Simon's relationship with his wolf is the most uncomplicated thing in his entire life.
When he woke up with a splitting headache no medicine his mother fed him could alleviate, his mother had tried anything she could think of to help, besides taking him to an actual doctor. After three days his father had started to watch him, he even stopped hitting him, and it was such a relief Simon never bothered to think too deeply about the contemplation banked in grey eyes that only ever looked at him at the best of times, in disgust.
After several weeks the migraine broke, but it hardly came as a relief, Simon's head had never felt so crowded. It felt like someone was wrapping his head in rubber bands just to see how many it'd take before it burst from the pressure. It also felt itchy, and there was nothing that helped that odd tickle abate, it made Simon want to scoop his brain out through his nose just to have some sort of relief.
The answer came to him when his father broke his nose again, it was a pain Simon was used to, but something was different this time. Maybe it rattled his brain more than usual, it had to have to explain why as soon as the blood dripping from his nose touched his lips he was launching himself up at his father, what he was trying to do he doesn't know.
His father caught him before contact, his hands harsh around his small throat as Simon swung in his grip from the momentum. Instinctually Simon thrashed, attempting to pry off the fingers cutting off his airway, but with his free hand his father grabbed both of his wrists in his one, grinding them together painfully.
A wet guttural growl puffed directly into his face, Simon's eyes opened wide as he stared into the glowing eyes of the beast that held him. Something that felt almost like a shaking boat rocked around Simon's skull as he looked up into a face that barely looked like his father, it was the first time he'd ever seen him half shift, it was terrifying. With a shake the older shifter brought Simon closer, his exposed gums looked grey in the low light, but his eyes held Simon captive.
He could see himself just barely through his darkening vision, he stared into them and saw his own eyes glowing back at him.
After that it all made a sick sort of sense, of course he'd carried the gene his father had, of course the old man wouldn't accept him, let alone help him. He wanted to hate the wolf as much as he did his donor, his father never thought much of Simon to begin with, and teaching him anything related to his shifter heritage never had a place in his father's house. Simon was never taught where he came from, not about any clans he could seek further knowledge from, never given any sort of preparation for the changes his mind and body would go through in the coming years.
With hindsight Simon knows that was all purposeful, but that didn't help him as a child, and it doesn't help him as an adult, nothing and no one ever does.
Until the wolf races through his mind on it's birthing day, bright and beautiful in its ignorance, stretching and poking at all of the darkest parts of his mind. Their mind now, clearing away broken ideas like a summer breeze, soft and gentle and always so damn curious. Maybe that's one of the reasons he could never hate the wolf, it proved to be his better half by the simple virtue of existing along side Simon. An entity that too, once it started to see the threats to it's hosts life, longed to rip his father's throat out.
Even at the tender age of six Simon knew self hatred, he may not have knew the words, but the feeling sat there heavy like weights in his mind as he listened to his mother cry.
They could never take Simon's father, especially as Simon couldn't yet shift. Shifters went through an adolescence period, where both animal and host minds acclimated to each other, which needed several years more of melding before the wolf could have the power to change them.
And this leads to the only point of contention between the wolf and Simon, they both agree on everything, but the one thing. And that, Simon will never budge on.
The wolf gave Simon something that was just his, only his. And the wolf, Simon vowed, would never taste his father's abuse.
The control Simon learned through his father's fists; through a snake's kiss, through sleepless nights haunted by his own family, was unwavering. He always held his shift down. His will was forged through life events no one should go through, and he came out on the other side firmly in control of his body.
When he and the wolf shifted for the first time and Simon got a taste of life through his other half, he doubled down on his own vow. To feel the wolf in the forefront, free of worries, of the need to cower and clench, to brace for impact, was nirvana. When he was forced to go through the rigorous state mandated testing to integrate back into public schools the control he displayed should have risen every red flag in the book.
His marks and notations should have brought more attention to him, neither surprise, nor pain could force a shift onto Simon, to have the control of a shifter twice his age? And in some ways it had, but not to the right people, and not in anyway that would help Simon then. His report was tagged and copied, placed in a small cabinet, with an even smaller pool of others, filed away for a purpose he would eventually fall right into.
He felt he deserved to feel pride about his self control, he'd earned that right to feel this way, and nothing contested that.
Until Roba.
He became obsessed with Simon's wolf, a wolf he could never force forward no matter what he'd done to Simon. It was common knowledge electricity was a detriment to shifters, the shock to their neural pathways overloaded them, forcing them into their animal half. Roba's ego had made him believe himself too indomitable to need something as mundane as that. After breaking enemy soldiers into pawns of his own as often as he did, shifters and human alike, he thought himself above such mundane means.
And after hearing the anguished howls of other wolves, their high calls close enough to make his ears ring for hours after, Simon knew he succeeded more often than not. But after months with no result Roba had reached the end of his tether, and he made damn sure Simon would suffer for the waiting he'd done.
Roba came back into his room not even five minutes after treating Simon like his own personal meat piñata, leaving Simon gasping and swinging from his metal manacles.
When he burst back in, all Simon could was swallow grimly, the bat he'd used hadn't even finished it's slow roll down the soft slope of his cell. The trail of blood it left made Simon think of little Joseph's art projects, namely the time Tommy had left the little tyke alone for only a few minutes and came back to a large portion of the kids wall finger painted, his nephew giggling innocently.
It was macabre to think of his nephew while swinging helplessly as he was, Simon's lips still twitched up, but it quickly fell as his busted lip began bleeding again.
His dissociative fog lifted slightly at the clunk of metal beside him. It was a new enough sound that Simon glanced over in morbid curiosity, a car battery set on his torturers table, and Simon couldn't stop himself from quickly looking directly into Roba's thunderous eyes.
Simon had never been tested for something as powerful as a car battery, shifters were constantly tested with small shocks in controlled environments. But what the nurses used for those were akin to a electric fly swatter. The special forces used even higher currents but even they didn't get anyway near this voltage.
Roba though, in his rage didn't only settle for that, the man following him quietly walked on Simon's other side holding a cattle prod. He didn't even look at him as he passed his vision, but he heard him stop just behind Simon's shoulder, awaiting his cue.
There was barely any warning, no speech, no threatening gestures to make him sweat in anticipation. Roba merely waited until Simon finally looked him in the eye and quick as a viper he clamped one jumper into the sparse meat left of his pec, the other went around his wrist touching the metal of his manacle.
Simon didn't stand a chance, the electricity was like fire in their veins, his battered and weak body locked unused muscles to his bones in a full body flex. His grip on his wolf was lost to the searing pain of a forced shift, and so too was his consciousness.
His wolf came into their body thrashing, falling awkwardly through the bindings barely meant for humans onto the floor in a pained heap, it's ribs and shoulder lighting up in pain. Its body carried no wounds, as the body and soul of the animal of a shifter is a separate entity to the human host.
Woken from it's sleep with no warning it was confused for only a moment. It was given no time to take advantage of its new found freedom, the cattle prod was shoved directly into its ribs, far too close to its heart. The muscle constricted, locking its body into a fallacy of rigor mortis, choking the wolf into submission. Vaguely the wolf can feel its body being jostled, the smell of burnt hair joining the frankly disgusting amalgamation of smells already present. The lightening arching through its heart keeps it's attention from acting out.
Without its host awake, the wolf cannot shift back, and it is no mindless beast, it knows everything Simon does. And anything done to it will surely break its Simon will.
The human before it grabs pliers from the cart beside its leather bound mouth, it can only stare with hatred at the male that now haunts its hosts every waking thought, every nightmare, every single breath Simon takes he waits for this man to punish him for it.
All of Simon's fears are about to be realized, his only salvation, the only thing keeping him going is his need to protect It. All those arguments, that it could handle pain, can share the burden, the one single contention they have; and it can do nothing that it said it would. The burn of contempt must be rousing its host, he can feel the whispers of callouses against its withers, a sure sign Simon is attempting to shift them even in sleep.
It must show in its eyes because the man stops the tirade it's been ignoring, and lifts one side of its mouth exposing its canine, he grips the tooth with the pliers and smiles in it's face.
The f*cker let's it dawn on the wolf, horror descends, and it cannot help the cry it lets out for Simon.
And then Roba pulls.
Simon wakes to his wolf crying for him, something it's never done, even at their lowest points. The tooth doesn't come out all the way the first time, but blood gushes like a burst pipe from their gums, it struggles helplessly in its chains, wrenching its shoulder from its socket with a loud pop barely to be heard over the inhuman noises the wolf is making.
The pliers slip as Roba tries to finish removing it, and Simon tries desperately to fight the tides of their shock to shift them, he feels it so close before Roba rips the tooth from its home. This time they are both lost to the wave, the wolf comes to before Simon and it whimpers pathetically when it sees their tormentor close again, with the pliers on its other upper canine.
Defeat is not something a wolf should ever feel, it's unnatural in the face of something that should be prey, it still snarls viciously even if it knows nothing can be done.
Simon comes back to awareness gasping in pain, Roba managed to pull their other canine out in one go this time. But what his wolf feels is overcoming the pain, it feels pitiful, small, unworthy of Simon. Now its been made tame, Roba is admiring their teeth on the table, and it makes Simon nauseous to see he's damaged his wolf so severely he can see pieces of its Sharpey's fiber, and even smaller pieces of alveolar bone.
Desperation the likes of which he's never felt grips his thoughts, he's never done this, being so in sync with his wolf he never wanted to, but he has to try. An old wives tale from Salem days, when all manner of kin needed to corral themselves. That a shifter could lock away their shared soul, deeply enough to be unreachable. He hopes now it's got an iota of truth to it.
While he still has the focus, the devotion, and he can only hope one day, the forgiveness. In a long familiar action he cradles the wolfs' soul gently like he means to shift them; the power and magic of another being he's always found so beautiful sighs in his hold. Giving one hard loving stroke the wolf can feel even through the hellish pain of reality.
And then he rips the wolfs mind from his own, separating the link they share to their conscious body, he shoves the wolf so far back into their mind he can barely even tell where he sent it.
Simon is ripped from their mind space, slammed into their body in a shift so violent the vertigo is soul deep, he immediately vomits into Roba's hands, coating the bloodied pliers in bile and blood from his still healing punctured lung.
His vision is pulsing in time to his heart, the world around him takes on a green hue, interspersed with a red so deep it's nearly black. Roba bellows in his face but Simon can't hear anything, can only feel his face and chest vibrate, he feels an odd detachment to himself, like he's floating. It's startlingly similar to when he dissociates but clinger, all his thoughts feel like they're slowly being incased in wax.
The car battery cable Roba snaps onto his ear goes unnoticed until it lights his nerves up like a Christmas tree, but unlike last time he doesn't shift, he goes into a grand mal seizure.
He doesn't know much after that, the wolf blood heals him even if he's locked it away so deeply he can feel the damage he's done to their bond. He can only hope it's not irreparable.If they can even make it out of here.
Time was hard to track before, but now it's hard to even remember who he is as Roba amps his psychological torture to match the physical.
Roba reaches a fever pitch, and after all these months Simon had truly thought he'd seen it all from the man. The skulls and women, and the hook, but he's reached manic heights Simon never knew were possible.
But for all of that, he never gets Simon's wolf again.
He's half shifted in lieu of a full shift, but a half shift is usually achieved in tandem with his wolf, now he feels scraped empty with no wolf to hold. His half shifted body takes on scars as vicious as his human one, this he can live with, and he can't help it in the face of the frantic torture anyway. Plus it speeds up his healing, which he thinks is the only thing keeping him alive at this point.
The night everything changes feels like all the rest, Roba and his trusty cattle prod come into his rank cell. He jabs Simon until eventually he half shifts, an unholy light ignites in Roba's, and Simon fights not to show his apprehension, this time instead of cutting him for hours Roba quickly hits him again with the prod.
Simon feels a now familiar floating sensation flow languidly through his head, Roba wastes no time in reminding him who holds the power, he places the prod directly over his heart and waits for his muscles to relax from the last shock.
Simon looks down at the vicious f*cker, and wishes again that he'd never let this happen to them. He swore his wolf would remain whole and only loved, to never know any of the pain of it's human, and now he'll die knowing he can't even make it up to it.
The float is leaving, he can hear and see Roba turning the voltage higher, he closes his eyes, nothing matters now.
Whatever he saw or is seeing from his expression has made Roba aroused, it's not the first time but it always makes his gut clench in revulsion. He tries to keep his face passive, but he can't feel his muscles enough to know if he does.
The prod is digging deeper into his chest but he hasn't turned it on, the half shift is fading slowly, lowering more of his body weight into the cylinder as he shrinks back down. A hand lands against his belly, he can't help his flinch or the gooseflesh, the contrast of his cold cell versus Roba's hot hand startling him.
Roba's hand opens, fingers sprawling up his stomach, slowly the hand moves upward, Simon holds in his hiss as it travels over old and new wounds before it cups his pectoral.Simon shudders and squeezes his eyes closed tighter when Roba pinches his nipple between his index and middle fingers, his pinky skating close to his ribs. It's the same spot the man keeps reattaching the battery jumpers, bruised and scarred from the clamps teeth.
Roba rests the entire front of his body against Simon's. He can't do this again, he can't, he can't, n—
The heat is suddenly gone, but it's replaced by an even worse fire, the prod crackles in his ears. His body flexes uncontrollably, and his mind rolls, the floating comes at a striking speed, and still the prod is on.
This is different, he normally stops by now, his mind is so thick he's loosing the ability to think, and still the crackle and heat goes on. His mind crumples, the seizure takes him under again.
Waking in a box with the rotting corpse of the superior officer that betrayed him doesn't even surprise him, what does is that he hadn't woken in the interim. The vague loopiness must mean he was drugged, even he's not immune to those, shifters simply burn through them and heal off the damage.
He raises his hands, wiping them along the harsh wood, he listens intently for a couple moments but can't hear anything besides the bugs wriggling on, and beneath him.
He exhales shakily, wondering if it's even worth it to try to get out.
He's so tired, has been tired since he can remember. The dark part of him finds the idea of dying freeing, a peace he's only felt when he thinks of that choice, that nothingness. He knows too his wolf would not fault him, all the times he sat and debated the choice his wolf never tried to lie to him.
It let him know it would simply follow him into the next life, a life it promised it would make better for them, the only lie it's ever told, even if it said it like it knew something he didn't.
The other half of his soul doesn't deserve to go out like this though, Simon knew he didn't either, but the wolf truly was pure. Could he take it all away from it? He doesn't have the heart to reconnect if he's going to give up now, and the air he can tell is getting thinner.
A worm tries to crawl in his ear and like a volcano Simon bursts into motion, snarling he snatches the worm before it goes too deep and squishes it into his palm as he balls his fist, awkwardly punching as hard as he can at the wood above him.
He sucks in a breath that leaves him gagging and retching, vile squelching erupts behind his head as the partially decomposed face of Vernon slides off.
Grimacing as some part of the Major's face digs deeply into the rows of gashes along his scalp, he tries to ignore how it scraps at him after every swing, at how wet his shoulders are with bodily fluids. The furthest parts of his mind, the analytical part he had to turn off, knows the body is pretty far gone at this point. How long ago must Vernon have been thrown down here left to rot?
Choking on the scent of death, Simon takes a moment to pant, to try to even out his breathing to prolong his air. Irrationally he grabs at whatever has been scrapping his raw scalp into bleeding, it's stiff, but almost comfortingly smooth, without further thought he yanks forcefully. It comes away with a obnoxious pop, in the limited space, and unsure how much strength he needed, he over estimates and his arm hits the casket top. It falls from his throbbing hands, hitting him full in the face before he can even make out what it is.
Old rotting blood falls in clumps over his mouth, with a quick glance at his chest he sees teeth, a curved piece of bone. Frantically he scraps at his face and mouth, clawing himself in the process as he half shifts, his unbridled disgust overpowering his tight control. His face becomes unbearably hot as he fights the urge to pass out, overwhelmed with so much sensory overload, the tears he's refused to shed for Roba slide down his face and into his hairline.
He chokes back the sobs he can't afford to let loose, the air is already so thin his chest hitches for every half breathe he inhales. Trying to bring his breathing back, pushing the partial shift away. As much as he wants the strength it wields its heart rate is even faster than his wolf, and the air is already so thin. He ignores the part of him that also knows he risks a higher chance of his wolf waking from its forced slumber.
Panic sets in when he can't remain fully human and he grabs the jaw on his chest, stabbing it into the wood with renewed vigor and triple the strength. His sight is dimming, he can feel the oxygen depravation taking it's toll, he wills his wolfs heart away, he needs the slower tempo of his humans.
Above him the wood splinters, he pries the broken jaw into the sides, and shoves his declawed hand into the dirt beside the hole, wrenching the hole bigger. His jaw locks as dirt, roots, wood, maggots and worms rain onto him as he manages to force his chest through the hole he's made. Just before he's wholly encased in dirt he loses vision completely and his chest ceases any and all air intake, he's clawing blinding upward with the last of his failing strength. The thin thread keeping his wolf away snaps, and he feels it wake all at once, it's pained cries fill his head space. Regret pours from Simon, their mind wobbling as he keeps digging upwards, each grab and hauling movement becoming weaker.
He doesn't realize he's been chanting apologies until the wolf sears him with its fierce love, silencing Simon and heating his mind as the sun once did. He misses the sun, hanging from the hook was as close to outside as he got but he was so delirious he's still not even sure that even happened to him anymore.
His fingers hit the air, close, so close, almost there, he's so tired.
A new found surge of energy infuses them, Simon is so numb he can't even tell who finishes digging them out of their grave, they switch their hand for their nose and gasp in as much air as they can. After they've caught their breath as much as they can, unable to draw in a complete one from the dirt compressing their ribs, they shift into the wolfs smaller body and wiggle through the hole they've made.
Simon is falling through the cracks of their psyche, he doesn't know how long he's been held, but it's been long enough to turn him near skeletal, in part thanks to his accelerated metabolism. Their captors never came on any sort of schedule, in the beginning he'd tried to track them, but he doesn't think he made it a week before his understanding of time shattered.
He'd counted them feeding him at some point but that too had waited until he didn't even know how long he'd gone without, coming to him in random intervals, at some points not even three minutes apart.
He doesn't know how long he's been awake, in near psychotic control of their body to prevent shifting, with another near death experience under his belt his mind collapses from prolonged stress.
He dreams of the field his wolf always thinks of, the one it thinks of when Simon thinks of that nothingness that death would bring him, and he knows peace for a short time.
There is no quiet waking for Simon, no slow drawl of a heart monitor, or distant chatter of nurses in the halls going about their jobs. There is only a panic so profound it woke Simon from the furthest depths of slumber and into their body, forced into the driver's seat with no chance to take in his surroundings.
The nurse close to him nearly loses her face to the panicked lunge he takes at her, she flails back with a scream and lands on her ass. His chest jerks to a stand still as he tries to follow the lunge into a jump, he's spitting foam as he takes in the leather around his neck, the metal carabineers binding him in a harness and to an examination table.
Horror and fear crash into Simon, understanding now why his wolf was so panicked. They left them to suffocate, but still waited to see if they'd make it out, sick piece of sh*t.
He can't see past the panic, Roba has had nurses see to him yes, but never outside of his cell. Never in a place so white and clean, with new age equipment that doesn't have a layer of grime to it.
All he hears is spanish and all he can smell is chemicals, he can't think past those two facts. Roba will never touch his wolf again.
His shift to human is brutal and sudden, he completely disregards the position he's held in, intent only on his wolfs safety. His human self is haggard with malnourishment, near skin and bones with barely any fat left, but it's wider than the wolfs body. There's barely enough space to form properly, if his ribs weren't broken already, he's pretty sure most of them are now. He can't even scream as they crack and pop now confined to the slab without a spec of air between to spare.
There's blood in his throat and his chest and stomach, but it's quickly fading into a numbed haze. Simon drools into the metal, overwhelmed by all the conflicting signals his worn body are throwing at him. The chemical taste he's been ignoring heightens, it feels stale rushing through his blood, all his muscles go lax.
Sedation never felt so sweet a victory, he'll take that over the cocaine he's been pumped full of for months. His fingers are going numb too, but he's human. The nurses yell in spanish all around him, he smiles in victory at the K-9 muzzle sitting beside his head. The wolf is safe, they didn't get far enough to hurt it only drug it, Simon closes his eyes.
Simon wishes he could say his third awakening is less chaotic than the second, the smell of antiseptic and stale air let's him know he's still in the same area, but that's as far as he gets on his own. He's startled only slightly to feel cool sheets under him, and his muddled brain slowly let's him know that he's sitting up, tense as a bow string. Lightening quick he takes in every nook and cranny of the room he's in, the cuffs he's in.
The wolf supplies him with the in betweens, but its given in a jumble, with no clear timeline, and not in their normal way. Simon's eyes snap open when the freshest memory processes. A man was, is in their room. Their visitor called himself a filler, American, the wolf labels him safe, weary, but silent. He's been there since the wolf woke, after the introduction he said nothing else.
As soon as Simon snapped forward the wolf turned tail and fled, Simon's jaw shudders as its left over emotions brush against his own. But he can't focus on that with an unknown in the room, so all he can do is send his warmth and thanks after the wolf.
Understanding why their sat up, he's able to see the entire room and watch their visitor too. He looks unassuming, but so too does his father, and Simon has never had the luxury of assuming anything at face value.
He's sitting sprawled in the chair opposite Simon's bed, slumped down with only his shoulders touching the back of the hospital chair, he looks to be somewhere near Simons own height if the way his ass hangs off most of the seat is any indication. He's silently watching Simon take him in, his head tilts slightly against the hand it's resting against, looking to the side of Simon.
"You know it's quite something to see that live, written words don't do it any justice."
Simon remains silent, sliding his eyes slowly to the ivs and equipment on his side, then to the foot of his bed, the typical spots a patients information is stored for nurses. It's at the end of his bed, there's not a chance in hell he can reach that with his cuffed wrists.
His visitor stands suddenly, Simon's eyes jump to him, he watches silently as the man glances to side before he grabs Simon's medical file. He reads something before glancing back to the side, Simon follows this time to see what he keeps glancing at. Simon's jaw clenches in irritation, his vital sign monitor displays his steady heart for the stranger, why that's so fascinating to him he's never going to ask.
"If I give this to you, think you'll answer some questions for me?"
"Shouldn't you call the nurse?" Simon shoots back calmly. The last thing he feels is threatened, and the last thing he cares about is whatever this man is going to say.
"Why haven't you?"
What would be the point, he doesn't speak spanish, and while highly likely the staff will know english, he would rather just read it all instead of deal with people.
He says nothing.
He doesn't miss the eye roll, but the man does pass him the clipboard, Simon takes it slowly weary of touching. But he makes no move to play power games or grab Simon, merely glancing off to the side at his monitor again.
His eye twitches but he focuses on the clipboard, a headache slaps him right behind the eyes, this too is in spanish. But at least it's easier to break down words than to hear them, he's hyper aware of his visitor still standing a bit away so as to not hover over him. The little body diagram with more circles than he can count circling varies bits of his entire chest confuses him, and his face scrunches at the sloppy handwriting that doesn't makes a lick of sense to him.
The other man coos condescendingly at him, "Want that nurse now?"
Face blank, Simon slowly turns to look at him. He wonders if he has enough momentum with his cuffed wrists to frisbee the clipboard hard enough to hit the other man's shins. He's seriously considering his luck just to take that smirk off his face when his eyes catch the assortment of patches on his Carhartt.
"What the f*ck is a filler?"
Both of their eyebrows shoot up at his non sequitur, then Simon's shoot down and he glances again at his ivs, there are two that are facing away from him, and he's going to blame both of those for that.
"It really is somethin' you know, wasn't sure you were even conscious for that."
He wasn't, but he doesn't need to know that, so he says nothing again. The silence hangs.
"You really weren't, huh? It's the eyes, soon as you woke they stopped glowing. Hold yourselves different too, never seen that before."
The man slowly walks back to his chair against the wall, instead of sitting he drags it closer to the foot Simon's bed before taking a seat.
"Means I'm here to babysit you on account o' being the closest operator when the good nurses that saved your life ran your wolfs tag. Between you and me, I'm enjoying the break, and I'm sure you're enjoying a pain free day."
The unvoiced, that could change, didn't go unnoticed by Simon. But outwardly he didn't react, and neither did his monitor, he's beginning to wonder if he's broken. A cloying apathy has hung over him for most his life, but it's so thick now it feels akin to a mire, Simon feels like he can barely see anything past the fog.
The drugs too while doing wonders for the pain; because he's right, there isn't any and isn't that a novel experience? aren't helping his mental facilities.
"Names Keegan by the way, Sergeant, the rest I don't think you're cleared to know. WhatIwant to know is where you've been, your CO marked you as MIA months ago. Two of your buddies got the same treatment," Keegan leans forward resting his elbows lowly on his knees before he continues, "but you, they found you—well your wolf, wandering near the border."
Keegan tilts his head, glancing at Simon's monitors, still holding rock steady, when he looks back his irises are slit like a cats.
"Now he's missing too. Why are you different, I wonder?" he murmurs.
A warped sense of relief fills Simon to know some of his regiment made it out of that sh*thole, he wonders who, and how but that's for another time. First he's got to sort out himself, and that starts with making sure what the American is saying is true.
"I need to speak to my own superiors, before I tell you anything."
