A day later, the group stood under a tree where Coat had been buried. They stared solemnly into space, each waiting for the other to say something. Behind, and engulfing the group in shadow, was the giant Reaper, which crouched low so Angela could get close.

She clutched the fabric of the coat tightly and gritted her teeth together. Slacks had worked fast to resize the long coat. In addition to getting it ready for Angela, he added a zipper to the back, so the cable stuck in her could be worked around. She tried to complain that a zipper was uncomfortable and unnecessary—a slit would be good enough—but he ignored her.

Angela didn’t know what to say; the sniper had gone above and beyond, even tearing the bottoms of his pants to fashion a decent skirt. He complained the whole time, but the results were clear.

After years of freezing in open temperatures and relying on the Reaper for nutrients and fever reduction, she felt warm yet cold. Angela rubbed the fabric over her arms; she still felt the wires moving underneath her skin, but not through the material to her palm. She closed her fist tightly and stared at the empty sky outside the Reaper’s hole. It was soothing to see nothing.

Once the burial was completed, she watched Helmet say his thanks to a blonde hair villager and his apparent girlfriend, two that insisted profusely to help, and they loaded up the last of the supplies in the back of the jeep.

Slacks took the wheel as Bandana, and Glasses slid into the back seats. Helmet climbed into the machine and sighed as he sat along the back wall.

Heavy footsteps clanged as the Reaper followed the jeep.

“I’m sorry,” Angela finally said as the mountainside village faded from view, and they climbed up a rocky hill. “I wasn’t fast enough.” Her voice hung low, and she tried to keep her eyes glued on the rough path before them.

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Helmet sighed and reached into his pocket. He pulled nothing out and wiped his palm across his leg.

“If we start delving into what could have happened, what maybe we could have done, we will all find plenty of things to blame ourselves for.”

“It’s always the same,” Angela muttered, though her words were not in reply to Helmet.

“We’ve been through a lot; I suspect so have you. But all we can do is keep walking forward.”

“I don’t…there’s no point. I wish I would have died in the battle.”

“You wouldn’t have fought so hard if you really thought that. I know what someone looks like when they’ve given up on the battlefield.”

The Reaper took a heavier step, enough to cause some loose stones to roll in the echoing mountains. Angela said nothing as she continued to walk.

“Get out; I’ll go a different way.”

“While you are moving? I would have a difficult time with that.” Helmet replied with a laugh.

“You don’t seem to care if you die; why should that matter?”

“Not caring and being comfortable are two different things. The first invites recklessness.”

“Then I’ll stop,” Angela said as she rolled her red eyes.

“That is fine, but if I may ask, why do you want to leave now?”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Just go!” she screeched. The Reaper suddenly stopped and bent forward like it was bowing. Helmet’s fingers wrapped around the edge of the frame at the last possible second to avoid being thrown to the ground like an egg.

“My arm’s going to feel that tomorrow,” he said in a light tone, but his face betrayed his emotion, like he was joking but couldn’t hide the pain.

“I’m sorry,” Angela whispered as the Reaper stood straight again. She hadn’t meant to throw him so violently—or maybe she did. She wasn’t sure. Her hands trembled, and she balled them into tightly clenched fists. Helmet pulled himself back in and stared at the chassis ceiling.

“You’ve been traveling with us for a little while now; I think I should give you a little more history if you’re willing to lend an ear?” Helmet asked after he took a moment to catch his breath.

“Whatever,” she whispered in reply. Even Angela wasn’t sure what tone she meant to take.

“Very well,” the older man said before he began his story.