Chapter Text
Guts is a man living on borrowed time, and most days, he wonders if that time is even worth borrowing.
He doesn’t consider his quality of life to be that great. Jumping from motel to motel every few nights and living off of convenience store snacks isn’t exactly how he imagined adulthood would go; it wasn’t the life Shisu promised to him. She was supposed to steal him away one evening when she managed to scrounge enough pocket change to buy a clunker off the corner lot and drive them both up the East Coast. They were going to live out of that car until she could get a job and government assistance and then they would have a small apartment to themselves, far away from the chaos and the affliction that Gambino and the cartel brought.
She wasn’t supposed to get sick and die. That wasn’t something they’d planned on those nights where she’d hold him in her lap and soothe him back to sleep when he awoke with night terrors, whispering of better days ahead.
He had yet to find them.
Things got better in passing moments, sure. His situation significantly improved a month or so ago when Guts finally hunted Gambino back down, stalking him like a wild dog and waiting until he could corner him while his guard was down. The terror and disbelief written all over the fucker’s face was the best thing Guts had ever seen in his entire, miserable life--the way his voice wouldn’t even work as “you should be dead” was mouthed to him through cracked lips. It was a delicious, fitting revenge for the scar on his nose and the scars on his heart for Guts to feel Gambino’s blood gushing down his arms as he stabbed the shit out of him over and over again. When the pathetic waste of a man refused to die, he finally put him out of his misery and slashed his jugular open.
Gambino sputtered and died at his feet, and for those few, fleeting moments, Guts was dizzy with power from his victory that was fifteen years overdue. It was as reality set in that life quickly went back to being only slightly less shitty than it had been before, because now he knew he was going to have Gambino’s men chasing him down to retaliate.
That was how he wound up in a deteriorating motel along Route 66, likely his twelfth one since Gambino died. He keeps a burner phone on him to keep track of the case since law enforcement has also gotten involved and an ambush is always possible. Thankfully, nobody has any leads since the cartel wouldn’t come forward with Guts’ name as to not willingly put themselves in the hands of the police; on the other hand, the cops don’t really care about the case since it’s at the expense of a criminal. It would likely go cold, which Guts was beyond relieved about, but he’d grown up around Gambino’s men and knew how fiercely loyal they were. Their cartel is massive, and they could stand to send a handful of guys after Guts to take care of things.
But what they didn’t take into consideration was that Guts had learned his way around plenty of weapons in the time he was by himself. He had been small at the time, but killing Donovan was easy--all it took was a knife to the throat when he was asleep. Guts had been smart enough to train before he went back to El Paso to do Gambino in, knowing he would have a higher chance of succeeding if he grew stronger and allowed the bastard time to forget about him. It was a long, grueling decade, but he was lucky to have grown as tall as he did, and countless hours of lifting had given him decently-sized muscles. If these men had knives, Guts would more than likely win against them with brute strength alone; if they had guns, he was fucked.
The motel’s reception is shitty and the TV screen is fuzzy, leaving Guts to grunt in dissatisfaction as he tucks into a gas station burrito. It’s stale and definitely sat out for over a day, but he’d learned early in his life that beggars couldn’t be choosers. He’d eaten worse before; if he got food poisoning, he could just ask the front desk to add another night to his stay. It wasn’t like he was up to much of anything recently. He expects he is a couple of days ahead of the cartel, anyway.
Wiping a sauce-covered hand on his grimy jeans, Guts ponders about the last time he’d actually done something other than drive and hide in seedy motels. Obviously he’d ambushed Gambino which had been liberating in the moment, but as time marched on, the elation began to dissipate into a dull throbbing in the back of his skull; a reminder that this is why he’s running in the first place. Before then, he would do nothing but frequent gyms, building his strength and focusing his energy on taking the bastard down.
With him dead, there isn’t really anything to look forward to. Guts is just an aimless vagabond.
He’d bought a shitty little pickup right before he drove back down to Texas. That would count as “something,” he guessed. He’d also gone out to drink at a small dive bar, but he’d been by himself. Nobody ever bothered him when he went out places; he supposed he looked too scary to make friends.
That’s fine. He didn’t need to drag anybody into his mess.
One day he would stop running and attempt to settle down somewhere and maybe make a friend or two. If he’s really lucky, he might even manage to find himself a woman who doesn’t mind his fucked-up upbringing and stick by her side. That seems a bit of a stretch--right now at least. Guts figures he can at least set his sights on a normal future somewhere down the road. He owes that much to Shisu.
Standing up with a grunt, Guts halfheartedly tosses the foil into the trash can next to the bed and blindly feels at his jean pockets. The waxy feel of the grease and oil-stained denim involuntarily makes his nose scrunch up; he needs to buy detergent soon. He doesn’t have the energy to go back to the gas station in the unlikely chance that they might have a cheap bottle, but he also doesn’t have the time to hang around here for more than tonight. It would be a couple more days of traveling before he would feel confident enough to do laundry and stock up on food.
Guts doesn’t even bother sliding his shoes on to step outside to smoke. This is a quiet little motel nestled in the heart of a small town he had been passing by, and the only sound audible is the sound of tires on the nearby highway. There are other people here--cars are parked in a few different spots across the span of the U-shaped building--but everybody seems to be in their rooms for the night.
Guts fishes the half-empty pack of cigarettes from his pocket along with the silver Zippo lighter that he figures probably needs more fuel soon. Leaning against the railing outside his door, Guts sticks the end of the cigarette into the small flame and takes a long drag. He doesn’t hate the taste of Lucky Strikes, but he misses the fuller flavor of the Camels and Marloboros he used to smoke. Being strapped for cash on the road, he doesn’t have much choice on cheap cigarettes though, and these are at least better than the other bottom shelf cigs.
He briefly wonders about the other people staying here. What are their lives like? Are they people just traveling through, or are they people on “business trips” cheating on their spouses for the night, or are they like him, running from something that they don’t want to face? The complexity of the lives of those around him was always something he struggled to understand. Every person he’d ever come into contact with had life experiences that were entirely unique to themselves; not everybody had as shitty of a family that Guts had. They had all managed to nearly cross paths in this place, and when the morning came, most of them would leave and likely never meet again. The world is a weird place.
Guts flicks the butt of the cigarette with his thumb and watches as the small embers fade as they fall to ash on the ground. He figures it’s about time to stock up on a few things for the road but decides he’ll get a little further out before stopping anywhere. He’s tired of the same convenience store shit, which sucks, because he really can’t afford to splurge on anything else. As long as cheap ramen keeps him alive, he’ll keep buying it.
Taking one last deep drag of the cigarette, Guts flicks the remains into the nearby mulch before turning back to his room. Tomorrow will be a better day. He would make more progress toward his unknown destination and maybe even treat himself to a pack of Camels to get him through.
“Another day down,” Guts mumbles to himself as he covers himself up with the thin sheets.
Another day he hadn’t expected to see the end of.