(no subject)
Bill shifts on his crutches in the door of the compound, contemplating the steps down. It's snowy, probably icy, but he's not gonna let it stop him. He's in his coat from Bastogne, in bad shape but the only one he's got. Even got his helmet on, but that's just 'cause he don't have a hand free to carry it in.
He's been in the clinic for a week, a span of time almost unimaginably short from the time he'd have had to spend in a hospital back home. One without invisible healing robots and broad doctors and all manner of crazy shit besides. A man who calls himself Duck made him crutches. Bill liked him right away, quiet, serious, but a sense of humor. Reminded him of Maloney. Leg already healed and he's getting stronger by the day, they say he's ready to go. Bing-bang-boom, outta there. Getting around on one leg, they say, takes care, practice, and physical therapy. But he don't need to be laid up in the clinic, which is the good part. It's better than the last hospital he was in, for sure, but it's still a hospital and he don't like bein' cooped up in it.
So here he is, one step (careful with the crutches) and another, and he makes it down the porch.
Buck's been minding him like a mother hen, getting him food, clothes, telling him stories. It had taken a threat of death to let Bill piss on his own. It's not that he don't appreciate Buck's help or his company, but when he hears about the crutches and goin' to a place that ain't home, but will be, he knows it's something he's got to do himself. He's grown up relying on nobody, he's not gonna stop now 'cause of some Goddamn injury. After Toccoa, from Normandy to Bastogne, there's nothin' he can't do. And that includes using crutches to get himself somewhere.
Bill don't know where exactly the Homestead is, but he figures he can ask somebody to point him in the right direction along the way. There's a boardwalk, most of the snow's been cleared off it so he starts on his way. He's doing good when one of the crutches catches a patch of ice and he loses his footing, falling right on his ass. It happens so fast he hardly has time to make a sound.
"Fuckin' ice," Bill curses, breaths making small puffs of white in front of his face. His helmet got knocked off and he lifts his head to look for it, not giving a shit except for the photo inside. He braces himself on an arm, awkwardly sitting up to grab for a crutch, still cursing.
[Find Guarnere any point along the main boardwalk from the compound- for anyone not familiar with him, he's missing most of his right leg. This takes place sometime in the afternoon]
He's been in the clinic for a week, a span of time almost unimaginably short from the time he'd have had to spend in a hospital back home. One without invisible healing robots and broad doctors and all manner of crazy shit besides. A man who calls himself Duck made him crutches. Bill liked him right away, quiet, serious, but a sense of humor. Reminded him of Maloney. Leg already healed and he's getting stronger by the day, they say he's ready to go. Bing-bang-boom, outta there. Getting around on one leg, they say, takes care, practice, and physical therapy. But he don't need to be laid up in the clinic, which is the good part. It's better than the last hospital he was in, for sure, but it's still a hospital and he don't like bein' cooped up in it.
So here he is, one step (careful with the crutches) and another, and he makes it down the porch.
Buck's been minding him like a mother hen, getting him food, clothes, telling him stories. It had taken a threat of death to let Bill piss on his own. It's not that he don't appreciate Buck's help or his company, but when he hears about the crutches and goin' to a place that ain't home, but will be, he knows it's something he's got to do himself. He's grown up relying on nobody, he's not gonna stop now 'cause of some Goddamn injury. After Toccoa, from Normandy to Bastogne, there's nothin' he can't do. And that includes using crutches to get himself somewhere.
Bill don't know where exactly the Homestead is, but he figures he can ask somebody to point him in the right direction along the way. There's a boardwalk, most of the snow's been cleared off it so he starts on his way. He's doing good when one of the crutches catches a patch of ice and he loses his footing, falling right on his ass. It happens so fast he hardly has time to make a sound.
"Fuckin' ice," Bill curses, breaths making small puffs of white in front of his face. His helmet got knocked off and he lifts his head to look for it, not giving a shit except for the photo inside. He braces himself on an arm, awkwardly sitting up to grab for a crutch, still cursing.
[Find Guarnere any point along the main boardwalk from the compound- for anyone not familiar with him, he's missing most of his right leg. This takes place sometime in the afternoon]