( you mention the war — his an' wade's — to most folk here what're from earth proper, an' you'll get varying degrees of sympathy an' sorrow. folks have lamented his age, his death, the probable violence an' hardship besides.
but the thing is, the war was just a thing what happened. it needed fightin', so he fought it. maybe his weapons were sulfa an' cigarettes an' quiet calm an' steady hands but he was there. in it just as much as the next man, an' the next after him. he don't mind the sympathy — folks find peace in the givin' more than he's ever found in the reception, but there ain't many here who understand the soul an' scope of the matter.
men killed themselves when they were declared f-4. the whole damn country was ablaze with the desire to serve, he weren't special on that account. he an' wade were called on, an' they stood up. and in the standin', they came here. too fuckin' early, they came here.
(he wishes he'd known what else wade's life could'a been like. what he could'a done. would he've gone on to be a doctor too? he's got the disposition for it. maybe married, a kid or two of his own. in some sunny place in california, far removed from the war.)
but the war never wore him down like this. there were cruelties aplenty, but. the simple act of turnin' into the sun, feelin' it sink down into his bones was altogether like sittin' by the fireside of a settled soul could excise that weariness. he's witnessed death, said prayers over those that passed on, spent weeks with blood and viscera on his clothes when there weren't no way of washin' but there ain't never been anythin' so awful as this forced reckonin'. livin' out your own death was trauma enough to these folk, but. bearin' them out yourself all because of an intended kindness is the worst sorta malice he can imagine.
he's lost in that when he hears irwin, an' he glances up at him, his hand stillin' on the foldin' of a bandage. there's somethin' off in him, some whisper of instinct with a clarion bell in the back of his mind alertin' him to a manner of wrongness. his first thought's for injury, but. he's walkin' all right, not favourin' one side of the other. no blood, steady breath. little pale, but that could just be the dark at work. still, gene's jaw works to one side as he comes around the pew an approaches him plain. )
no subject
but the thing is, the war was just a thing what happened. it needed fightin', so he fought it. maybe his weapons were sulfa an' cigarettes an' quiet calm an' steady hands but he was there. in it just as much as the next man, an' the next after him. he don't mind the sympathy — folks find peace in the givin' more than he's ever found in the reception, but there ain't many here who understand the soul an' scope of the matter.
men killed themselves when they were declared f-4. the whole damn country was ablaze with the desire to serve, he weren't special on that account. he an' wade were called on, an' they stood up. and in the standin', they came here. too fuckin' early, they came here.
(he wishes he'd known what else wade's life could'a been like. what he could'a done. would he've gone on to be a doctor too? he's got the disposition for it. maybe married, a kid or two of his own. in some sunny place in california, far removed from the war.)
but the war never wore him down like this. there were cruelties aplenty, but. the simple act of turnin' into the sun, feelin' it sink down into his bones was altogether like sittin' by the fireside of a settled soul could excise that weariness. he's witnessed death, said prayers over those that passed on, spent weeks with blood and viscera on his clothes when there weren't no way of washin' but there ain't never been anythin' so awful as this forced reckonin'. livin' out your own death was trauma enough to these folk, but. bearin' them out yourself all because of an intended kindness is the worst sorta malice he can imagine.
he's lost in that when he hears irwin, an' he glances up at him, his hand stillin' on the foldin' of a bandage. there's somethin' off in him, some whisper of instinct with a clarion bell in the back of his mind alertin' him to a manner of wrongness. his first thought's for injury, but. he's walkin' all right, not favourin' one side of the other. no blood, steady breath. little pale, but that could just be the dark at work. still, gene's jaw works to one side as he comes around the pew an approaches him plain. )
Got plenty of those. What can I do for you, Doc?