Kerry was drunk.

Not drunk on beer or wine, whiskey or vodka, Kerry much preferred his beverage of choice.

Sleep deprivation, a high like no other, leaving you light-headed and madder than a wet hen.

And you hallucinate.

Shadows lurk just out of view, warping and disappearing before they can truly be seen, the skies filled with images strewn upon the clouds. You are too mad to fly, so Kerry let his auto-pilot do it for him. His head pounded but he never moved to rub at it. He knew he could have slept, but there was this one thing that crept at the corner of his mind, this thing he couldn't remember and yet remembered all too well. Whatever it was, he knew he would have to talk to Roland about it.

When they landed, he barely managed to climb out of his plane before falling onto his head. He grumbled and crawled onto his feet. It was not long before he remembered what he had been thinking about for hours, the same thing that left a pit in his stomach deeper then any abyss or cliff. He was having flashbacks, flashbacks of Texas, what a shit-hole it was, he was glad he got out of there, no matter how much he missed the idealized memories of the place, there was no reason to ever want to go back there, and the things he had seen had changed him, to the point where he doubted he would be flying if not for the State's horrific... well, state. He had no family left, he had no money to speak of, all he had was the skies, diving through them, up and down, around and around, there was no greater thrill to be had, and that thrill was what he lived for, literally, what else was there for him? Sometimes he flew into combat expecting to die. 

[i]For what?[/i] He asked himself again and again, he never found an answer, he flew because he was too stubborn to die, and he was too stubborn because he could fly. Kerry had been a part of so many squadrons he couldn't even try to count, but Roland truly seemed to care about each of the ones he had met only a few days ago, and Kerry thought he had definitely earned the man's respect with his actions during the skirmish with the cultists. 

Rubbing his forehead, he resigned himself and sighed, letting out one little "Christ" and striding towards the hut where all his colleagues seemed wont to go.

"Dammit Kerry," he said, just barely a whisper.

"Why do you always do this?" he asked himself with a shake of his head.

The door opened easily, and the atmosphere of the shack was healthy enough on his tired mind. The calm and yet still quick music lent him a little calm, but he much preferred his own music, too bad he had been too tired to enjoy listening to it at the moment. Not in the mood to have that conversation with Roland he wished to have, he waddled off to the corner of the room and collapsed in a heap.

A pain shot up his right hip, reverberating thrice and leaving him cringing.

He had fallen onto his gun again, he hadn't shot himself or anything, but it was quick enough for the small SAA to dig itself into his hip and pinch his skin between his belt and the holster. Groaning and pushing himself off of his hip pitifully, Kerry took off his gun belt and threw it on the ground next to him, he reclined and exhaled deeply, chuckling once to himself as he looked at his gun.

[i]Kerry Thomas;[/i] He thought.

[i]Sky cowboy.[/i]