Stuffing the bits of kit Morgan had been able to hand over into the pouch on his belt, Havel fumbles around until he gets his shotgun reloaded, snapping it closed and letting it hang by the strap at his side. It's not all that hard to do, since he doesn't really have to see the gun or the shells in his belt-loops to do it, but the pure lack of sight has his hands shaking something fierce. It's mostly rage now, rather than fear; Havel isn't the kind of guy who scares easy, and even then it turns to anger and hate in very short order. That the priest took his eyes would have been bad enough, but to cripple or kill one of Havel's Men? A Company Man?<br/><br/>Unfortunately, the object of his hatred seems to be already pretty much dead. Lucky for him, fuckin' priest. No good cutting off his thumbs or poking hot needles into his eyes now, wouldn't even make Havel feel any better. All he can do is see to Yankee and keep his ears peeled for the sound of approaching bikes, or if the Universe decided to shit all over him for a third time today, footsteps. He can't think of anyone friendly who travels on foot, except maybe the Doc, and she's coming by way of Morgan's motor today. Hopefully.<br/><br/>It seems to take a while for Havel to find his way over to Yankee, using the other man's harsh rasp of breath for a guide. On the way, he starts thinking about all the things he's done wrong so far, and what the Old Man would have said to him about it. That thought brings a whole welter of long supressed memories up to the surface, the faces of men he's outlived, and a land lost in flames. Tall buildings of brick and carved stone, steel and glass, ancient towers of the Time Before arranged in a cramped maze in the center of a wasted city. Annum... The Campus... Home.<br/><br/>He pushes it away, word and thought alike. Home isn't a word Company Men use with any kind of fondness, not any more. Now the word means scars, loss, and death. It's a word they use when they're drunk enough to be feeling really low, and not care if anyone knows it. It's a word they use when they're talking about all the people they used to know, the ones who didn't make it when a kid named Havel rounded up thirty odd riders of the Campus Guard Company and fled the oncoming blaze that took everything from them. At first, they had hated him for it. Now, they love him for the same reason.<br/><br/>"Yankee," Havel says, his voice rough as he settles down on one knee by his fallen Man, taking out one of the narc-stabs. "Yankee, lie still. Gonna give you somethin' for the pain, brother. Don't move." Groping around in the blinding light, he finds Yankee's throat, flicking the plastic cover from the needle and driving it in next to the finger laid along the pulsing vein there. Settling back wearily, Havel lets loose a long, pained sigh.<br/><br/>"M'sorry, Yank. You didn't deserve what you got. Tell me where you're hit, I'll try an' patch it up, okay?"