Monday, July 16, 2007
“Kat, kitty kat, kitty kat scratch!”

Katrina offered a little chuckle. “Yes, Bombardier?”

“Say, I need your help.”

Katrina looked up from mending the net to see that Bomber had gotten his chestplate off and his jacket unzippered. She peered at his chest, seeing something red or brown on light skin. She got up and walked over to him saying, “What can I do to help?”

“I’m trying to get this jacket off, but see the shoulder bars?”

Katrina parted the jacket and was immediately assaulted by the overpowering smell of sour alcohol. She stepped back at it. His chest was very very light, covered in scars that were either darker, or patches of almost olive with white lines, or deep dark red gouges.

“What?”

“You smell like you fell into a vat of vodka.”

“I didn’t.” He slapped a hand on his ventilator. "Can't smell it."

Katrina took a deep breath and parted the jacket on one side. He moved his arm a little to pull it forward while she pushed the shoulder back. She could see that it was indeed embedded in his arm.

“I will have to cut your jacket.”

He nodded. She went to the net and plucked the razor cutter from the deck. She tucked her hand down his shoulder and felt the bar with her fingers, then lifted the sleeve so she could cut a line parallel to the bar that connected the two bars on the outside, creating the hoop. She put the razor in the material and slit, but it didn’t go through.

“It’s armored.”

“Figures.”

She got the scissors. Nothing. Then she got the wire cutters. Nothing. She pressed with her thumbs, to try and find a spot that was soft, or at least thin. Klaus came walking down the dock to see her feeling along Bomber’s arm. “Vhat you do?”

“I’m trying to get his jacket off…”

“The bars are in the way,” Bomber said.

“Cut ze bars.”

Bomber nodded. “Could do that. How?”

“It’s easier to cut the jacket, papa.”

“Not if armored.” Klaus walked over and tugged the jacket. “Kevlar.”

“Kevlar is broken down with ultraviolet rays,” Bomber said. “Also radiation. My arms have been exposed, so somewhere there has to be a more susceptible place. Don’t ask me how I know, because I don’t.”

“How do we find it?”

“Slash away.”

“But your jacket will be ruined.”

He shrugged. “I can buy a new one.”

Katrina started a few inches above the bars. It wasn’t until about the middle of his shoulder that she found a spot that she could slash through a few inches. After fighting with the material and his arm, the finally squeezed the bar through, and then he tried to pull his arm out.

“The gloves are attached.”

“Kolera,” Katrina spat, and turned her attention to them. They didn’t come off from pulling, so she looked around for a latch, a lock, a twist – she found it connected to the jacket. She twisted the fat band connecting his glove to the jacket and felt it release. She had to unscrew it a little, and then pulled the glove off.

It was his right hand, the hand that pulled the trigger of his gun, what he considered was his weak hand. She stared at it for a moment, then it was pulled out of her hands as he shrugged his arm out of the coat.

“There! Half off!”

Barechested, he was covered over in scars, a few huge gaping almost gouges in his arm and chest. Bits of skin were different colors; a very light white to a slightly darker hue, with scars all around as if they had been sewn on. The bar on the arm went all the way around, bulging under his skin.

Bomber caught her look. “How bad is it?”

“Mirror,” was the only thing she could say.

Klaus stared at him too, but his face was impassive. “Razor,” he said, holding his hand out for Katrina to give him the razor cutter. He had twisted the glove off, and was working on the shoulder. Katrina put a hand to her mouth in shock seeing Bomber's other arm.

“Get bucket,” Klaus snapped. “Soup un vater.”

Klaus turned to Bomber as Katrina almost dashed into the cabin. “Jew lucky, I see var.”

“How bad is it?”

“Bat. Very bat.”

The alcohol smell was stronger as he got the other sleeve off. Katrina reappeared with the bucket full of soap and water. “Mirror,” Klaus ordered, as Bomber bent to the bucket.

Bomber took the sponge with his right and the soap with his left, and stopped, dropping them both into the bucket. He started at his right hand, small, dainty, with tiny nails and a slight yellowish tinge to the skin. His left hand came into view – large, square like a shovel, callused and rough, darker colored, with small patches of white all along his forearm. Both looked like they hadn’t seen sunlight in quite some time, though the darker colored parts seemed like simple natural pigments.

Then he picked up the razor with the dainty hand and whispered, “Prick me, do I not bleed?” and slashed his left arm. Katrina saw it and gasped, but Klaus only shook his head at her and held up his hand. Blood didn’t flow, but oozed out of the wound, thick, almost black, with the alcohol smell attached instead of the normal scent of iron.

Bomber touched the blood with the dainty fingers of his right hand, then pinched it between his fingers, watching as tiny threads spread between his fingertips as he pulled the fingers away from each other, then back together.

He whispered something, then turned to Klaus grabbed him by the front of his shirt and screamed at him, “PUT IT BACK!”

The two of them moved to get Bomber dressed again, while he suddenly froze in place. They lifted his arm, got the bars back through, reconnected his gloves. He stayed there, unmoving, until sunset.

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