drear | great dane's cheekbones, teenage hormones.

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great dane's cheekbones, teenage hormones.

[ It's over, finally. Everything is being cleared out of the building except for the people who will keep it running during this next period of hopefully-peace. People are celebrating, but Heine's just tired. He wants to go... away. Not home, never home. He'll find somewhere new.

(His spine is fucked from a mine they hadn't been able to avoid. One of his legs was nearly shattered from the blast, never quite healed, and it still bothers him, but there are others still worse off. He should be thankful, but he just doesn't care anymore.)

Passing by the dog pens, he pauses, pivoting on his crutches. There are soldiers being reunited with the dogs that saved their lives, their companions and fellow survivors. Most of the dogs have been taken in elsewhere or will be kept for guard duties, except for a few left. He asks about them without thinking it through. Even those still in the pen have been claimed and will be picked up later. Heine looks over the remaining dogs, gaze falling on the biggest one with fluffy brown hair and an equally fluffy tail. Something in his face is familiar, but he can't quite place it. Maybe they'd fought somewhere together, he can't remember.

He hesitates for a while longer. Company isn't necessary. But... Heine sighs through his nose and gets the necessary papers done, not taking up the offer to meet the dog before adopting him. The guy running the process goes to call the dog over to the gate, handing Heine a battered leather leash he can use. Heine doubts he'll be using it, though. It's hard enough to get around on crutches already; leading someone else around on a leash isn't going to make it any easier.

The dog comes over to the exit, and Heine knows that he knows him. But the memory keeps slipping away, and he doesn't have the energy to chase it. ]

Hey. [ If it's possible to mumble one word, he does it. ] ...Randall, right?

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[ Randall doesn't notice when someone's looking at him at first. He feels eyes on him, but he's resigned to being passed over for the most part. It's been weeks and there's only a few stragglers left, dumped in shelters to be cared for and adopted out. If no one came, euthanized. He doesn't think he's made an impression on anyone during the war and he'd not bonded with anyone he'd saved, so he doesn't hope or expect anyone to return for him and take them into their homes. Tall ears stand straight above that fluffy mop of hair, long-haired on their own, but they're swiveled back and apprehensive as he sits against the back corner.

He's still recovering from his own injuries, after all. He's littered in thick ropy scars and pits and cuts from shrapnel, but his biggest point of recovery now is the large shell wound he'd taken through his abdomen. It's mostly healed at this point, little more than a patched over raw spot on both sides, insides long-since healed up where he'd been stitched. Thankfully none of his wounds had affected his mobility or flexibility, and he had high hopes of being a family's guard dog, or so he'd been told.

Randall was already certain he wouldn't be able to hurt anyone ever again. He never wanted this war to begin with, but he was born into an inferior race. There'd been no choice for him but to serve his country. When he does look up, however, and catches a few moments' glance at the man on crutches staring at him, some awful pang goes straight through him and he clutches at his chest, feeling tears prickling in his eyes.

But why...? Who was that? His tail thumps on the bench a few times, a nervous, hopeful little twitch, and he tries to smile. The volunteers told them to look as cheerful and pleasant as possible. No one wants a bad dog. He's gone just as quick as he was noticed and when they call his name, he thinks it's the end.

Maybe he'd injured that man and he was calling for his death. That was entirely possible, here, and wouldn't be the first time. Maybe that's why he felt like he recognized it and it'd hurt so badly.

He rises to his feet, hunching to keep from knocking his head into the chain link fencing that encased them on five sides, boots heavy on the concrete floor as he approaches obediently with his tail completely tucked between his knees. But there's that man again being handed a leash. His ears perk, the tip of his tail wagging nervously between his legs and he has the decency to look hopeful, ash brown eyes bright. ]

Yes, sir. Randall Olend.

[ Or is it "master", now? He was just a stray off the streets before the military, a mutt discarded from the litter. He'd never had a family or a master to follow so he isn't too sure of the relationships and titles. It didn't matter. He's being adopted. He's being adopted. The elation fills his lungs and he feels like even he could float away, big lug that he was. His smile is warm and wide, ducking low under the opened doorway and stooping down once again to offer the tired old collar about his neck if he was to be leashed. Not that he was a disobedient dog, but any means. He'd stay right on Heine's heels and loyally obey every command with adoration. ]

[ There's definitely something in his face, his stance, that Heine recognizes. From where and why is still a mystery. Heine puts it aside for later thought. ]

Don't call me "sir". [ He's had more than enough of that from the military. Winding the leash around his hand, Heine adjusts his weight on the crutches, trying to avoid Randall's too-optimistic eyes. That kind of weight is too much to bear. ]

Heine. Just call me that.

[ He takes another breath in and turns on his crutches, starting toward the exit. ]

We're taking the next train to Almsport. Help me with my bags, would you?

[ There's just two of them, actually—a small knapsack with his personal effects and a larger duffel bag with some clothes, including his uniform (and pinned onto it, his bars and some other equally useless pieces of metal). Heine doesn't talk much while they pick his things up and go the short distance to the station. The journey to Almsport will take at least a full day; Heine already has tickets, a second one purchased for Randall.

The train station is half-full. Heine stands awkwardly on his crutches and stares at the opposite side of the tracks—and is just tired enough to ask his new pet a question. ] Where were you stationed? During the war.

[ His ears flip back at that, ducking his head in a meek response. ]

I'm sorry. [ It comes immediately. Even something about this is familiar, his brusque attitude and Randall immediately succumbing to him. He isn't clipped onto the leash, which strikes him as a little strange, but he picks up Heine's bags and slings then over one shoulder with his own and stays right beside him and a step behind, mindfully out of range of his crutches and his legs. ]

Almsport... is that along the coast? [ He isn't familiar with this part of the country as much, shuffled along from no-kill shelter to no-kill shelter until they'd run out of options and shuffled him into one of the last resort shelters. The clothing from the shelter was simple and grey, something easy to wash and make their faces and breeds stand out starkly against. His military uniform is tucked inside a small duffel with a plain change of clothes and an extra coat, but he'd opted for his thick military one lined with fur and stuffed with down that mostly covered the ugly grey jeans and shirt. He felt a little better with it on. More normal. Nothing to give away his rank or particular affiliation anymore. ]

Ah... I was on the front lines in an anti-tank squad. I was a corporal. [ They'd taken his gun at the end of the war and most identifying markers. An honorable discharge, medical treatment, and some money is about all he'd left with. Enlisted dogs often weren't honored unless they'd died heroically in battle. The drafted ones even less so. He picks up on Heine's fatigue, shuffling over to make some distance between the bench they stood by and any strangers that may be milling about so no one ended up in his space. It came as second nature to him already to accommodate. ]

What about you? [ He must have been great; he seems like the type, strong and kind. Randall imagines the countless lives his master has probably saved during his time and wonders how he'd received his wounds or how permanent they may be. Maybe he was adopted to be something of a support companion...? Caregivers were expensive, after all, but service dogs were less so. He could be trained to meet those expectations he's sure. ]

[ Heine nods, eyes sliding over the other people on the platform. ] It's down south. Probably colder than here, though.

[ He visited a few times before the war really took shape, when he was trying to get away from family. Most of them are gone now, and though he should feel bad about it, he's just resigned—and almost thankful. At least money won't be a problem.

When Randall answers, Heine looks back at him, blowing a piece of hair out of his face to avoid removing his hands from the crutches. A corporal, huh. ]

Special forces. [ Half-mumbled, again. He doesn't mention his rank. It was given for a combination of his family and his achievements, and it lead to events he'd rather not think about now.

Anti-tank, though. With his build, Heine can see it. He also feels Randall shift to his side, blocking off others. ] You were injured too, weren't you?

[ It was on the adoption paperwork. The extent to which was played down in the medical records, but it must have been bad. ]

I don't mind the cold. [ He's well-insulated with his size alone. His eyes shift away when Heine looks up at him, cheeks pink with the air that whipped through the funneled train depot to hide his visible reaction to his master's admission. Special forces. That explained a lot, but it suited his preconceived vision of Heine. ]

I see. You must've saved a lot of lives. It's hard to imagine that as a foot soldier, but I'm sure it was a valuable experience. We all lost people, of course, but I'm glad you're still here. [ And that they met. He's already somewhat fond of him, for all of the twenty minutes they've met. And sad. He can't explain that, the deep-rooted sorrow squeezing his chest in odd little pangs with no rhythm.

He creates a barrier that gives Heine his space, people flowing out around him instead of directly in front of him. When asked about his own injuries, though, he hums and trails off. How much should he divulge? Did he care to hear about each and every wound? Did Randall even remember each and every wound? ]

I was, on a lot of occasions. Nothing too bad, though, I think? Gunshot wounds, shrapnel, some explosive blasts from a further distance. There was a lot of wounds, but the worst ones were when I had been stabbed through the leg with a piece of rebar from a bomb blast and the twenty mil round that went through my stomach.

[ He touches where the bandages lay; it was a smaller tank round and it'd gone straight through him, avoiding anything too dire with help close enough that he miraculously survived. Even after rehab, he had all motor abilities. The only thing he had no control of had been the minor damage he'd suffered when he was neutered, so that didn't work particularly well but once in a blue moon. ]

Is it all right if I ask about you...? [ His injuries— he's curious. ]

[ Saved lives? Heine feels his gut twist, maybe from his back injury, maybe from too much emotion. For whatever lives he may have saved, he must have ended many more.

The only indication of his inner turmoil is a pause that's slightly too long. ] ...thanks.

[ He listens as Randall runs down a laundry list of past injuries, raising his eyebrows at the fact that a 20 mm round went through him and he's still alive and walking. Pretty damn impressive. ]

We hit a mine. [ Heine looks at the ground and the cast on his leg. ] Lost two soldiers in the blast. I'm lucky I can still move, apparently—I had to get a wheelchair sent up at the cottage I bought.

[ He scowls at the thought of it. The crutches he's currently using were considered the far less conservative option; he was supposed to take a wheelchair back with him in the first place. Being stuck in a wheelchair for months is definitely going to give him cabin fever.

The train's rumbling begins and drowns out Heine's soft sigh. Heine points out the compartment they're supposed to enter and hobbles over to the entrance. People mostly get out of his way. They have two sets of seats facing each other; the train to Almsport isn't in very high demand.

Once they're settled in, Heine leans back in his seat and shuts his eyes. ] I'm going to sleep. Wake me up if anything happens.

[ Sleeping is difficult at the best of times, and he doesn't really slip into anything deeper than a doze, so he can hear most of what's happening, only stirring occasionally when the train stops. ]

[ But due to their efforts, the war had come to an end and far more lives were spared by that alone, as well. Millions upon millions. Civilians and those who would've been drafted otherwise alike. Randall always looks at the glass half full until it comes down to himself. He notes that pause, ears swiveling back as he seems to realize what he'd said and how it was taken instead of how it was intended and he ducks his head in apology. ]

I'm sorry; I didn't mean it that way. The war is over, is all. No more bloodshed.

[ And he listens intently as Heine shares his own wounds; a mine. That explained the crutches and his stiff posture. It must have been close. ] You are lucky— very. I'm sorry for your loss but I'm also glad that you're largely unhurt. I'll... I'll accommodate as much as I can. If you need anything at all— please just say so.

[ His words are earnest, nearly forceful in how desperately he wants to help and to convey that desire. When the train arrives and he points to a compartment, Randall is quick to move, helping shift people out of Heine's way with his presence a step ahead of him and to the side he wore his cast on. He even offers a hand when he moves to sit with the other out for the crutches, if he'll trust him to ease his weight down onto the seat.

Randall can't help but wonder what could possibly happen. He'll be a quiet companion, reading whatever the attendant can offer him, taking the occasional offer of water, and mostly staring out the window while they travel. He won't sleep while Heine sleeps to guard their belongings, and he has no money to purchase food on the pushcarts that come through. When Heine stirs once maybe eight hours later, though, he'll grab his attention. ]

Is there anything you'd like me to get from the attendants, when they come around with the carts again...?

[ The train's progress is steady, for the most part, only drawing to a stop at some crossings and stations to pick up more passengers and let others off. Heine keeps his eyes closed, aware of his dog's presence across from him and the weight of his crutches resting against his leg. The rumble of the train's engine lulls him into sleep more than once, but the jolts of debilitating pain that shoot up his spine whenever they accelerate too suddenly or go over uneven track keep him awake.

He has his eyes cracked open when Randall speaks. The first response he manages is a mumble of acquiescence, before he realizes that there's more to the question. Heine sits up slowly, levering his weight up against the seat.

Getting up to take anything out of his bag seems beyond him at the moment. His limbs feel heavy and his head spins a little, so he asks for help. It's not as if it damages his pride; he knows it's for the better. And he's so tired. ]

My bag—the smaller one.

[ Once it's attained, Heine rifles through it to find his wallet, which he passes to Randall without much second thought. As he does, however, the train conductor announces over the intercom system that they'll be stopping for about fifteen minutes for fuel and for passengers to stretch their legs. Heine glances out the window at the people spilling out of the train, onto the station, chattering in the fresh air and milling about some of the foodstands. He doesn't really want to move, but he... probably should. Keep the blood circulating and all that.

Reaching for his crutches, Heine pulls himself up and out of his seat, hissing through his teeth at the pain the simple movement triggers in his back. Damn. ]

Bring whatever you need to keep close. [ He says, after a pause to regain control of his voice. ] And my knapsack, but leave the other bag. We can get something to eat before the train starts moving again.

[ Randall had been greatly enjoying the passing scenery, if little else. It kept him occupied and entertained, passing through towns and seeing people happy again, smiling. Getting on with their lives. As if nothing had happened mere months ago and it wouldn't take years upon years to recover from the damages suffered. Humans were nice and resilient, weren't they?

When Heine mumbles, even his hearing can't really pick the words apart, but then he speaks up and Randall is quick to obey, fetching the little bag and handing it right over. He practically shoves it into his lap so he doesn't have to reach for it. After hearing about his back injury he wonders if he should try to help limit his movements or something, or if he's in any pain. What's he to do with his wallet...? He hadn't said if he wanted anything. But when the train stops and he sees the food carts, he practically begins to salivate. He can nearly smell the roasting meats and hot cheeses melting over the bread being served with soup. He's already standing, nothing important in his bags except his discharge papers which weren't valuable or even worth stealing, eager to go try some of that soup.

His attention veers back with a swivel of his ears at that hiss of pain, immediately stooping from where he'd stood and stepping back into their seat's alcove. ]

Are you all right? Do you need any help...?

[ At least passengers could still get by him once he'd stepped back in, even if he's towering over Heine and probably too close in his space. He'll step back out into the aisle as soon as he's on his feet and keep people from crowding behind him. Space was probably important for men like him, especially when injured and trying to recover. It's difficult to be vulnerable and weak and having to rely on others to respect one's space, health, and independence. He's doing his best to be respectful, himself. ]

Ah, yes— that'd be good. How long is this trip going to last...?

[ Randall shoulders the knapsack and hovers a bit around Heine, wanting to help in any way he could. He's being swept along by this man he's only just met with no real idea of their destination, how far away it is, how much money he has, or even what sort of situation he'll be in once they arrive. He has no designation and he doesn't think "friendship" is really on the table. He'd been adopted for a reason unknown to him, so he'll just act according to his assumptions. Something like a guard dog, or a service/support animal... ]

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REINCARNATION I: THE WAR

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