Decisions, decisions (Mike)

[Generalfoley]

Joe was lying on the couch in the large living room. He was tired. Very, very tired. They had just gotten back to the Bunker the day before, after the six hour drive back from Empire City to report to Mozzie that the leads that he had so desperately clung to had been false all along. It broke Joe's jaded heart, seeing the look on Mozzie's face. Joe sighed and got up from the couch. Laying around wasn't going to do anything.

Joe stretched before he walked over to the kitchen, reaching inside the fridge for a beer. He opened it and took a gulp as he shut the refrigerator door. Joe looked around. It was quiet... almost too quiet. Shrugging, Joe continued to drink his beer as he leaned on the counter top. The young Irishman looked over at a screen that had acted as the Bunker's calender, and stared at the date.

December 12^th, 2014. Damn. 'It's been, what, five years?', Joe thought to himself. A long time to be surviving. A long time killing, looting, pillaging. A dog-eat-dog world, as Mike kept describing it. Joe chuckled darkly as he finished the rest of his beer. He threw it away as he walked to the garage. Maybe Mike was in there.

"Oi, Mike!" Joe yelled into the garage. "You in here?"

[God Mike]

Mike stared at the gas mask on the tool bench in front of him. He was finally getting rid of it... It kinda felt like letting a pet go... The mask was a part of him, but it was very constricting, and very, very hot. Mike picked up the mask, then looked down at the oil drum next to him, which he'd lit a fire in, to add to the urban survivor feel of the garage. There's no post-apocalypse without a burning oil drum.

"Oi, Mike!" came Joe's voice from the doorway. "You in here?"

"Yeah, I'm here," Mike said as he stared down at the gas mask. "Bye, old friend," he told the gas mask after a few minutes of staring at in in silence, as he dropped it into the oil drum, watching the rubber and cloth burn up. The end of an era, it felt like...

Next, Mike focused on the machete on the tool bench. He'd named it the Piece-of-Shit Machete, because it was chipped and dulled in certain places, and he couldn't sharpen it, no matter how much he tried. He'd had it since... hell, before the zombie outbreak. Picking it up, Mike looked it over. "Now, what to do with you, my friend?" he asked the blade, then held it out over the fire. The heat was burning his hand as he hesitated. He didn't know if he was truly ready to let it go...

"Eh, screw it," Mike said as he pulled his hand back, putting the machete back in its sheath and stuffing it into the backpack on the floor. Standing up again, Mike grabbed the hoodie jacket on the bench and put it on, but didn't zip it up. "You know," he said, not knowing if Joe was behind him or not, "I'm truly gonna miss my gas mask."

[Generalfoley]

"Yeah, I'm here," Joe looked over to see Mike holding his gas mask, a burning oil drum next to him. Ah, yes, the iconic oil drum. It wouldn't be the apocalypse without one. Joe watched as Mike dropped the gas mask into the fire after saying his goodbyes. Joe walked up to Mike, and patted his shoulder before he went over to the Jeep. The young Irishman looked within the cabin, seeing his own bloodstains. He had to wash that out at some point; it would get moldy, and then it would never come out. Joe looked over at Mike, who held a, from his standpoint, a piece of shit machete over the burning oil drum.

"Eh, screw it," Mike put the machete back in it's sheath and into his bag on the floor. Joe walked to the bed of the Jeep, seeing that they still hadn't put everything away.

"You know, I'm truly gonna miss my gas mask." Joe put his chin on the side of the J-10's bed.

"I know how you feel, mate." Joe lifted himself off the truck and walked towards the door. He looked over at Mike, and asked, "Hey, you want a beer?"

[God Mike]

"I know how you feel, mate." Mike grabbed his bag and walked over to the Jeep, putting the bag behind the passenger seat "Hey, you want a beer?" Joe asked as he headed out of the garage.

"Nah," Mike said, shaking his head as he headed back to the work bench, grabbing his ninja-to. "I'ma finish packing this all this shit." He headed back to the Jeep and put his swords by the backpack, before closing the door. Then, he blinked, and followed Joe out of the garage.

"I could go for a bit of whiskey, though," he said with a grin as he pulled up his hood. He noticed something, and went wide-eyed as he held up his hands. "Holy shit! Have you noticed how fucking scarred I am?" he asked in shock, looking over his hands.

It was true. His hands were riddled in scars, big and small. He hadn't noticed before, as his hands were usually bandaged, and it was pretty much always dark whenever he changed his bandages. Chuckling to himself, he shook his head, then patted Joe on the back. "Hey, by the way! I thought we might head east all the way to the ocean. Maybe we'll find some kind of boat there. I know you've always wanted to see the Vatican."

[Generalfoley]

"Nah, I'ma finish packing this all this shit." Joe nodded and headed back through the door. He grabbed an orange from the refrigerator, peeling it as Mike came through the door.

"I could go for a bit of whiskey, though." Joe smiled as he chuckled softly, pulling out a twenty year old bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses. He might as well have some himself.

Joe jumped slightly at Mike's exclamation, but was rather unsurprised. Using his swords the way he did, he was bound to get a few scars. Joe looked back, his eyebrows raised at the state of his hands. The young Irishman poured the whiskey into the glasses, handing one to the Swede Ninja. Joe took a sip before he felt a hard pat on his back, almost making him spit out the whiskey.

"Hey, by the way! I thought we might head east all the way to the ocean. Maybe we'll find some kind of boat there. I know you've always wanted to see the Vatican." Joe raised an eyebrow at Mike's suggestion. He was raising his eyebrow a lot lately, wasn't he? Joe shrugged as he took another sip.

"Maybe. We'd have to find a boat that was able to cross the sea in one peace, much less one that could hold the supplies for such a journey. It'd take days, perhaps months, even, to cross the Atlantic." Joe took another sip of his whiskey.

"But you know what wouldn't take so long? A plane." Joe looked at Mike. "I've always wanted to fly a plane." But Joe knew Mike probably wouldn't go for that idea. He'd want to be able to yell that he was 'on a boat'. Joe drained the rest of his whiskey and finished his orange, the peel thrown in the garbage. He put his glass in the sink and walked over to the table.

"Either way, we'd have to actually locate one that was still sea or air worthy. And then we'd have to read up on how to use either one." Joe gestured to everything around them. "And even then, we'd have to leave all this behind to stagnate until we came back, even if we did."

Joe threw his hand over to the garage. "And then there's the Zombie Wrecker," Joe winced at the name. "We'd have to leave that behind with the boat, and I don't think we could locate a big enough plane without raiding a probably marauder occupied airfield. We'd have to leave her behind, draped under a sheet for God knows how long." Joe took a breath. "We couldn't do that to the Jeep! We've all been through so much together! And then we just leave her to gather dust here, or, heaven forbid, let her be captured by some Marauders? I couldn't let that happen, my conscience wouldn't let me!"

[God Mike]

"Maybe. We'd have to find a boat that was able to cross the sea in one peace, much less one that could hold the supplies for such a journey. It'd take days, perhaps months, even, to cross the Atlantic." Ugh... There he went again, planning shit... Mike knew that somewhere in his mind, Joe was trying to plan out exactly where they'd go, how they'd get there, which route they'd take and blah, blah, fuckin' blah...

"But you know what wouldn't take so long? A plane." Mike choked on his whiskey, resulting in a violent cough as he heard that. "I've always wanted to fly a plane." Thumping his chest and washing down his whiskey with some more whiskey, Mike shook his head.

"Oh, hell no. I wouldn't even step into a plane piloted by someone competent, so I'd especially not get into a plane piloted by you, of all people." Joe couldn't even throw a paper plane properly. After demonstrating his poor flying skills with a paper plane three weeks prior, Mike had decided then and there that he'd never set foot inside an aircraft piloted by Joe.

"Either way, we'd have to actually locate one that was still sea or air worthy. And then we'd have to read up on how to use either one. And even then, we'd have to leave all this behind to stagnate until we came back, even if we did."

Mike nodded thoughtfully. Though they'd probably bring anything that wouldn't survive for long, like supplies and such. He was sure of that. "And then there's the Zombie Wrecker," Joe said, and in his head, Mike ran a victory lap around his brain. "We'd have to leave that behind with the boat, and I don't think we could locate a big enough plane without raiding a probably marauder occupied airfield. We'd have to leave her behind, draped under a sheet for God knows how long. We couldn't do that to the Jeep! We've all been through so much together! And then we just leave her to gather dust here, or, heaven forbid, let her be captured by some Marauders? I couldn't let that happen, my conscience wouldn't let me!"

"Dude," Mike said, staring at Joe strangely. "What makes you think I'd allow the Zombie Wrecker, my baby, to stay out in the open while we're gone? For once, I actually have a plan. It's not far to the coast. We just take the Wrecker there, unload our shit onto whatever boat we find, take her back here, then just take that Motocross bike I found to the coast."

Mike downed the last of his whiskey and set the glass down. "Come on, dude, we've seen most of America. Now it's time for motherfuckin' Europe to experience the hurricane known as Howlin' Mad Mike and G.I Joe!"

[Generalfoley]

"Oh, hell no. I wouldn't even step into a plane piloted by someone competent, so I'd especially not get into a plane piloted by you, of all people." Joe's eyebrow quirked.

"Hey, I'm not that bad! You're counting the paper plane! That's totally unrelated to my badass flying skills!" Joe resisted the urge to get the glass back out of the sink and pour himself another helping of whiskey. He looked over at Mike.

"Besides, planes aren't that bad. They were the safest way to travel, even more so now that there isn't any air traffic... that I know of." Joe tapped his chin in though. "I haven't exactly been monitoring Europe that much from here. Didn't seem like a good idea at the time."

"Dude, what makes you think I'd allow the Zombie Wrecker, my baby, to stay out in the open while we're gone? For once, I actually have a plan. It's not far to the coast. We just take the Wrecker there, unload our shit onto whatever boat we find, take her back here, then just take that Motocross bike I found to the coast."

Joe blinked his eyes and shook his head. He was still in shock from Mike making a plan, of all things! It.. It just wasn't Mike. But Joe had to agree with, dare he say it, Mike's Plan. It was sensible, kind of.

"I'll be the one to take her back after we unload our stuff onto the boat. You'd have to guard it as I made my way back here and make sure everything is down, out, and locked again. Then I head back to the boat, ditch the bike, and we're on our merry fuckin' way."

"Come on, dude, we've seen most of America. Now it's time for motherfuckin' Europe to experience the hurricane known as Howlin' Mad Mike and G.I Joe!" Joe was about to agree when he caught his nickname. He glared at Mike.

"I'll go to Europe, alright? But don't call me G.I. Joe ever again. Or I'll smack you with a dictionary." Joe walked off, towards the couch.

"We leave tomorrow, yeah?"

[God Mike]

"Hey, I'm not that bad! You're counting the paper plane! That's totally unrelated to my badass flying skills!" Mike crossed his arms and snorted. Yeah, riiight... "Besides, planes aren't that bad. They were the safest way to travel, even more so now that there isn't any air traffic... that I know of. I haven't exactly been monitoring Europe that much from here. Didn't seem like a good idea at the time."

"Dude, just face it, you suck at flying," Mike said, shrugging. "Hell, I have more flying experience than you, and I've so far only taken one helicopter lesson." Knowing that Joe was going to ask why he stopped taking them, Mike said, "I got bored and may have, completely accidentally, mind you, crashed the helicopter..."

"I'll be the one to take her back after we unload our stuff onto the boat. You'd have to guard it as I made my way back here and make sure everything is down, out, and locked again. Then I head back to the boat, ditch the bike, and we're on our merry fuckin' way."

"That's the spirit!" Mike said, punching the air with a huge grin on his face. He couldn't wait to get to Italy! He always wanted to take a piss on the leaning tower. Well, either take a piss on it, or tip it, whichever he felt like when he finally saw it. That'd be boss!

"I'll go to Europe, alright? But don't call me G.I. Joe ever again. Or I'll smack you with a dictionary." Mike snorted once more as he followed Joe, sitting down next to him on the couch. Joe was very testy when it came to that name, wasn't he? Hah! Well, since Mike was stealing a name from the A-Team, he may as well do so for Joe as well.

"So, what, you wanna be called Faceman Joe? B.A Joeracus? Hannibal Joe?"

"We leave tomorrow, yeah?"

Mike gave a lazy salute. "Tomorrow."