Down below, the dogs were barking. Tearing at the scraps of the poor scavenger who'd passed within his sights on his return home from the well and truly bumble-fucked hunting trip. Poor soul, but the mutts needed to eat, and Bhadra cared far more for them than he did anyone else in this ruined city. Occasionally, he'd lean forward in his chair, gazing out across his domain from the from the safety of his Nest, with the blessed aid of his trusty scope. No one and nothing stirred. No Gang members. No travelers. None of the underground rabble. Not even the occasional roach or rat. It was pure tranquility, bliss. All it needed was a bit of music.
The holdings within the Nest weren't sparse, no, not by any means. Within the obelisk, the hunter had gathered an abundance of useful objects. Enough ammunition to field a small gang of mercenaries (if he didn't always work alone), a food and water supply to last him and the mongrels outside and below weeks if it came to it, and a decent but still lacking pool of medicine, most of which was only good for first aid, but there were some exceptions. Apart from these survival necessities, however, Bhadra had taken to collecting any music he could get his hands on. Music was rather hard to come by in No Man's Land, and finding a way to listen to any of it was even harder, but still, where there was a will...
He'd inherited a few things from his mom and pop. Some records, and a record player that barely worked half the time. An old thing, ancient even before the War started and the disease began to spread. The fact it still worked at all was a miracle, and one that Marcus appreciated. Greatly. But that was music he'd listened to since he was a whelp. He'd long become desensitized to it, but thankfully, he'd acquired some different tunes over his...well, he'd lost track of how long it had been since he came home and found them both dead. A least...four winters. Maybe five.
At low volume, Bhadra would begin to play one of his favorites, electricity supplied by a small hand-cranked generator he'd lugged to the top of his hidey-hole. Heavy bass, choppy lyrics, honestly, he had no clue how to even go about describing it, only that it felt...good...to listen to.
Apart from the music, there were a few others things. His rucksack, filled with his exploration gear. A dirty, queen sized mattress, which had been an absolutely BITCH to get up here. Several oil lamps, all of which were doused at the moment. A collection of butane lighters. A roll of tin foil. A small, glass pipe. Several small, plastic bags full of non-descript white powdery chunks, speckled with green and blue.
As the music thumped around him, the bowl of the pipe would be rapped in foil, to help keep it clean, and to help the rocks melt better, as the thin metal heated more evenly than the glass ever could. One of the aforementioned nuggets would be crushed, sprinkled into the hole of the smoking device. Then, the lighter, flame sparked and ready, would be placed against the snow-like substance. A breath would be drawn, pulling the fire into the pipe and dark, swirling smoke into Bhadra's lungs.
The impact of the hit reminded him of when he'd fallen out of a third story window.
It hurt, but damn it, did it hurt so good. Bright white sparks pops and crackled at the edges of his vision, and within seconds, the self proclaimed King of the Mall was hacking up spittle and phlegm. Once the coughing fit was over, Marcus felt like he was floating...light headed...invincible...The light, overcast and barely peaking through the clouds, had become unbearably bright, causing the merc to sidle further back into Nest, into the darkest corner he could find.
One hit wouldn't be enough. He'd take another, then spew forth more bile and spit. Another. Then another. Then, once darkness threatened to take his consciousness, and blood came up in flecks with his drool, only then he would stop. By then, however...
By then...Bhadra truly felt...free...
...and happy.
