Fuck physical therapy.
Haz had spent enough time in the hospital wards, and enough time in the stim-sims getting his muscles worked over while he sat in a Gods-damned chair. It was time to go back to work. And besides that, they'd kept his old appearance specs in the sims. He looked all smooth-skinned and all of that. Fuckery. He thought about patching it over, but decided there was no point to it. He didn't like the sims. Reality was rare enough.
Falstaff had needed repairs, too, which made Haz laugh and laugh until the Dragon sent him spikes of pain along their connection. Like that bothered him. It felt pretty good after all this time. Ah, they'd had bonding time in Edanith, all right.
That he did miss. The war, ah yeah. He followed the war avidly, and he'd already downloaded battlefield memories. Of course, war was one of those things better viewed as a spectator sport. Less chance of death and all that. The Imperial had him teaching twosie history instead of combat. Today would be his first day back in the ATC.
It shouldn't have meant anything, but he still felt a moment of revulsion waking up in the morning, when he stared down at himself. It wasn't easy getting used to the half of his face now covered in broad, shiny red scars, or the way the ridged, inflamed skin continued down his neck, rippling over tendons, and disfigured the better part of his chest and right arm. He'd grown a paunch, too, since he didn't care enough not to indulge his appetites. It reminded him he was alive, all of it, even the grotesquery of overindulgence, post-masturbatory stupor, a couple hours in the Network every day after Falstaff was back to functioning, and the sick heavy smell of indigestion. He was fucking alive. And if life was ugly it was more his that way. And if pleasure was gross, well, that was more his too than the shiny Aedolian standard. Fuck 'em, fuck 'em all.
The right side of his body still felt wrong, tight and weak in the muscles all at once, but he made it his and it was--not right--but his. He got dressed, shaved the side of his face that still needed it, and headed down early to the ATC.
It felt good to walk the corridors. Candee-dates. They were scared of him, but then, they were always scared of him. He'd gotten a rank-boost to Noble out of this, and while he couldn't say he got pride out of it, yellow stripes got more of a reaction, to be sure. And the scars? Ha, maybe those too.
He made his way to the gym and planted himself in one corner, watching and drinking a cloyingly thick cup of hot chocolate. No one was gonna give him shit for sitting here and assessing. The gracies were running laps today under a Stage Five he didn't recognize. Some of them were very pretty. Haz raked through what thoughts he could find, mostly confusion and strain. One of them had pale skin and freckles on his legs under his shorts. His pale face had turned red from exertion. Well, ain't that a reminder. Haz snorted to himself and finished his drink in a long swallow. With each pass the gracie made he shoved a little more of himself into his mind. That's right, take a long look. Why are you thinking of me? Gods damn me if I know, looking at those fuckin' scars, that's some scary shit. Yeah, because pretty's too goddamn simple. Take a look. Fucking fascinating. Wonder what he looks like naked. Wonder if his cock is all scarred too. Because some ugly old bastard is better than pretty, eh?
They'd be done running soon and he'd say hello and see what sort of reaction he got.
This was what he'd missed, and he guessed not so much had changed.
'Cause I was always an ugly old bastard, he thought, and grinned.
