scubatankfilledwithfarts | if this starred vin diesel, more would probably get done

There are noises out in the desert and sometimes they speak to you. A stark, cold contrast to that house placed just beyond that patch of woodlands. The house creaked and the hills were rolling, tempted to make one want to roll down them into the sunlit grass arching up, up for just that bead of dew. But it never spoke so much as sang, maybe.

That big house on the hill no longer sings. Long gone to dust and decay. Sometimes he's not sure these rolling hills existed. But he's very sure, acutely blazed in his mind is the image of his grandfather's turned back, spoke roiling up from his wrinkly head as he sat out on the deck to overlook the hills.

(of dunes or grass? of green or tan?)

His mother used to tell him he had this penchant, this little habit, of standing behind someone and waiting, waiting, waiting until they noticed him. He'd do it to his grandfather, the old buzzard, who would, amused as hell, after his precious grandson's cries. Not because he didn't care. But in a simple understanding of it, an acceptance of That's The Way Things Are.

(some sort of fate tied around his wrist, braided into the stands of his dna as surely as radiation, as surely as strands of chestnut hair weave together to be kept out of the way-- except this won't keep anything away or at bay)

(nothing but a beast curls up from the depths)

Generations and generations....finally lost to the dunes. Pip isn't sure if he's grateful for it or not. As it stands, the time loop continues, out of necessity or not.

But back to that turned back, hardened, grizzled shoulders of his grandfathers'. Fluffy hair under that hat that always smelled like licorice and whiskey. Little hiccuping cries and waiting, waiting, waiting for him to notice. It wasn't whether or not he was worthy. He was-- is -- their precious grandson, after all. No, it's about whether or not the man could pull himself out of this All Knowing he seemed to radiate, from years and years, which Pip used to wonder whether or not it was passed down through some Goose sense--

Some things don't change. Generations move on, take up the fight, die, live again, die, fight, fuck.

Other things change. The boy doesn't stand behind his back, waiting for him to notice with bated breath and hiccupped sobs caught in his chest, rubbed raw. First of all, it's Pip who faces a quivering back, slim of shoulders, fingers dug deep in the earth's carcass, gangly limbs, red hair tipped back as his head is tipped to the sky.

Not a single whimper escapes the boy. He's quiet as a church mouse; whatever that means in the old days, here it means one lone green eye, blurred by tears and an unfathomable rage, turned up, up, up, as if imploring the heavens and the shows up there, the silence of twilight, why, why, why, why, why. They ask the same questions, that boy long, long ago and this one. For a moment, sometimes the lines of time blur and Pip has to blink it away.

Most times it's easy to blink it away. There are supplies to check, scavengers to avoid and townspeople in scalped out steel and mounds of sand, castles far below, to gauge for use.

This boy spits up pure octane, hackles risen and a simmering madness in that single eye. Pip tells himself he isn't afraid of that mad, mad look there. If he can just keep him human a little longer, a kid a little longer, cool down the engine a little more then maybe, maybe, maybe--

It's times like these he's grateful for. When the engine cuts off, when the tank runs empty and finally, finally Badou gives way and breaks. It's almost sick, how he counts down the days.

He needs this. He needs this.

So Pip lets him crack, digs rough fingers into the jagged edges and pries away until the boy breaks. Watches those little shoulders shake, deals with the hollowness that comes with No Sound (alarming all in one) and finally, finally, finally--

Fingers clasp around a weathered slouch hat, lift and settle it onto that crown of red.

(he's been knighted, finally. Once upon a time...)

"Wanna hear the one about the one tittied corpse? That thing moved all on its own, still wanted a hunk out of me, wanted to suck me dry. Of course, I don't go for sloppy fourths. So it went like this..."

The groan of protest is a good sign.