Spots: Better than a Hallmark Card

A Web Serial by M.C.A. Hogarth

79. New Territory.	81. Legends.

80. Better than a Hallmark Card

Claws returns to the Barracks. Spots is asleep in her rack, rosary tangled in her hand. He looks at her for a long time, then turns in.

Following morning.

Shaking Spots. "Hey."

"Claws? Alarm didn't go off—"

"We gotta errand to run before patrol."

Spots sits up, rubs her eyes with one hand, beads swinging. She sets the rosary on her desk. "Sure. What are we doing?"

"We need to tell Peaches that the trank rounds are ready."

"Already?"

"Yeah."

Spots glances at him. Then nods. "All right. Give me five."

###

Sickbay, not long after. Claws stops a corpsman. "Is the LT awake?"

"Not a chance. She's in bed twelve, dreaming the dreams of the righteously medicated."

Spots. "And the others they brought in yesterday?"

"Three of them are in the morgue. The last two just got out of surgery. Prognosis is positive. More or less."

Claws. "What does 'more or less' mean?"

"We had to amputate an arm on one of them. The other might be paralyzed. You never know with paralysis, though, sometimes people snap back."

Claws. "..."

Spots, nudging him. "Thanks for telling us. Come on, Claws."

Claws, whispering. "Was he tryin' to be funny? Because that sure as hell wasn't funny."

Spots. "He's medical, Claws. They have an off-center sense of humor, they've seen too much."

Claws. "And we haven't?"

Spots. "Are you trying to tell me soldiers have a less macabre sense of humor than doctors? Soldiers? Really?"

Claws. "..."

Claws. "Okay, point." Looks around. "I just don't like the vampires."

Spots, hard. "They keep us alive. You don't have to like them, Claws. Just show them a little respect."

At bed twelve, Claws hovers over Peaches while Spots reads the monitor. "Broken collarbone, big gash in her thigh... 32 stitches! Ouch. They pumped a lot of blood back into her. Bruises, cuts. Nothing more serious though."

Claws. "This is nothing serious? I'd hate to see serious."

Spots. "She'll be okay."

Claws rolls his shoulder. Then turns and hunts for a piece of paper and pen. He writes:

Fiddler's gift, by way of Mom and her Tag-along. You want a live one, these'll bring one down. Say the word. —Walker

He wraps it around the round and secures it with a rubber band, then leaves it on the tray by her bed.

Spots. "Quite a present."

Claws. "It was that or a Hallmark card. Somehow I'm thinkin' she'll like the bullet better."

###

Much later, after patrol. The rest of Team Kitty has finished stripping their suits and dispersed. Spots is racking her power packs.

"Hey, Claws?"

"Yeah."

"We still doing practice?"

Claws looks up. "What? Yeah." Shakes himself. "Yeah, of course."

"It's okay if you want to take the time off."

"No, I'm fine. Patrol was too freakin' quiet, that's all. Gives me the collywobbles."

Spots. "You weren't the only one. It was getting to all of us. We couldn't even keep any of the word-games going." She finishes up. "All right, I'm done. Lead the way."

They head past the Door to the Testing Facility. Spots starts on her stretches while Claws checks the gloves. They've barely been there a few minutes when:

Fang2, at the door. "****! A guy can't sleep around here without all hell breaking ****ing loose!"

Claws. "What the hell are you jawin' about, princess?"

"You, smart-***. I heard you almost took on the entirety of squad PYEO in the gym."

Spots. "Claws? What's this about?"

Claws covers his eyes with a hand, muttering. "Aw, Jesus."

79. New Territory.	81. Legends.