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Blearily, he blinks awake. It is, blessedly, a rare day off—though still on-base and rain patters heavily overhead. The room beyond the blanket is cold, though only enough to have the warmth draw him back into unconsciousness. In another room, faint chatter just barely penetrates the walls. The sound and sensation amount to a monumental barrier to wakefulness.
But something is missing, and he hesitates before dragging himself out to find it. With a sigh, he drags on a pullover and opens to the door, wincing at the light and renewed noise.
“Hey-ey-ey, look who finally decided to get up!” A smiling face laughs at him. “Took you long enough.”
“Don’t you know what a day off is?” He tiredly grins back. Though he wasn’t expecting to see the missing part in the lounge, it still disappoints him. Of course he’s going to have to look around manually. “Any idea where he wandered off to?”
It must have shown on his face because a strange look passed over 0-3’s, part I figured you would and part Hell no. “Not a clue. Probably hiding again, like always.” The smile returns quickly, raising a paper plate with miscellaneous foods lopped on. “Saved you some in the back, by the way.”
He nods an exhausted thanks, and steps outside. The overhang protects him from getting immediately drenched, but the sound of the rain turns into a thundering chorus on the thin metal. Vision is next to nothing through the spatters.
He stares out into the darkness of the forest, just a few meters away, and sighs. Its wonderful napping weather, but it's freezing out like this. Pulling his hood over his head, he steps out from beneath the overhang and hurries through the now-disturbed mud and grasses.
Rounding a corner, he comes out nearer to the firing range. Outdoors and largely unsheltered, other than the stalls, it's nothing like what he was once used to. Low tech and simple, rather than the human-mimic targets at the now-gone base. Usually it doesn’t bother him, hasn’t in some time now, but the wet, cold, and quiet begins to get under his skin.
Finally, he finds who he’s looking for. The figure stands at the far edge of the range, beyond even the targets, over a vibrant patch of grasses and flowers forced to bend under the weight of the rain. It stares up at the sky, goggles in a loose hold in one hand, almost ready to fall. The ever-present balaclava must be soaked through. A stern look plants on his face at the sight and he marches over best he can through the mud without losing footing.
“Six!” He has to shout over the sound of the rain. It takes a moment, but the Subject finally jolts at the realization of who is calling. Despite the clear recognition, it only half-tilts its head at him.
Closer now, brushing hands, he can hear the faint gasps and watch the fabric struggle with the attempts. “C’mon, it’s cold out and you sound like you’re drowning.” He knows why 106 does this, but it never gets any easier to watch. He can imagine all too well the feeling of burning lungs, unable to get enough air in.
Some part of him wants to try and shake some sense into the other, though he knows how well that’d end. Still, 6 doesn’t move—he has to reach up to guide its head down to look at him instead.
“Let’s go back inside.”