“Wait!” I yelled after him,
“Pointer! Wait for me!”
He was bleeding badly; a piece of Dramaticon shrapnel had ripped the side of his right calf open and blood drops spattered the tree tops as he shot away.
I jumped on my Rotor Floater (3) and cranked after him.
He was riding in a North-Easterly direction through the tall pine trees, his longer-than-fashion-dictates-as-proper black hair whipping around his fine-boned face.
I was having a hard time keeping up with him, he goes especially fast when he’s upset.
He seemed to be heading for the lake; we had done recon around it yesterday, and Pointer had, well, pointedly remarked on how beautiful and peaceful it was. Later that day he had told me in private that the place had actually been soothing to his normally harried soul.
I figured that he was heading there to be alone and to sort out his current emotions.
But I, personally, did not trust him to be by himself in his current state of mind and body. I could only guess at the thoughts currently racing through his head. Erratically emotional at the best, he was down-right dangerous to himself during the current circumstances. (1)
He had almost reached the soft blue pudding bowl that is Benedict Lake, and I was just about ten yards behind.
I was starting to really worry about him; he nearly crashed into an imposing bristlecone pine at the beginning of the pepper-and-salt sand. He wasn’t all that great of a flyer, but he was also usually much more careful than that. It looked as if he was entertaining some sort of a death wish.
He crash-landed, his rotor floater sliding in the sand, then landing nearly a foot away from the softly lapping water.
I carefully maneuvered around the tallest bristlecone pine; the same one Pointer had almost crashed into, and landed my RF next to his.
He had already stumbled off his Rotor floater, and was kneeling in the water, blood from his right calf trailing scarlet swirls in the miniature surf. I couldn’t see his face, he was bent over, fists clenched to his chest.
I knelt down next to him, and put my arms around his shoulders.
“Pointer, it wasn’t your fault that we lost the Omotor containers,” I said softly, he angrily jerked his body, nearly dislodging my arms, but I held on tighter.
“How do you know?!” He spat, his face contorted with anguish and fury as he turned to look into my eyes.
The whole point of our mission had been to retrieve the highly explosive containers, but they had caught fire at the last minute. Pointer had doggedly tried to hold on, but Robert had wrestled them from him and chucked them at a pursuing Dramaticon, therefore blowing it and the entire Lonquine base up.
A pretty successful mission, if you ask me.
“Robert made you leave the containers,” I replied, “You would have blown up with them if he hadn’t.”
“I should’ve put out the fire, Crash, I could’ve spat on them or something!” Pointer said wildly, an imploring look in his eyes.
“You know that’s nuts,” I told him gently, “There was nothing you could have done”
“Maybe you’re right,” He gave in, “But I still feel like an utter failure.”
“Don’t, you have no right to, Pointer.” I admonished mildly, despite my choice of words. “Besides, you successfully blew up that Lonquine base, and even if it wasn’t part of the plan, it worked out pretty fillerackin’ well, if you ask me.”
He leaned back into me, inner turmoil calmed, the previous rigidity in his body lost. I held him tighter. We kneeled in the water a few minutes more, letting the peace of the lake sooth us both.
I noticed that Pointer was still bleeding.
“Come on, get up. We need to go back to Robert and get your leg wrapped.” I told him, giving his shoulders one last squeeze and then standing up, water dripped from my jeans.
Pointer raised a hand, and I heaved him upright.
I kept hold of his hand as we walked back to the Rotor Floaters, supporting him as he limped along.
We climbed onto our RFs, and began a much slower and safer journey back to camp, leaving the semblance of a peaceful world behind.
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