An Encounter in the Snow X
Hero steps inside Weapon’s cell twice that day. The second time, however, he’s carrying a bunch of items. Weapon greets him with his trademark grin, remaining silent as usual. He traces circles on the cold concrete floor with his index finger, a habitual motion.
"Okay," Hero states, kneeling in front of his prisoner and placing the items beside him on the floor. Weapon glances at the pile, but Hero quickly refocuses his attention. "Vicci," He says, clasping two fingers together. Weapon meets his gaze, his eyes as dead and cold as ever. The Captain can’t help but feel a sense of dread, almost as if he’s being devoured by the monster’s gray eyes. Trying to maintain his usual calm and firm demeanor, Hero crosses his arms to keep himself from instinctively reaching for his gun. At least the dog responds to his name — that’s a good sign.
"I guess I’ve proven that weapons like you can stay fully functional even after three days without food or water," Hero observes, studying his prisoner. "A normal soldier would have perished by the fourth day, but you look like you could walk out of here just fine."
Weapon doesn’t seem to understand a word Hero is saying, but the Captain doesn’t care. Talking to this beast as if it were human makes him feel less afraid. Vicci has a habit, it seems, of smiling wider when he doesn’t understand something. At least he appears curious and responsive.
"I was going to test my theory by waiting a full week, but that seems counterproductive now," Hero continues, rummaging through the pile of items he brought. He finally finds a small paper-wrapped thing-y and hands it to Vicci, who sniffs it cautiously. Hero then places a bottle of water in front of his prisoner and points to the two items, saying simply, "Food."
Weapon sniffs the sandwich again, warily.
"It’s not poisoned, come on," Hero says, unwrapping the sandwich for him. As he does so, his hand brushes against Weapon’s, causing Hero to recoil slightly, unnerved by the contact. Vicci, on the other hand, smiles at the unwrapped bread. "Food. It’s food. Eat," Hero instructs.
Weapon looks from the sandwich to Hero. "E-ats," he repeats, then looks back at the food. "Fo-ood."
Hero crosses his arms again, watching closely. Weapon takes a careful bite, seeming to enjoy it. He repeats the word "Food, food," before saying, "Menja"
Hero observes him until he finishes, then gestures for him to drink the water as well. Weapon consumes both the food and water quickly, as if afraid they will vanish if he takes too long. He starts chewing on his fingers, and Hero watches him for a moment longer before crouching down to search through the pile again.
Vicci looks up as Hero hands him a set of clothes. Weapon sniffs the air, smiling, and slowly gets to his feet. The Captain, still holding the clean clothes, flinches slightly when he finds himself eye to eye with his prisoner. They are about the same height. Weapon smiles, his trembling hand gently caressing his coat, now free from mud and leaves, washed and neatly folded.
"Underneath are your pants and shirt," Hero explains, handing him the pile. He watches as Weapon inspects his clothes, clearly unused to having them cleaned. Hero has soaked the dirty garments in water and soap for two days straight, hoping to wash away the grime. On the third day, they had been dried in the sun. Vicci absentmindedly caresses the familiar fabric with his calloused fingers.
"It’s strange," Hero remarks, mostly to himself. The fact that Vicci doesn’t understand him doesn’t bother him. "There’s nothing on these clothes that indicates you work for the enemy. No marks, no flags, no identification... Only the number... six? What does that mean?"
Weapon, meanwhile, has begun dressing himself, struggling a bit with the unbuttoned shirt and the chain around his neck. He doesn’t bother to button it before slipping into the pants. His wounds, still uncleaned and scattered across his torso, are finally hidden beneath the black cotton fabric.
"Your boots and cap will be provided if you ever leave this cell. For now, I didn’t want you sitting around in your underwear the whole time," Hero comments, rolling his eyes. He turns away, unsure whether to give Weapon some privacy. He takes a few steps toward the door, but when he turns back, he once again sees the monster that has haunted him for months in the trenches, now standing in the middle of the cell, still chained by the neck. Vicci stands with his back slightly hunched, his chin almost resting on his chest. His right hand moves frantically over the thick coat, which now smells fresh and clean. His right foot taps lightly on the floor, like a nervous rabbit, and with his other hand, he scratches at his hair, a self-soothing gesture. He looks... complete again. Dressed and in character. Vicci looks up at Hero and smiles, as he always does. This time, though, Hero doesn’t find the smile frightening. Perhaps it’s more content, more genuine.
With that in mind, the Captain cautiously approaches Weapon again. He focuses his gaze on his prisoner’s chest, still a little bloody. He’s decided not to do anything about it, fearing he might lose a hand or two, but he’s not a monster either. He points to what’s left in the pile—some clean bandages and a plate with water and a wet cloth. "I’m not even going to try this time. I don’t want you biting me again," Hero murmurs, still remembering how the animal bit his arm two days ago. Not that it hurts, but.
The Captain backs away toward the shadows near the cell door. Before leaving, he takes one last look at the tool he now calls Vicci. The Weapon stands under the light, hunched, still caressing his clothes. His bare feet are partly hidden under the baggy pants. His silhouette is now covered in gray and black fabric, standing there like a powerful yet restrained shadow. Perhaps it’s because of the heavy chain that still deprives him of freedom. Like a powerful dog lying in the cold field, waiting for its master to bring him food, always on alert.
Vicci’s silhouette is still very slim, moving carelessly as if following his own sense of gravity. His bare feet drag along the concrete, and his bony hands move in strange patterns—sometimes scratching his hair, sometimes his arms or back scars. But he’s relentless, always in motion, even if just a little. The chains jingle softly in the cell. Hero looks at the dog he’s caged, and despite everything, he can’t help but feel a growing sense of pity for his prisoner.
