People tend to settle into roles quickly. It's hardly surprising, but still, The Saint finds it satisfying: seeing people fall into place, and doing the same itself.
It first finds itself becoming something of a pack mule. Though their destination is unclear, The Saint and its compatriots the Scott siblings know that the journey will require supplies. Laden with armour and bags alike, it leads the group, a quiet presence, as foreboding as it is comforting.
The crossing of the Bastion’s border did not pose the problem it perhaps could have – with Peregrine slung over one shoulder, their frantically kicking legs held rather firmly in place, this once insurmountable task was accomplished in a matter of seconds. (Upon being unceremoniously deposited upon the floor, the younger Scott had turned to readjust their waistcoat, leaving the older just enough time to surreptitiously wipe their sibling’s stray tear from the armoured shoulder.)
Later, it becomes a courier, taking trips to the old power station to collect mushrooms or to the remains of the city in search of medical equipment. The others try to mask their relief each time it returns. The infected no longer threaten it, but the uninfected might: raiders with their weapons and their hunger, too desperate to be put off by any armour or axe. It's rare to see someone these days who doesn't bear the telltale scars of raiders' efforts. But The Saint has always been a strange sight.
It takes an odd sort of comfort in this fact. People seem much more willing to grant exceptions to humanity to those who are… exceptionally non-human. Or perhaps, just those who seem that way – all armour and scepticism and blood. And, at the very least to The Saint, nothing beside remains.
Later still, it becomes a butcher. Mars teaches it the ways of quick death and careful carving, happy to pass on the torch. The people are fed until they no longer need to be, and The Saint has a purpose. So it goes.
And go, it does. Years, as they often do, begin to fall away, and take with them the spark of life, returning only withered flowers and forgotten graves. Though none may see their wrinkled faces and greying hair reflected in their ally’s never-changing armour, they assume still one day its gait must limp as theirs does, that its mind must slow and stagnate all the same.
Neither Mars nor Peregrine live to see the fate of The Saint, but this does not trouble them as it may. For two so scarred by loss and grief, a sanctity was granted by this unholy companion that they’d truly believed they would never feel again.
And, in the end, they died with utmost faith that their Saint would not do the same.