A gentle silence settled over the camper like newly fallen snow. While it wasn’t uncomfortable, Doc still felt uneasy. Sniper seemed in good spirits however, as he moved from the front to the back, tidying up, checking the camper, going out to rearrange the tarp that covered them. He had a set of lights that were connected to some other power source—that thankfully also powered the fridge—so that they weren’t in a stifling darkness. Doc stayed on the bedroll, trying not to nod off.

He didn’t want to sleep. Sleeping would be dangerous. But, oh, how that body ached. 

Eventually, he turned his attention back to his notes. Checking what had transpired over the last evening, the enhanced senses the gunman was experiencing, how stable he felt his mind felt. His hearing and sight had stabilized and were magnitudes sharper than they were before. Asking him all sorts of questions as he wrote down the answers in his impeccable handwriting. After an hour of interviewing him, Doc changed tactics.

Sniper could see that while the Doctor was exhausted, he was more animated when in the midst of research. The eyes weren’t as dull, they honed in thought. His shoulders straightened out, his back was a bit straighter. His focus was sharp. He liked this side of him; it was better than the deep melancholy masked with nonchalance. Which was why he was surprised when Doc put the notebook and pen down, and reached for his neck.

“Hey,” he said, blinking in confusion. The Doctor’s eyes clouded in equal confusion. 

“Let me check your neck. Where you were shot when you died the first time. And the knife wound,” he clarified, making a slashing motion from side to side.

Remembering the situation, Sniper winced. “Uh.”

“I want to see how well it healed. Also the rest of the wounds. You said you were shot during the shoot out?” He seemed oblivious to his discomfort. He decided he didn’t like this side of the Doctor and his enthusiasm. It was like he forgot important details, like death and resurrection were normal every day things, as were healing from wounds at an insane rate.

“Right now??”

“Yes, right now. Come, tip your head back.” He put two fingers beneath his chin and tipped his head up, leaning forward. He gently unknotted the handkerchief and handed it to him. His face was close enough to feel his breathing against his neck. Doc’s fingers gently pressed along where the wound should have been, his eyes focused. Sniper felt himself flush. He hoped Doc wouldn’t notice that. It was a routine examination, wasn’t it? No need to get worked up, right?

Doc, for his part, keenly gazed at his neck, running his thumb and fingers along the flesh of his neck. Feeling for scar tissue, he scarcely noticed the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, nor the barest of flushing along his skin. Took note of the pristine state of the flesh; it was as if he’d never been shot at all. The skin was warm beneath his fingertips as he peered at every inch critically. Not even the throat cut wound left a scar, which he felt inwardly relieved about.

“Lean your head forward,” he said, as he peered to the back of his neck, gently sweeping aside his hair. Sniper did as he was told, and swallowed hard. He was thankful Doc didn’t have his hearing because his own heart was going a mile a minute.

The back of the neck, where the entry wound should have been, was also pristine, if a little damp from his sweating. He leaned to get a better look, nearly pulling the other man into his shoulder. A faint scent of cigarettes and gunpowder lingered. As his fingers grazed the area, he felt Sniper jerk and pull back. He put his hands onto Doc’s shoulders to give him space, and that was when he realized the flush across his cheeks. 

This made Doc flush too, and his alabaster skin showed it much more obviously, as realization washed over him. 

Christ, thought the gunman has he caught his breath and took note of Doc’s heart rate increasing.

“A-ah…forgive me…” Doc apologized, backing up a bit and deflecting his eyes. “I got carried away.”

Sniper took a moment to find his voice and hoped it was his usual calm. 

“N-no worries, Doc.” Great. It sounded just as flustered as he felt and he inwardly cursed at himself.

Now the silence was awkward. They lapsed into it clumsily, both of them attempting to speak, mouthing words that never came, and glances that only stayed on each other for a few seconds.

Doc blinked then looked at him again, with that same intense look. Sniper inadvertently leaned back. 

“Turn your head again,” he said.

He did as he was told, eyes darting around nervously. It was the tone of voice, that focus, that made him a little unnerved. That “caught up in the moment” Doc.

“Your hair.”

“What about it??”

“It didn’t turn completely white,” Doc said, turning for his notebook and starting to scribble down another note. He glanced up, but didn’t try to approach him again. Sniper stood up and went to his cabinet mirror and tried to angle it to look at his hair. Just out of view from around his neck, he could see a tuft of white hair.

He frowned. Dug around for a shaving mirror and used it to angle to look at the back of his neck. The entire bottom layer of the hair at the back of his neck, just under the frayed layer he was used to getting at a barber shop, was as white as Doc’s hair was. He ruffled it lightly, ran his fingers through it, and even plucked a couple out and inspected it closely. He could almost swear there was a silvery sheen to the strand, or perhaps it was his enhanced sight playing tricks again.

Doc came up behind and ran his fingers through it, noting the division between the bottom layer and the top. Sniper was too stunned to even react to that motion.

“Strange. If it was going to change…I would have thought it would be entirely white by now.” He tutted to himself, faintly surprised, yet also not surprised at all. As if he expected some sort of change, like he said.

“Why’s my hair white??” He asked turning to him. Doc glanced up, his face back into nonchalant, focus mode, yet his eyes were faintly concerned.

“Side effect of the immortality drug. At least, normally it is. But your hair isn’t entirely white now.” He reached for the strands Sniper was holding and slid them into the notebook, folding the page over them in lieu of tape. He gazed off to the side, lost in thought, tapping his pen to his mouth. “Normally within the first hour, the hair turns white. Yours is only partial. Oh, I wish I had a microscope…. Perhaps there’s some sort of reaction to that stabilizer I had to use….”

By now he was muttering to himself, jotting notes and pacing. Sniper sighed and dropped down onto the bedroll and ran his hands through his hair. 

“Doc,” he interrupted. Even with his enhanced hearing, Doc was only muttering half his sentences, mouthing some words, lapsing into momentary silence before muttering another string of incoherent medical jargon.

“Hm?”

“S’it permanent?” He pointed to his hair.

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

Doc tilted his head at him. “Does it bother you? Its dyable. If you don’t wish to leave it like that.”

Sniper wound a lock around his finger absentmindedly, then shook his head. “I guess I don’t really mind it but…” A thought stuck him. “Wait. What about Assassin?”

The look in his lilac-lavender eyes briefly stormed over at the mention of his name but then settled back into his usual mode. “What about him?”

“Isn’t he on this stuff too?”

“Formula is different, technically. Yours is a hybrid. It’s not even the same as the ones I brought.” He gestured at the fridge.

“So that’s what that stuff is,” mused Sniper, then shook his head to stay on track. “No, I mean, if that immortality stuff changes your hair…why’s his still black?” The shiny, almost iridescent black hair was nearly lost in the shadows that night, which made tracking him by sight that much harder. It reminded him of wet crow feathers.

Doc put a knuckle to his mouth, turning slightly as a chuckle fluttered up, despite his efforts. “Oh.” He said simply. “He dyes it.”

Sniper’s face broke into a sarcastic grin. He didn’t think at first he’d be that vain, but it certainly checked out. “No foolin’?”

“Yes. He isn’t the first, but he takes great pains to maintain the color.” Another wry chuckle escaped from Doc before he coughed to compose himself. “But it’s a common side effect. I daresay Surgeon might have put it in the formula on purpose. Like a signature.” He nearly spat the last word in derision. He then glanced at him, eyeing his two-toned hair with a fleetingly regretful glance.

“Still. If it bothers you—”

“Nah. I kinda like it.” To be fair, he did kind of like it. It certainly made for a striking look. Not that a sniper should have a look so distinctive, but that’s what hats were for, right? Then another thought struck him.

“What time is it?”

Doc blinked a few times before the question reached him. “Ah. Its…” he checked the new watch, tapping it to activate the face. “Noon…? A little after.”

He nodded and went for the glove compartment up front. He grabbed his phone, then opened another compartment and removed something too small for Doc to see, and exited out the back, sliding between the flaps of the tarp. Doc followed him, having nothing much else to do.

Sniper paused then took the small object that looked like a tiny thumb drive, removed the cap and pushed it into the charging port of his phone. Turned it on, and put his thumb over a lit part of the screen that read his thumbprint. Lifted the phone closer to his face and angled one of his eyes over it.

“What…?”

After a few seconds, he blinked his eyes and held the phone even with his face. “Hang on.”

The phone finally opened and Doc noticed that there were a few more apps on the home screen, as well as a background image of a starry sky and a moon. He pulled the little device out of the bottom and put it into his pocket. 

“Sorry. The identification routine for this is kinda elaborate. But it’s for restoring my phone.”

Doc nodded to himself. That made sense. The phone was nearly empty when he’d looked at it back at the labs when they were processing him. Only the scant few text messages from his client remained.

He opened an app and held the phone up in the air for a bit.

“Hopefully, I haven’t missed the thing,” he murmured as he watched a small loading bar fill.

“What thing?”

“The comm satellite.”

Doc blinked curiously. “You have a communications satellite??”

“My friend does. The one who rigged the phone and modded the camper. Oh. And the guns.”

This friend seemed quite resourceful, Doc thought to himself. The friend who would have come looking for him if something happened, at least according to their first interview. The friend who seemed to be their last lifeline out of trouble. The Friend. Every new detail about his friend was another peek at Sniper’s life beyond the gun.

The bar filled and showed a small graphic of a satellite over a planet earth, with a small text box: availability: 5 minutes. Countdown: 7:58

He blinked. “Whoa. Right on time then.” He looked up through the trees and the dappled sunlight filtering down. They waited, anticipation building, as the countdown ticked seconds until he could call.

Right at 0:10, he minimized the window and changed to his contacts app. Found the right contact, no photograph, but an American area code and phone number. Tapped it with his thumb at 0:00 and tapped the speaker phone option. Doc stepped closer, curiously catching the contact name.

Clint (Techie).

So. His name was Clint? He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, to be honest.

The first ring was barely finished before it connected, a deep and even, yet slightly frantic voice spilling from the speaker phone. “Lex??”

Lex? Doc glanced at Sniper but his canary colored eyes were glued to the phone, awash with relief.

“Hey, mate. Its me.” His voice nearly wobbled but it had an air of familiarity and warmth that Doc had yet unheard in his voice until this point.

“…Holy shit. You’re alive.” The voice had a Texan drawl, that much Doc knew. Quite a foreign accent to him, but one he had heard a few times before. “I heard things went…”

“Yeah. …I had help though. From a new friend.” He glanced at Doc and gave him a small smile. “And uh…we could use a ride home, if you can.”

“Onnit.” There were sounds of a keyboard clacking, maybe the sound of a rolling chair? The voice didn’t seem to get father away, so Doc supposed he was talking on a headset. There were a few more keyboard sounds, the brush against a mic, his voice low and off to the side as if he was talking to someone near by, then an exhalation. Almost like relief.

“All right. You’re not far off from Arnsberg, are you yet?”

“The forest? Nah, We’re kinda skirting around it.”

“Prolly for the best. How’s the camper holding up in it?”

“She’s gotta few new holes here n’ there. But everything's holdin’ up.”

“Jesus Christmas. Tell me when I get you home.”

“Yeah, I’d like that. What are we lookin’ at?”

More key clacks, and then him talking off the mic for a few seconds. They could hear the timbre of at least 2 other voices. “That’s gonna take a lil time.”

Sniper sighed but nodded to himself. “Yeah. I figured.”

“Hang in there, buddy. I’m gonna get you both out, I promise. Set a timer for 3 hours from now and shut the phone off. I’ll call you back then.”

3 hours. Both Doc and Sniper mouthed it and glanced at each other. That was a huge ask, but it wasn’t as if they had much of a choice.

Sniper asked, “I’m not just on your satellite?”

His friend chuckled darkly. “Can’t risk you getting pinged by something just in case. You never know with summa these guys out there.”

The gunman agreed. “Roger. See ya later.” His thumb was about to hit end call, but he paused when he heard his friend, quieter, call out.

“Lex. I’m damn glad you’re ok.”

“Same here, mate. We’re not outta the woods yet though. It’s all on you now.”

“Then you’re practically home. Chat at you in 3.” The call ended and dutifully, Sniper switched the phone off, and stuck the little drive back in the phone jack. He stared fondly at the phone until Doc cleared his throat quietly.

“Is it…short for Alexander?” Doc asked, tipping his head.