When Walia woke up, he wasnt quite sure where he was in a hospital, of course.
He had been injured many times and then found himself awakening in a hospital bed, so that he cant remember, how often this happened. He cannot remember very much of his life at all. Then, suddenly, the door was opened and a nurse, blonde, about 40-years-old, some pounds too much (maybe), came in, looked at him and, when she saw from the corner of her eyes he was awakened, said: Youre a lucky man, Herr Walia, a very, very lucky man. Our brave man of the RM discovered your escape pod near your vessel. They brought you in. Youve been seriously injured your head, left arm and internal bleedings. But, after some weeks of relaxation, you will be as good as youve been before somehow. And yes , this is Atona Station. Sleep well. And she left the room avoiding to look at his face.
Walia knows why. He hasnt really a face, an optimist would call it a very rotten dump.
He hasnt a left arm, too just some metal bars. He lost both, face and arm, at the place, where he lost all memories of his early years Freeport 7.
While he was thinking and trying anything before that day of course it was futile he fell asleep. When he awoke a new nurse had come in. He saw her back first, then she turned, shrinked a little bit from the sight of his face and said: Guten Abend, Herr Walia, if that is your real name. How do you feel?
He answered slowly in his croaking voice: I dont know what my name was. In the Manhattan orphanage they called meI dont know, I cant remember something like Josua or Benjamin or what-the hell. Everybody there called me `Freak? or `Nomads bastard?, even the director. It was horrible, you know I was a child of 7 or maybe 12 years. After a few years of pestering, being locked in a cell or being mistreated by the other children or the Sirs I ran away and met the only one who really loved me Mister James Charles George McGrohill. He was a Merc and found me in some gutter, nearly dead. That seems to be a situation ,Im often in. I followed him and he taught me anything he knew. Thats why I became a Merc too.
Whats happened to Mister Mc Grohill? she interrupted him with her softly floating voice.
Oh, his eyes became old and when he was on his way to Manhattan for an eye operation the little liner was captured by pirates (he tried to spit) and they killed any person on board.(A few tears appeared in his eyes). Thats why Ive never worked for that scum and I will never work for them. Oh, before you ask, Im a Merc and Im proud of being one. Yes, I worked for Sairs, Hessians, even Hackers, but only against their enemies or Hunters, never against traders or other non-combattants. I am the real heir of Mister James Charles George McGrohill (he pronounced the name like the name of a holy man) and... Suddenly he stopped, glaring at her.
Whats with his weapons? His wonderful two Wildfires?
As the officers told me, she said, Im glad to tell you that your ship and the equipment was found and can be restored. The Marineleutnant I spoke to was very astonished that you used Wildfire with some Salamancas.
Thats easy, Miss, sorry mein Fraeulein. The Wildfires are those I get from him. Theyre the only important weapons. I will never sell them. Its like hes with me when I use them. And the other guns, each of them is a memory of a very brave fighting enemy. You see Im a little bit romantic.
Although my motto is: I dont have trouble with anybody except Im paid for.
I respect good fighters of any kind and to honor them I use their guns until I meet another good fighter. Then I change it except the Wildfires, they are holy. He smiled at his last words, and the he fell asleep again.
