber hanging off his hip. The other man flinched at the popping of buttons as the firearm was released from its holster, pulling back to see what exactly made that sound.
Dread began to bloom across his face, thin eyes widening at the mere sight of a gun. The poor guy'd probably never seen one in person before, let alone since he escaped the stone. A smear of plum stood out beautifully against his pale skin, complimenting the lilac kimono-thing he wore like he’d coordinated ahead of time. Stan pecked him once again, then placed his own cigarette back in his mouth.
"You're right," Stanley grinned, straightening his back. "It does look better with a touch of makeup."
"What's that for?" Gen said, eyeing the revolver as stiffly as a cow would an oncoming train.
"Count of sixty."
"Surely we can talk about this."
"One."
"Darling Stanley."
"Two."
He turned and ran. Inelegantly, as Xeno might have described it, but Stan saw it differently. He'd only been allowed to hunt animals since arriving in this pristine wilderness. Now, with a human as prey, he could feel long dormant muscles begin to awaken, mental calculations and experience stretching their wings within his chest. A famous story had called man the most dangerous game, but Stanley would disagree. Thrilling, that's a much more apt descriptor.
He only made it to forty before sprinting off in pursuit, too consumed by the hunt to spot Gen’s forgotten cigarette before he'd snuffed out under his boot.