I had a jug of sodium hypochlorite--bleach--which I set down on the tile floor of the bathroom beside my feet. I shut the bathroom door and turned on the air vent, then looked at myself in the mirror. I had dark hair. Really dark hair. It's possible that my parents, the Ballards, specifically arranged my genes to give me dark hair. Maybe they both had dark hair and I inherited it. I'll never know. But what makes it really not matter is that in about twenty minutes, I won't have dark hair anymore.
I had a pair of old gloves that I had designated for the task. I put them on before unscrewing the top of the bleach jug, which Hoops was able to siphon from the chemical laboratory and give to me. Good, old Hoops. He always humored me.
The squad thought I was acting up lately. Like some chronic disease or something. I've been talking back to Sergeant Kadlec more than usual, and I've got the headaches and the bruises to prove it. Storm thinks it's blatant insubordination, and I can bet you money he'll blame himself for it. It's not him, though. None of them get it. I can't blame them, but they could at least humor me like Hoops, who was practically a stranger. I'm not just whining. I'm thinking out loud, and apparently that makes me a rabble-rouser.
Ha, ha. Rabble-rouser. I would enjoy the word on the way it sounded alone, except it marked me as a threat to Cross-X's sick, little society.
I applied the bleach to my hair and waited. The smell started making me dizzy, so I risked opening the door and getting caught. I wasn't doing anything illegal, but the last thing I wanted was for someone to make me stop. I had to do this. No one believed I wasn't carefree Flare anymore. No one thought my opinions mattered. No one could tell that I was being serious when I said I wanted to quit this shit and go home.
The joke's on me, I guess. I don't have a home.
The bleach burned as it sat on the skin of my scalp. I put my hands on the edges of the sink and let my head hang over it, the sensation more of a nagging feeling than something to concentrate on. I checked my watch compulsively as the twenty minutes crept by slowly, the pain in my head growing as the fumes filled my lungs and my skin burned. Finally, it was time to wash it out. I turned the sink on full blast with cold water and shoved my head under it for a few seconds before I got to work shampooing it. I stopped when the water ran clear, then I shook my head of the excess water and looked up in the mirror.
I blinked twice. I didn't think it was going to make that big of a difference, but the blond-haired guy staring back at me was a stranger. The blond hair on my head was sticking up in randomized spiky formations, stiff as straw. I was supposed to sneak some mayonnaise out of the Galley to put on it to help soften it up, but that would have to wait until dinner.
Disappointment settled heavily at the bottom of my stomach in the meantime. I thought this would feel different. I thought this new image would free me from my old self, but all I felt was light-headed and headachey. I threw away the ruined gloves and moved out of the bathroom, about ready to collapse on the closest bed (Storm's) when the door to the dormitory opened. I almost ignored whoever it was, but instinct told me it would be in my best interest to look up. It was Tide. I didn't say anything.
"What the fuck did you do?" Tide asked. She never dropped the F-bomb. Ever.
"Bleached my hair," I replied, knowing that wasn't the answer she was looking for. I expected her to get mad like she usually did when I baited her. She didn't say anything.
We stood for several silent seconds, Tide gaping at me in a way that wasn't all surprise, but something else I couldn't quite fathom. Then she moved slowly toward me, somehow undisturbed by the appalling fumes of the bleach.
"Flare," she said levelly, searching my face. "What's wrong?"
I did something weird: I scoffed. I found that I didn't have a response, that I could only look away and scoff again. No one had asked me that before. I didn't really know.
Tide put her hands on the sides of my face and gently moved my head so that I was looking at her. She was standing close to me, and I could smell her scent and feel the warmth of her body. Her thumb grazed my cheek and I frowned. She waited.
"God, Tide," I said, all of the sudden feeling as though I had to choke back a sob, "I'm just so damn tired." That was all I could say. I had so much more bottled up inside of me, fantasies about the real world and how I wanted to fit into it, go to real arcades where I had to spend money to play games that weren't battle simulations, see a holovid about something that wasn't war, find a place outdoors that wasn't under enemy artillery fire.
Somehow, Tide must have known I meant more than I said because she looked devastated. She didn't speak for a moment. I felt my shoulders quivering with a caged energy that wanted to escape, but I refused. My face hurt from trying to keep in the sobs. When she opened her mouth to speak, I expected to hear about how we were all tired. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.
I forced the hardest grin I'd ever produced in my life. "For what?"
"Everything. Not seeing this sooner. No, not confronting you sooner--I knew, Goddamn it, and I didn't do a damn thing about it, and--shit--" Tide broke off and moved her hands away, having stopped because her barrier against sadness had sprung a leak.
By that point, my dam had collapsed. I grabbed Tide and forced her against me, holding her tightly, crying so hard that my tremors could have given her motion sickness. She clung back to me, her face buried in my chest. We stayed like that until our energy drained and we sank to the floor in each other's arms, utterly exhausted, expended of any will to speak or move. We were practically asleep when we heard Puck come in.
Puck leaned over Storm's bed and saw us sitting together on the floor. "Hey, I--" Puck stopped what he was about to say and did a double-take, one so textbook that it could have come out of a holovid sitcom. He smiled down at us and nodded to indicate my hair. "I like it. It's a good change."
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Tethers: Invasive Negotiations
A/N: The sexism is supposed to be taken from the point of view of the characters, not me. Thanks.
Grieg City, Icarus, 5th Month of Year 24, 71 Days after First Deployment
This was sort of degrading.
Tide had come to expect certain reactions out of the squad. She was different from them in a way that none of them could control, and no matter how hard she tried to fit in with them, match them, even surpass them, she would always be female. It was not a mark of shame, assuredly, but she was inherently different--the squad didn't think so. No, she was one of the boys through and through as far as Sigma was concerned, but High Brass knew she was the only special ops female soldier, and they monitored her.
There were several things, however, that Tide could guarantee regardless of anything: she would always be smarter than Flare, faster than Storm, and more aggressive than Puck. And with each of those advantages, she would never fall behind, never belittled because of her sex. And if there was one thing about being female that Tide could always rely on, it was the mystique--the unfathomable mystery of being a girl. Just a glare could send any man running, and sometimes, that was all she needed.
One would think being selected out of over one hundred and twenty candidates to run a vital mission would make Tide feel something like honor, but she was well informed that the only reason she had been chosen was because she was female. Storm assured her that she was more than qualified for the mission, though she was still nagged by a voice in her head that wanted to prove that she was more than just a covert ops asset with distracting anatomy. She was going to own this job. Own it.
Tide folded her arms and shifted her weight to one side, making sure her disgust was rather apparent. She saw Puck's and Flare's eyes follow the hemline of her loose summer dress as it grazed her thighs, and she let out a quick breath and rolled her eyes. By that point, none of them really questioned why she seemed to get so easily annoyed, as there was inevitably something they were unconsciously doing to make her so.
Storm rolled a suitcase toward the squad, which prompted a snort and a guffaw from Puck and Flare, as the suitcase was floral-printed and pink. They were all in civvy clothes because they were in a civvy place: the monorail station. It was a very strange assignment for a group of young adults who had hardly ever left their training grounds for anything other than battle, but Sarge was with them to help them carry it out. At least, he was in the same city, but probably helping himself to a quick meal at a diner currently.
"Here are your belongings," Storm announced, nonplussed by Flare, who was whispering something that was, no doubt, an attack on Storm's masculine integrity. Storm propped up the suitcase next to Tide and looked her up and down, deep creases forming on his brow. "I'm not sure if I like this... ordnance."
"Oh, please," Tide snapped. "This dress is flattering."
It was, really. Tide never fancied herself to be the kind of girl who would pay attention to the way clothes fit her because, well, she spent most of her time suited up in full armor or in sweaty fatigues. But to be in a dress... to see the heads turn when she walked up the hallway, the way Sarge lost the ability to form proper sentences, and Puck and Flare staring at her (albeit creepily), it was like having a jamming device implanted in the brain of nearly every man she encountered. It was sort of invigorating, in a way. And Tide could at least take solace in the fact that she knew she was sneaky enough to slot any enemy regardless of what distracting clothing she was wearing. This dress with its plunging, v-line neck, slim silhouette, and lack of length was not a crutch; it was an asset.
Storm sighed. "As long as it gets the job done."
Tide gave her brother a hug around the neck and pecked him on the cheek. "You're not worried, are you?"
"I'm just afraid of what you'll get into," Storm admitted, awkwardly returning the hug. His sister was so... small without the baggy uniform fatigues or armor.
"Get into? Why, I've only got permission to 'stop at nothing' to complete the mission." Tide grinned almost playfully. "I'll be fine."
Flare came over and slung his arm around Tide's shoulders. "You know, that dress almost gives you some cleavage. I have to give it some credit." Flare immediately moved away to avoid a potential blow to the jaw from Storm and an imminent elbow to the gut from Tide.
"I think what Flare means is that you won't have to go very far to get the intel," Puck said in his usual mediating manner, sliding his hands into his pockets and seemingly avoiding looking at Tide altogether. "So Storm shouldn't worry or anything."
"I'm not worried," Storm insisted uselessly. Sigma Squad's dubious stares all went to him until he finally said: "Okay, okay. I just want Tide to keep her clothes on."
"All right, enough about my invasive negotiations tactics," Tide said with a wave of her hand. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and nodded to Puck and Flare, who were still ogling her, though by this point, with some ostensible restraint.
"You know how to contact us," Storm needlessly reminded her. "We'll storm in and slot everybody in a heartbeat if you need us."
"And we'll wear fantastic shiny armor while we do it," Flare added.
"I doubt you'll need us," Puck chimed in with a shy grin.
"Thanks, boys," Tide said. A fast breeze shot across the platform and Tide instinctively moved her free hand to her skirt, her self-consciousness suddenly getting the better of her. The platform was more or less devoid of any civilians (it was a Saturday and before sunrise, so that was no surprise), but she figured she should probably start getting used to acting like a self-respecting teenaged girl who wasn't frequently exposed to a squad of three boys.
"Check in when you get there," Storm said with a nod as the monorail pulled into the station.
"Brush your teeth!" Flare said.
Puck lifted his hand and faltered in what he was about to say. "Keep your... pants on?" he stated, more like a question than anything.
"Will do," Tide said with a small chuckle. She boarded the train with her suitcase and turned to look out the window at her boys, who were all staring at her as if they were worried parents sending a child out on her first day of primary school. It was sort of endearing, in a way, and Tide would have certainly thought that if their lack of confidence didn't annoy her so much.
The monorail began to pull out of the station, and Storm, Flare, and Puck began waving simultaneously in a belabored manor that could have been taken out of a corny holovid. Tide waved back nonetheless, and suddenly felt very alone on the sparsely inhabited monorail car. The more distance the monorail put between the platform and itself, the more Tide became aware of her solidarity. It was both liberating and terribly frightening--she had never gone on a mission on her own up to this point. Nothing had really prepared her for that.
Chalking it up to boredom and not her insecurity, Tide reached for her comlink, which was shaped like a normal civilian's and lacking in surreptitious design. She was about to dial in Storm's code when it rang on its own, and she answered it. "Hello?"
"Tide!" Sarge's voice came from the other side. "Well--Lisa, I guess, is the proper name now. Just checking up on you. Are you on the train?"
"Yes," Tide said, stopping herself from saying "sir." This was a normal conversation between two civilians in the event that anyone was observing her. "We're just exiting the city now."
"All right, so you're about fifteen minutes from Dresden," Sarge said, more for himself.
"Correct," Tide confirmed. Then, in an attempt to sound "normal," she asked: "How was your breakfast?"
"Cholesterol-filled and wonderful," Sarge responded blissfully. "Make sure you get one... if permissible. But really, do try. I'm taking your boys out tonight."
"I'm jealous," Tide said flatly, trying to sound uninterested, though she was admittedly envious of them.
"You won't miss much, I'm sure," Sarge assured her. "Maybe just some bad jokes from Flare, and Puck drinking too much."
"Puck's under-aged!" Tide whispered harshly.
"Details, details," Sarge said dismissively. "Check in when you get there."
Tide sighed. "Yeah, yeah. See ya, Pops," Tide casually said, clicking off her comlink. Her eyes drifted to the windowpane and her visage became dazed, but her mind was racing as fast as the monorail. Dresden.
Dresden was a small community east to the east of Grieg City, a sizable metropolis of the waning human empire. Grieg City was nothing compared to Ithaca, but it was growing with refugees in search of work and the displaced wealthy tycoons looking to start anew. Dresden had yet to feel the growth of incoming refugees, however, and Intel reports--which had to be taken with a grain of salt--were fairly confident that the ratio of men to women in the predominantly working town were outrageously mismatched--about five men to one woman. Needless to say, it was obvious why Tide was selected for the job.
Intel had also caught wind that someone was making massive communications with Bedlam. Sympathizers. Some humans didn't like the war. Many of them thought that history was repeating itself--humans claiming new territory and blasting away anyone who mucked up the works. They called for negotiations and compromise. Some even went as far as to sabotage the human war effort. And whenever Intel detected that, someone was put on the case. And without the illustrious military secret services, it was up to a Cross-X spec ops to stop it.
The monorail stopped in Dresden and Tide disembarked. A worker on the train helped her with her suitcase, and she thanked him graciously and made sure she didn't lean over for too long to lift the handle. She had to remind herself to be polite and smile. Non-Cross-X people weren't going to tolerate her usual brusque demeanor, and she needed to be sugary sweet if she wanted to complete the mission successfully. Tide could act.
As she began to walk off the platform, she noticed three men walking in her direction from her left. She found herself suddenly nervous, but she feigned normalcy and kept walking, waiting to see what they were going to do. They kept coming.
---
Flare sat down at the bar and twisted side to side on the stool, drumming his fingers on the bar's surface. It was 1000 hours and the place was empty except for a few shady middle-aged men talking intently at a booth. But Flare wasn't allowed to go upstairs yet. It would be suspicious for a grown man to go up to his rented apartment with three young men. Two was more believable, sort of. Storm--or Bruce, as he was now called--could pass easily as Sarge's son, and Puck--Simon--the ambiguous friend or potentially second son. Flare was named the third wheel mostly because of his bleach-blond hair, which made him a better lookout than a family member. He sat sideways to the bar so he could keep his peripherals on the door as Sarge, Storm, and Puck loaded what looked like very large suitcases into the elevator with hover-dollies. Sometimes surveillance equipment could get...bulky.
There was still someone tending the bar at even at 1000 hours. Go figure. "What'll you have?"
Flare glanced at the bartender and lifted his eyebrows emphatically. "What do you recommend?"
The bartender huffed, annoyed. "I don't know. I'm assuming since you're at a bar at this time a day, you must be a real alcoholic. And a young one, at that."
"Not necessarily. Maybe I'm just thirsty and I want a professional to make me a drink."
"And you think you're going to get a discount for saying that?"
"No, I flatter people at random." Flare was still twisting side-to-side on the bar stool as if he was an antsy six-year-old. "Do you have chocolate milk?"
The bartender paused and gave Flare a look that in itself said "No."
"Strawberry smoothie?"
"Kid, I'm about to ask you to leave."
"Fine. Diet cola. Although ma always said not to drink cola before noon."
The bartender rolled his eyes and sprayed a glass of cola from one of the hand pumps behind the bar, then handed it to Flare and made it obvious he was done talking by going to the empty opposite end of the bar. This left Flare to his own tormenting thoughts.
Flare sipped the cola and momentarily reveled in the fizzy, sugary sensation, a rare treat for any Cross-X soldier. Puck could probably spit out every adverse effect of cola off of the top of his head, but sometimes Flare wanted to do something that wouldn't have any dire consequences. And he was pretty sure a little sugar and caffeine wouldn't hurt him. Besides, it was diet.
Puck entered the bar for his second trip, carrying two duffel bags and a pack on his back. They were getting down to their personal items--the pack had his armor in it, and the duffel bags carried the rest of his personal effects, including some small weapons and his data-hacking paraphernalia. They were almost done.
Flare watched the door with his peripheral vision, staring down at the floor and letting his mind wander. Tide was alone. And if they were going to send a girl in for this, it had to be Tide--she was a menace on two skinny legs that went forever, and he loved her for it. She was going to get the job done right like every other job she'd ever done. But he worried. He didn't doubt her, not one bit--he just worried, worried like Storm every night before he slept. Yeah, they all knew he worried. But who the hell didn't? Tide felt pressured to succeed. Not one soldier in Sigma Squad didn't feel like he had something to prove, though Tide seemed to really take her performance to heart. Flare could see it in her concentration, her forced smiles, and the days she suffered from unbearable headaches. She was one of the smartest Cross-X soldiers in the organization, and even Sarge knew she was more intelligent than him. She was the best shot, and the best close-quarters combatant in spec ops. Somehow, though, that didn't seem good enough.
But, God, she was perfect.
Flare thought of the comlink in his pocket. He wanted to call her, but he didn't want to compromise the mission or, worse, annoy her. He abstained from making the call but continued to grapple with the hurt of missing her. It was tough on the squad whenever they were apart, but it especially hurt Flare. It was hard enough sneaking moments alone with Tide, and it was damn near impossible when trying to talk to her on the comlink.
Storm said in Flare's earbud comlink: "We're done. Come up at your discretion."
Flare continued to casually slurp cola, still sitting and twisting in the stool. When he was almost done with the drink, he beckoned the bartender, who came over reluctantly. "Can I get a burger to go?" Flare asked with an innocent smile.
"A burger? Sure." The bartender shook his head and left for a back room, returning several minutes later with a small bag, which was being pulled with the weight of an undoubtedly greasy burger. Flare took it and slid the bartender some currency credits, with a couple of extra as a tip. He grinned at the disgruntled bartender and went to the elevator.
It was already waiting for him, so he stepped it and rode it up to the third floor rental apartments, enduring the boring, almost surreal synthesizer music that played for the ride. It opened into a small hallway leading to three different flats, and Flare went to 3C and knocked three times.
"Room service!" he called in a sing-song voice. Storm appeared on the other side of the door as it slid open, and he grabbed Flare by the shirt and dragged him in, the door closing behind them.
"Could you not make a giant moron of yourself? Thanks."
"Sure. Whatever you say, Bruce," Flare responded, grinning. It was so hard taking Storm seriously when he was calling him by his real name. Bruce was so... grandfatherly. "But fun-less people don't get burgers. Yo, Puck, you want some?"
Puck was sitting on the small futon putting together some equipment that Flare couldn't quite figure out in its disassembled state. He flinched at his name. "Drew. Seriously. Make yourself useful and help me out here."
"I don't know if I like Drew. Should I do Andy instead?" Flare asked as he stepped over equipment parts and sat next to Puck on the futon.
"We're going to start calling you Smart Ass at this rate," replied Storm irritably.
Sergeant Elias Kadlec came out of an adjacent room and put his hands on his hips, eyeing Flare. He was wearing faded, black denim pants and a crimson polo shirt with all of its buttons undone and the hem tucked in. The pants seemed to squeeze his growing midsection, but it must have been due to the thin armor he was wearing under it, not his expanding waist size. Sarge was as cautious as he was intimidating. "I knew a Drew at the academy. He was a real genius--liked to show up late to morning calisthenics with Sergeant Payne." Sarge grinned sarcastically. "I think it's fitting for you, Drew."
Flare had unwrapped the burger and taken a bite out of it, the farthest he had gotten to helping Puck was moving to sit next to him. "Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment, Pops."
Sarge's comlink began to ring. They all froze--it was playing a little repeating melody like most other civilian's coms, and the song was Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." It was Tide. "Hello, Lisa," he said calmly.
The rest of them waited, fixated on Sarge, who had turned his back on them as if to hide his reactions.
"Uh-huh. Some new friends. Well, you've got enough of those, so why don't you lose them?" He waited. "No, no. Don't make a mess. We don't have enough connections to clean up a mess that big."
Flare glanced toward Storm, who looked as stoic as ever, if not paler. He swallowed so hard that Flare could see his throat move. Flare's heart was pumping so rigorously that his ears must have been pulsating with every beat.
"They're gone?" Sarge went on. "Strange. All right. Be careful. Go somewhere safe, but don't go to--" Sarge broke off. He chuckled. "I know you've got it. Call back as soon as you can, honey."
Storm, Flare, and Puck seemed to relax simultaneously. Sarge didn't use "honey" just to stick with the paternal façade.
"Tide called to try and act distracted around some suspicious characters." Sarge sort of paused as if belatedly catching his slip on Tide's name. "Simon, is that thing ready yet?"
"It would be done if Drew would stop pigging out and help."
Flare made no snide remark as he set down the half-eaten burger, wiped his hands on his pants, and had some equipment shoved in his hands by Puck.
Sarge came over and picked up the burger, taking a bite out of it himself. "Not bad," he said, chewing. "Ol' Hal can still run a decent bar. Too bad he's a bit of a priss."
Flare was stuck holding equipment while Puck carefully connected some wires. He recalled the bartender, a short man, rather skinny, his only intimidating feature being the articulate scowl plastered on his face. The image of "Ol' Hal" sort of melted with Puck's displeased concentration face, and Flare felt guilty for making the connection. Puck wasn't a priss.
"Done," said Puck.
"Let's get the sucker going so we can keep an eye on her," Flare said.
"You guys do that. I'm gonna give this place some better sound-proofing." Storm grabbed his pack and went into another room.
"I'll give Storm a hand while you guys set up," Sarge said, following Storm.
Puck looked up from the signal device and gave Flare a knowing grin. "So. Who's excited for the all-access feed from Tide's room?"
"I'd hit you if I wasn't so excited," Flare replied with a mischievous grin.
Grieg City, Icarus, 5th Month of Year 24, 71 Days after First Deployment
This was sort of degrading.
Tide had come to expect certain reactions out of the squad. She was different from them in a way that none of them could control, and no matter how hard she tried to fit in with them, match them, even surpass them, she would always be female. It was not a mark of shame, assuredly, but she was inherently different--the squad didn't think so. No, she was one of the boys through and through as far as Sigma was concerned, but High Brass knew she was the only special ops female soldier, and they monitored her.
There were several things, however, that Tide could guarantee regardless of anything: she would always be smarter than Flare, faster than Storm, and more aggressive than Puck. And with each of those advantages, she would never fall behind, never belittled because of her sex. And if there was one thing about being female that Tide could always rely on, it was the mystique--the unfathomable mystery of being a girl. Just a glare could send any man running, and sometimes, that was all she needed.
One would think being selected out of over one hundred and twenty candidates to run a vital mission would make Tide feel something like honor, but she was well informed that the only reason she had been chosen was because she was female. Storm assured her that she was more than qualified for the mission, though she was still nagged by a voice in her head that wanted to prove that she was more than just a covert ops asset with distracting anatomy. She was going to own this job. Own it.
Tide folded her arms and shifted her weight to one side, making sure her disgust was rather apparent. She saw Puck's and Flare's eyes follow the hemline of her loose summer dress as it grazed her thighs, and she let out a quick breath and rolled her eyes. By that point, none of them really questioned why she seemed to get so easily annoyed, as there was inevitably something they were unconsciously doing to make her so.
Storm rolled a suitcase toward the squad, which prompted a snort and a guffaw from Puck and Flare, as the suitcase was floral-printed and pink. They were all in civvy clothes because they were in a civvy place: the monorail station. It was a very strange assignment for a group of young adults who had hardly ever left their training grounds for anything other than battle, but Sarge was with them to help them carry it out. At least, he was in the same city, but probably helping himself to a quick meal at a diner currently.
"Here are your belongings," Storm announced, nonplussed by Flare, who was whispering something that was, no doubt, an attack on Storm's masculine integrity. Storm propped up the suitcase next to Tide and looked her up and down, deep creases forming on his brow. "I'm not sure if I like this... ordnance."
"Oh, please," Tide snapped. "This dress is flattering."
It was, really. Tide never fancied herself to be the kind of girl who would pay attention to the way clothes fit her because, well, she spent most of her time suited up in full armor or in sweaty fatigues. But to be in a dress... to see the heads turn when she walked up the hallway, the way Sarge lost the ability to form proper sentences, and Puck and Flare staring at her (albeit creepily), it was like having a jamming device implanted in the brain of nearly every man she encountered. It was sort of invigorating, in a way. And Tide could at least take solace in the fact that she knew she was sneaky enough to slot any enemy regardless of what distracting clothing she was wearing. This dress with its plunging, v-line neck, slim silhouette, and lack of length was not a crutch; it was an asset.
Storm sighed. "As long as it gets the job done."
Tide gave her brother a hug around the neck and pecked him on the cheek. "You're not worried, are you?"
"I'm just afraid of what you'll get into," Storm admitted, awkwardly returning the hug. His sister was so... small without the baggy uniform fatigues or armor.
"Get into? Why, I've only got permission to 'stop at nothing' to complete the mission." Tide grinned almost playfully. "I'll be fine."
Flare came over and slung his arm around Tide's shoulders. "You know, that dress almost gives you some cleavage. I have to give it some credit." Flare immediately moved away to avoid a potential blow to the jaw from Storm and an imminent elbow to the gut from Tide.
"I think what Flare means is that you won't have to go very far to get the intel," Puck said in his usual mediating manner, sliding his hands into his pockets and seemingly avoiding looking at Tide altogether. "So Storm shouldn't worry or anything."
"I'm not worried," Storm insisted uselessly. Sigma Squad's dubious stares all went to him until he finally said: "Okay, okay. I just want Tide to keep her clothes on."
"All right, enough about my invasive negotiations tactics," Tide said with a wave of her hand. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and nodded to Puck and Flare, who were still ogling her, though by this point, with some ostensible restraint.
"You know how to contact us," Storm needlessly reminded her. "We'll storm in and slot everybody in a heartbeat if you need us."
"And we'll wear fantastic shiny armor while we do it," Flare added.
"I doubt you'll need us," Puck chimed in with a shy grin.
"Thanks, boys," Tide said. A fast breeze shot across the platform and Tide instinctively moved her free hand to her skirt, her self-consciousness suddenly getting the better of her. The platform was more or less devoid of any civilians (it was a Saturday and before sunrise, so that was no surprise), but she figured she should probably start getting used to acting like a self-respecting teenaged girl who wasn't frequently exposed to a squad of three boys.
"Check in when you get there," Storm said with a nod as the monorail pulled into the station.
"Brush your teeth!" Flare said.
Puck lifted his hand and faltered in what he was about to say. "Keep your... pants on?" he stated, more like a question than anything.
"Will do," Tide said with a small chuckle. She boarded the train with her suitcase and turned to look out the window at her boys, who were all staring at her as if they were worried parents sending a child out on her first day of primary school. It was sort of endearing, in a way, and Tide would have certainly thought that if their lack of confidence didn't annoy her so much.
The monorail began to pull out of the station, and Storm, Flare, and Puck began waving simultaneously in a belabored manor that could have been taken out of a corny holovid. Tide waved back nonetheless, and suddenly felt very alone on the sparsely inhabited monorail car. The more distance the monorail put between the platform and itself, the more Tide became aware of her solidarity. It was both liberating and terribly frightening--she had never gone on a mission on her own up to this point. Nothing had really prepared her for that.
Chalking it up to boredom and not her insecurity, Tide reached for her comlink, which was shaped like a normal civilian's and lacking in surreptitious design. She was about to dial in Storm's code when it rang on its own, and she answered it. "Hello?"
"Tide!" Sarge's voice came from the other side. "Well--Lisa, I guess, is the proper name now. Just checking up on you. Are you on the train?"
"Yes," Tide said, stopping herself from saying "sir." This was a normal conversation between two civilians in the event that anyone was observing her. "We're just exiting the city now."
"All right, so you're about fifteen minutes from Dresden," Sarge said, more for himself.
"Correct," Tide confirmed. Then, in an attempt to sound "normal," she asked: "How was your breakfast?"
"Cholesterol-filled and wonderful," Sarge responded blissfully. "Make sure you get one... if permissible. But really, do try. I'm taking your boys out tonight."
"I'm jealous," Tide said flatly, trying to sound uninterested, though she was admittedly envious of them.
"You won't miss much, I'm sure," Sarge assured her. "Maybe just some bad jokes from Flare, and Puck drinking too much."
"Puck's under-aged!" Tide whispered harshly.
"Details, details," Sarge said dismissively. "Check in when you get there."
Tide sighed. "Yeah, yeah. See ya, Pops," Tide casually said, clicking off her comlink. Her eyes drifted to the windowpane and her visage became dazed, but her mind was racing as fast as the monorail. Dresden.
Dresden was a small community east to the east of Grieg City, a sizable metropolis of the waning human empire. Grieg City was nothing compared to Ithaca, but it was growing with refugees in search of work and the displaced wealthy tycoons looking to start anew. Dresden had yet to feel the growth of incoming refugees, however, and Intel reports--which had to be taken with a grain of salt--were fairly confident that the ratio of men to women in the predominantly working town were outrageously mismatched--about five men to one woman. Needless to say, it was obvious why Tide was selected for the job.
Intel had also caught wind that someone was making massive communications with Bedlam. Sympathizers. Some humans didn't like the war. Many of them thought that history was repeating itself--humans claiming new territory and blasting away anyone who mucked up the works. They called for negotiations and compromise. Some even went as far as to sabotage the human war effort. And whenever Intel detected that, someone was put on the case. And without the illustrious military secret services, it was up to a Cross-X spec ops to stop it.
The monorail stopped in Dresden and Tide disembarked. A worker on the train helped her with her suitcase, and she thanked him graciously and made sure she didn't lean over for too long to lift the handle. She had to remind herself to be polite and smile. Non-Cross-X people weren't going to tolerate her usual brusque demeanor, and she needed to be sugary sweet if she wanted to complete the mission successfully. Tide could act.
As she began to walk off the platform, she noticed three men walking in her direction from her left. She found herself suddenly nervous, but she feigned normalcy and kept walking, waiting to see what they were going to do. They kept coming.
---
Flare sat down at the bar and twisted side to side on the stool, drumming his fingers on the bar's surface. It was 1000 hours and the place was empty except for a few shady middle-aged men talking intently at a booth. But Flare wasn't allowed to go upstairs yet. It would be suspicious for a grown man to go up to his rented apartment with three young men. Two was more believable, sort of. Storm--or Bruce, as he was now called--could pass easily as Sarge's son, and Puck--Simon--the ambiguous friend or potentially second son. Flare was named the third wheel mostly because of his bleach-blond hair, which made him a better lookout than a family member. He sat sideways to the bar so he could keep his peripherals on the door as Sarge, Storm, and Puck loaded what looked like very large suitcases into the elevator with hover-dollies. Sometimes surveillance equipment could get...bulky.
There was still someone tending the bar at even at 1000 hours. Go figure. "What'll you have?"
Flare glanced at the bartender and lifted his eyebrows emphatically. "What do you recommend?"
The bartender huffed, annoyed. "I don't know. I'm assuming since you're at a bar at this time a day, you must be a real alcoholic. And a young one, at that."
"Not necessarily. Maybe I'm just thirsty and I want a professional to make me a drink."
"And you think you're going to get a discount for saying that?"
"No, I flatter people at random." Flare was still twisting side-to-side on the bar stool as if he was an antsy six-year-old. "Do you have chocolate milk?"
The bartender paused and gave Flare a look that in itself said "No."
"Strawberry smoothie?"
"Kid, I'm about to ask you to leave."
"Fine. Diet cola. Although ma always said not to drink cola before noon."
The bartender rolled his eyes and sprayed a glass of cola from one of the hand pumps behind the bar, then handed it to Flare and made it obvious he was done talking by going to the empty opposite end of the bar. This left Flare to his own tormenting thoughts.
Flare sipped the cola and momentarily reveled in the fizzy, sugary sensation, a rare treat for any Cross-X soldier. Puck could probably spit out every adverse effect of cola off of the top of his head, but sometimes Flare wanted to do something that wouldn't have any dire consequences. And he was pretty sure a little sugar and caffeine wouldn't hurt him. Besides, it was diet.
Puck entered the bar for his second trip, carrying two duffel bags and a pack on his back. They were getting down to their personal items--the pack had his armor in it, and the duffel bags carried the rest of his personal effects, including some small weapons and his data-hacking paraphernalia. They were almost done.
Flare watched the door with his peripheral vision, staring down at the floor and letting his mind wander. Tide was alone. And if they were going to send a girl in for this, it had to be Tide--she was a menace on two skinny legs that went forever, and he loved her for it. She was going to get the job done right like every other job she'd ever done. But he worried. He didn't doubt her, not one bit--he just worried, worried like Storm every night before he slept. Yeah, they all knew he worried. But who the hell didn't? Tide felt pressured to succeed. Not one soldier in Sigma Squad didn't feel like he had something to prove, though Tide seemed to really take her performance to heart. Flare could see it in her concentration, her forced smiles, and the days she suffered from unbearable headaches. She was one of the smartest Cross-X soldiers in the organization, and even Sarge knew she was more intelligent than him. She was the best shot, and the best close-quarters combatant in spec ops. Somehow, though, that didn't seem good enough.
But, God, she was perfect.
Flare thought of the comlink in his pocket. He wanted to call her, but he didn't want to compromise the mission or, worse, annoy her. He abstained from making the call but continued to grapple with the hurt of missing her. It was tough on the squad whenever they were apart, but it especially hurt Flare. It was hard enough sneaking moments alone with Tide, and it was damn near impossible when trying to talk to her on the comlink.
Storm said in Flare's earbud comlink: "We're done. Come up at your discretion."
Flare continued to casually slurp cola, still sitting and twisting in the stool. When he was almost done with the drink, he beckoned the bartender, who came over reluctantly. "Can I get a burger to go?" Flare asked with an innocent smile.
"A burger? Sure." The bartender shook his head and left for a back room, returning several minutes later with a small bag, which was being pulled with the weight of an undoubtedly greasy burger. Flare took it and slid the bartender some currency credits, with a couple of extra as a tip. He grinned at the disgruntled bartender and went to the elevator.
It was already waiting for him, so he stepped it and rode it up to the third floor rental apartments, enduring the boring, almost surreal synthesizer music that played for the ride. It opened into a small hallway leading to three different flats, and Flare went to 3C and knocked three times.
"Room service!" he called in a sing-song voice. Storm appeared on the other side of the door as it slid open, and he grabbed Flare by the shirt and dragged him in, the door closing behind them.
"Could you not make a giant moron of yourself? Thanks."
"Sure. Whatever you say, Bruce," Flare responded, grinning. It was so hard taking Storm seriously when he was calling him by his real name. Bruce was so... grandfatherly. "But fun-less people don't get burgers. Yo, Puck, you want some?"
Puck was sitting on the small futon putting together some equipment that Flare couldn't quite figure out in its disassembled state. He flinched at his name. "Drew. Seriously. Make yourself useful and help me out here."
"I don't know if I like Drew. Should I do Andy instead?" Flare asked as he stepped over equipment parts and sat next to Puck on the futon.
"We're going to start calling you Smart Ass at this rate," replied Storm irritably.
Sergeant Elias Kadlec came out of an adjacent room and put his hands on his hips, eyeing Flare. He was wearing faded, black denim pants and a crimson polo shirt with all of its buttons undone and the hem tucked in. The pants seemed to squeeze his growing midsection, but it must have been due to the thin armor he was wearing under it, not his expanding waist size. Sarge was as cautious as he was intimidating. "I knew a Drew at the academy. He was a real genius--liked to show up late to morning calisthenics with Sergeant Payne." Sarge grinned sarcastically. "I think it's fitting for you, Drew."
Flare had unwrapped the burger and taken a bite out of it, the farthest he had gotten to helping Puck was moving to sit next to him. "Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment, Pops."
Sarge's comlink began to ring. They all froze--it was playing a little repeating melody like most other civilian's coms, and the song was Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." It was Tide. "Hello, Lisa," he said calmly.
The rest of them waited, fixated on Sarge, who had turned his back on them as if to hide his reactions.
"Uh-huh. Some new friends. Well, you've got enough of those, so why don't you lose them?" He waited. "No, no. Don't make a mess. We don't have enough connections to clean up a mess that big."
Flare glanced toward Storm, who looked as stoic as ever, if not paler. He swallowed so hard that Flare could see his throat move. Flare's heart was pumping so rigorously that his ears must have been pulsating with every beat.
"They're gone?" Sarge went on. "Strange. All right. Be careful. Go somewhere safe, but don't go to--" Sarge broke off. He chuckled. "I know you've got it. Call back as soon as you can, honey."
Storm, Flare, and Puck seemed to relax simultaneously. Sarge didn't use "honey" just to stick with the paternal façade.
"Tide called to try and act distracted around some suspicious characters." Sarge sort of paused as if belatedly catching his slip on Tide's name. "Simon, is that thing ready yet?"
"It would be done if Drew would stop pigging out and help."
Flare made no snide remark as he set down the half-eaten burger, wiped his hands on his pants, and had some equipment shoved in his hands by Puck.
Sarge came over and picked up the burger, taking a bite out of it himself. "Not bad," he said, chewing. "Ol' Hal can still run a decent bar. Too bad he's a bit of a priss."
Flare was stuck holding equipment while Puck carefully connected some wires. He recalled the bartender, a short man, rather skinny, his only intimidating feature being the articulate scowl plastered on his face. The image of "Ol' Hal" sort of melted with Puck's displeased concentration face, and Flare felt guilty for making the connection. Puck wasn't a priss.
"Done," said Puck.
"Let's get the sucker going so we can keep an eye on her," Flare said.
"You guys do that. I'm gonna give this place some better sound-proofing." Storm grabbed his pack and went into another room.
"I'll give Storm a hand while you guys set up," Sarge said, following Storm.
Puck looked up from the signal device and gave Flare a knowing grin. "So. Who's excited for the all-access feed from Tide's room?"
"I'd hit you if I wasn't so excited," Flare replied with a mischievous grin.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Tethers: Brainstorm
War Zone City of Brussel, Apollo, 4th Month of Year 24
For a brief moment, I felt warm flesh pressed against my gloved knuckles, then a sickening groan and a cool breeze on my moist glove as I wrenched the knife out of the gut of a Bedlam officer. He was twice my height. Now he was gutted and dead on the ground. My heads-up display sensed movement on my six, so I turned, and, with a low kick, sent a tiny scrub warrior to the ground, my heavy boot compressing its stupid little chest. I put a bullet in its forehead. More movement at three and eleven o'clock; I somersaulted forward and rolled sideways, barely managing to come out in a crouch. I was dizzy and my muscles felt like gelatin, but I could make out the advancing forms of two more scrubs--I threw my knife as hard as I could at one, then I charged the other and impaled it on my bayonet.
I yanked my bloodied gun out of the oozing corpse and retrieved my knife, giving the area a brief survey as I placed the blade back in its gauntlet socket. I was shaking as I snapped a new magazine into my rifle, the--literally--dead silence surrounding me feeling more like a fleece blanket than a morbid ambiance. I clicked on my comlink.
"Sigma Two-Three checking in," I said. Calmly. Somehow, our number designations were our go-to names during battles like these.
"Somebody sounds smooth," Flare replied immediately. "For being in a hot zone, I mean."
"What hot zone?" I asked. "I killed them all."
"Bravo!" Flare said. His voice sounded jarbled as if he was running. "Wish I could say the same!"
"Cut the chatter," Storm said tersely.
Two seconds later, Tide said at a whisper: "Storm's proud of you. Really. He's being his usual compassionate self."
"Three-Seven," Storm chided, though gently. But when he used number designations for his own sister, we knew Squad Leader was still all business.
I could tell Tide was joking her brother, but I took it as a compliment. If anyone could translate Storm's brief sentiments, it was his sister. From her position on some nearby high skyscraper, I couldn't help but think that her whispers were like the voice of a guardian angel. Just as I was beginning to move on, my heads-up display's alarm went insane, and I was so startled that I barely had a moment to realize that another Bedlam officer had caught up with his buddy--then a distant shot in the silence, slightly delayed, sent the giant creature crumpling to the ground. I swallowed. "Thanks, Tide."
"I'm bored," she replied casually. She meant: "You're welcome."
She's saved my life more times than I can count. I only wish I could say the same.
"Shit! Son of a-- " Flare's transmission cut off. He must have forgotten his channel was open. Still, it made my stomach tighten; something was going wrong.
"Two-Three, rendezvous at the given coordinates. Now," Storm said through his teeth. Immediately a red dot appeared on my heads-up display, and a tiny arrow pointed me in the right direction. I was to travel directly over a pile of debris and pass two skyscrapers that appeared to have bites taken out of them like monolithic celery, then meet Storm on a street several blocks away. I started to run, my short marathon accompanied by the thunderous applause of Cross-X artillery fire to the west.
"Right," Storm said tersely as his introduction. I had barely stopped running and I was panting as he spoke. "Flare's under heavy fire. Tide's moving to cover him, and there's a VG Heavy Arms squadron en route to clear the area. We're both done here, so we're moving in too." As Storm finished, he finished loading his assault rifle and looked up at me. His eyes widened for a brief moment. "Goddamn, Puck."
I looked down at myself and gaped. I was covered in Bedlam blood and other such nonsense. "Uh..."
"Nice," Storm smirked. Only... it was sort of happy. Almost like a smile. My cheeks started to flush. Great, now I feel like a pre-teen girl! Well, who kills aliens. Lots of aliens.
"All right. We're off."
Having it in mind to run the whole way, both Storm and I were pleasantly surprised to come across an abandoned jeep. What made the discovery even better was, though battered, the jeep was still fully functional. Storm ordered me to take the wheel (which I was all too thrilled to do), and he took a seat beside me, looking uncharacteristically relaxed. I leaned around in the seat, started the engine, and I surveyed the dials and gauges. Low on gas, the check engine light was on... oh, and the passenger side door was missing. But otherwise it was fine. I gunned it, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Storm flinch, startled by the jarring jeep.
I just grinned and wheeled around a pile of rubble. Grey concrete was in crumbled piles and cracked walls--it was pretty damn easy to see that the poorly camouflaged green- and blue-skinned aliens were about ready to blow the brains out of the roaring jeep. The "brains" being Storm and I, of course. Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly realized that the passenger seat beside me was empty - then, as if to answer the question I was about to ask myself, the jeep's gun turret went off with an obvious rhythmic reply as to why Storm had vacated his seat.
I gunned it even harder. Nobody was going to stand between us and Flare, and certainly not while we had a set of wheels.
Whatever Bedlam didn't get mauled by the jeep's jagged tires were mowed down by Storm's expert gunning, and soon we found ourselves utterly surrounded by a forest of buildings. The battlefield was immediately different, and suddenly there were no sides to the battle--friend or foe could be anywhere and remain undetected by stories and stories of concrete. Loud mechanical noises filled our ears and then a roaring engine was above us as a mobile suit unit touched down on the city block right next to us. I braked and threw the jeep in reverse to meet it. Overhead, more mobile suits passed over us, moving in the direction of where Flare and other Cross-X forces had been pinned down.
"Kilo Five-Four to Sigma Oh-Five," said the pilot with great effort. It sounded as though a clawed hand had clenched over his throat. I gazed up at the mobile suit, its humanoid robotic body painted purple and yellow and scratched with various battle wounds, but looking as healthy as ever, unlike the pilot inside. The suit's reflective "eyes" were flashing intermittently, its tiny cameras and sensors taking in the surroundings and undoubtedly picking up signals from others of the Kilo unit.
"Sigma Oh-Five responding," Storm said quickly, then immediately asked: "Are you hurt?"
I was taken aback by the pilot's alleged state until I saw that the mobile suit's "torso" had been bashed in and dented, practically undetectable with the dark purple paint. I squinted, wondering what could have dished out that sort of punishment without the result of explosion damage.
"Yeah," the pilot croaked. The mobile suit started shaking slightly as gears were unable to thrust open the cockpit. Storm and I were speechless, helpless - then the pilot must have found an emergency release, because the cockpit doors popped open.
And out came the pilot, who was not holding onto the proper lowering gear. He fell and hit the concrete with a sickening "crunch." Storm and I leapt from the jeep and sprinted to his aid. There was very little external trauma, but I didn't need to be the squad's medic to know that the fall hadn't done the pilot any service. Upon further inspection, it was apparent that the pilot had stopped breathing. No pulse.
Storm watched helplessly as I tried my hardest to perform CPR to revive the pilot (and then what?--no extraction here). Storm fidgeting as he stood and tried to stay still so I could concentrate. No luck.
I didn't have to tell Storm the obvious. I simply grabbed the ID tags from the pilot's belt and put them in a compartment on my own belt, the loss of precious life such an instant and inevitable thing in this world that it was as routine as brushing our teeth. My gut still felt it, though--the loss, that is. The pain. I stood up and looked at Storm, awaiting orders, deadpan.
He nodded, presumably out of approval, the subtly noticeable length of the nod differentiating the compliment from an acknowledgment. It meant I'd done a good job. I tried my hardest. "Get in the mobile suit, Puck. Let's get Flare out of there."
I wanted to ask where Storm would go from there, but I knew it would be to rescue Flare. It seemed unfair that I would be immersed in an armored suit, though the dead pilot was proof that even a mobile suit wasn't safe in this battle. "Yes, sir!"
The lift cable had lowered when the emergency hatch had opened. I stepped into the loop and held onto the cable, giving the corded wire several tugs until it began to lift. I situated myself awkwardly in the pilot's seat. The hatch closed with audible effort from the marred gears. I grimaced. The space under my thigh in between armor plates could feel the warmth left by the suit's old pilot.
I keyed up the mobile suit's systems and grabbed the controls.
"Everything look all right?" Storm asked.
"It's shiny, sir."
I gunned the engines and the mobile suit rose into the air. Everything sounded good, but as the suit's torso swiveled, I could hear some strange grinding noises that made me a little worried. The pull of gravity on my gut, however, made me quickly forget.
"I'll meet you there," Storm said, the roar of the jeep's engine in the background.
I was looking through two sets of heads-up displays, now, and it was beginning to overload my senses. I took in the flashing icons and images and gauges all at once, my brain processing the information that flowed into it like a tumultuous storm. It made me mildly dizzy. With a click of my back molars, I turned off my helmet's busy display, and I looked at the cockpit's screens alone as I had been taught in training.
I engaged in the Kilo squadron's channel and quickly introduced myself. "Kilo Squad Lead, this is Sigma Two-Three."
"Kilo One-Oh copying, Sigma Two-Three," a distracted woman answered.
"I've taken over the MS Unit of Four-Five and I'm moving to the RV location right now."
"Roger," Kilo One-Oh said, sounding somewhat exasperated. "Where did--" She seemed to hesitate, then said instead: "See you at the RV."
I maneuvered the mobile suit over the cityscape, watching all of the sensor screens diligently. Small Bedlam forces were moving across city blocks, and some even had the nerve to direct fire at me. What a waste. On top of the tough alloy armor, the suit had an energy shield, and really the only threat to its integrity besides anti-aircraft rounds was a mobile suit of the same (or better) caliber. So I deduced that they had no semblance of anti-aircraft guns, and ignored them. With a press of the foot pedals, I engaged the drives to get to the RV point and, subsequently, Flare.
I was dreading about the low chance of Flare's survival when the proximity alarm began to blare, and suddenly I found my own life in jeopardy. The view screen showed another mobile suit, one not of humanoid design, and therefore Bedlam. The mobile suit was grotesque in design to human standards, its "head" piece long and snout-like, arm attachments long, bulky, and ending in sharp, crab-like claws that were ostensible grappling apparatuses. Its variously-sized cannons were mounted on its shoulders and forearms, and I didn't quite have the observational skills to take in much else.
My heart rate spiked, knuckles whitening as my hands clamped tightly to the controls. I had never really fought against another mobile suit before.
For a brief moment, I felt warm flesh pressed against my gloved knuckles, then a sickening groan and a cool breeze on my moist glove as I wrenched the knife out of the gut of a Bedlam officer. He was twice my height. Now he was gutted and dead on the ground. My heads-up display sensed movement on my six, so I turned, and, with a low kick, sent a tiny scrub warrior to the ground, my heavy boot compressing its stupid little chest. I put a bullet in its forehead. More movement at three and eleven o'clock; I somersaulted forward and rolled sideways, barely managing to come out in a crouch. I was dizzy and my muscles felt like gelatin, but I could make out the advancing forms of two more scrubs--I threw my knife as hard as I could at one, then I charged the other and impaled it on my bayonet.
I yanked my bloodied gun out of the oozing corpse and retrieved my knife, giving the area a brief survey as I placed the blade back in its gauntlet socket. I was shaking as I snapped a new magazine into my rifle, the--literally--dead silence surrounding me feeling more like a fleece blanket than a morbid ambiance. I clicked on my comlink.
"Sigma Two-Three checking in," I said. Calmly. Somehow, our number designations were our go-to names during battles like these.
"Somebody sounds smooth," Flare replied immediately. "For being in a hot zone, I mean."
"What hot zone?" I asked. "I killed them all."
"Bravo!" Flare said. His voice sounded jarbled as if he was running. "Wish I could say the same!"
"Cut the chatter," Storm said tersely.
Two seconds later, Tide said at a whisper: "Storm's proud of you. Really. He's being his usual compassionate self."
"Three-Seven," Storm chided, though gently. But when he used number designations for his own sister, we knew Squad Leader was still all business.
I could tell Tide was joking her brother, but I took it as a compliment. If anyone could translate Storm's brief sentiments, it was his sister. From her position on some nearby high skyscraper, I couldn't help but think that her whispers were like the voice of a guardian angel. Just as I was beginning to move on, my heads-up display's alarm went insane, and I was so startled that I barely had a moment to realize that another Bedlam officer had caught up with his buddy--then a distant shot in the silence, slightly delayed, sent the giant creature crumpling to the ground. I swallowed. "Thanks, Tide."
"I'm bored," she replied casually. She meant: "You're welcome."
She's saved my life more times than I can count. I only wish I could say the same.
"Shit! Son of a-- " Flare's transmission cut off. He must have forgotten his channel was open. Still, it made my stomach tighten; something was going wrong.
"Two-Three, rendezvous at the given coordinates. Now," Storm said through his teeth. Immediately a red dot appeared on my heads-up display, and a tiny arrow pointed me in the right direction. I was to travel directly over a pile of debris and pass two skyscrapers that appeared to have bites taken out of them like monolithic celery, then meet Storm on a street several blocks away. I started to run, my short marathon accompanied by the thunderous applause of Cross-X artillery fire to the west.
"Right," Storm said tersely as his introduction. I had barely stopped running and I was panting as he spoke. "Flare's under heavy fire. Tide's moving to cover him, and there's a VG Heavy Arms squadron en route to clear the area. We're both done here, so we're moving in too." As Storm finished, he finished loading his assault rifle and looked up at me. His eyes widened for a brief moment. "Goddamn, Puck."
I looked down at myself and gaped. I was covered in Bedlam blood and other such nonsense. "Uh..."
"Nice," Storm smirked. Only... it was sort of happy. Almost like a smile. My cheeks started to flush. Great, now I feel like a pre-teen girl! Well, who kills aliens. Lots of aliens.
"All right. We're off."
Having it in mind to run the whole way, both Storm and I were pleasantly surprised to come across an abandoned jeep. What made the discovery even better was, though battered, the jeep was still fully functional. Storm ordered me to take the wheel (which I was all too thrilled to do), and he took a seat beside me, looking uncharacteristically relaxed. I leaned around in the seat, started the engine, and I surveyed the dials and gauges. Low on gas, the check engine light was on... oh, and the passenger side door was missing. But otherwise it was fine. I gunned it, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Storm flinch, startled by the jarring jeep.
I just grinned and wheeled around a pile of rubble. Grey concrete was in crumbled piles and cracked walls--it was pretty damn easy to see that the poorly camouflaged green- and blue-skinned aliens were about ready to blow the brains out of the roaring jeep. The "brains" being Storm and I, of course. Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly realized that the passenger seat beside me was empty - then, as if to answer the question I was about to ask myself, the jeep's gun turret went off with an obvious rhythmic reply as to why Storm had vacated his seat.
I gunned it even harder. Nobody was going to stand between us and Flare, and certainly not while we had a set of wheels.
Whatever Bedlam didn't get mauled by the jeep's jagged tires were mowed down by Storm's expert gunning, and soon we found ourselves utterly surrounded by a forest of buildings. The battlefield was immediately different, and suddenly there were no sides to the battle--friend or foe could be anywhere and remain undetected by stories and stories of concrete. Loud mechanical noises filled our ears and then a roaring engine was above us as a mobile suit unit touched down on the city block right next to us. I braked and threw the jeep in reverse to meet it. Overhead, more mobile suits passed over us, moving in the direction of where Flare and other Cross-X forces had been pinned down.
"Kilo Five-Four to Sigma Oh-Five," said the pilot with great effort. It sounded as though a clawed hand had clenched over his throat. I gazed up at the mobile suit, its humanoid robotic body painted purple and yellow and scratched with various battle wounds, but looking as healthy as ever, unlike the pilot inside. The suit's reflective "eyes" were flashing intermittently, its tiny cameras and sensors taking in the surroundings and undoubtedly picking up signals from others of the Kilo unit.
"Sigma Oh-Five responding," Storm said quickly, then immediately asked: "Are you hurt?"
I was taken aback by the pilot's alleged state until I saw that the mobile suit's "torso" had been bashed in and dented, practically undetectable with the dark purple paint. I squinted, wondering what could have dished out that sort of punishment without the result of explosion damage.
"Yeah," the pilot croaked. The mobile suit started shaking slightly as gears were unable to thrust open the cockpit. Storm and I were speechless, helpless - then the pilot must have found an emergency release, because the cockpit doors popped open.
And out came the pilot, who was not holding onto the proper lowering gear. He fell and hit the concrete with a sickening "crunch." Storm and I leapt from the jeep and sprinted to his aid. There was very little external trauma, but I didn't need to be the squad's medic to know that the fall hadn't done the pilot any service. Upon further inspection, it was apparent that the pilot had stopped breathing. No pulse.
Storm watched helplessly as I tried my hardest to perform CPR to revive the pilot (and then what?--no extraction here). Storm fidgeting as he stood and tried to stay still so I could concentrate. No luck.
I didn't have to tell Storm the obvious. I simply grabbed the ID tags from the pilot's belt and put them in a compartment on my own belt, the loss of precious life such an instant and inevitable thing in this world that it was as routine as brushing our teeth. My gut still felt it, though--the loss, that is. The pain. I stood up and looked at Storm, awaiting orders, deadpan.
He nodded, presumably out of approval, the subtly noticeable length of the nod differentiating the compliment from an acknowledgment. It meant I'd done a good job. I tried my hardest. "Get in the mobile suit, Puck. Let's get Flare out of there."
I wanted to ask where Storm would go from there, but I knew it would be to rescue Flare. It seemed unfair that I would be immersed in an armored suit, though the dead pilot was proof that even a mobile suit wasn't safe in this battle. "Yes, sir!"
The lift cable had lowered when the emergency hatch had opened. I stepped into the loop and held onto the cable, giving the corded wire several tugs until it began to lift. I situated myself awkwardly in the pilot's seat. The hatch closed with audible effort from the marred gears. I grimaced. The space under my thigh in between armor plates could feel the warmth left by the suit's old pilot.
I keyed up the mobile suit's systems and grabbed the controls.
"Everything look all right?" Storm asked.
"It's shiny, sir."
I gunned the engines and the mobile suit rose into the air. Everything sounded good, but as the suit's torso swiveled, I could hear some strange grinding noises that made me a little worried. The pull of gravity on my gut, however, made me quickly forget.
"I'll meet you there," Storm said, the roar of the jeep's engine in the background.
I was looking through two sets of heads-up displays, now, and it was beginning to overload my senses. I took in the flashing icons and images and gauges all at once, my brain processing the information that flowed into it like a tumultuous storm. It made me mildly dizzy. With a click of my back molars, I turned off my helmet's busy display, and I looked at the cockpit's screens alone as I had been taught in training.
I engaged in the Kilo squadron's channel and quickly introduced myself. "Kilo Squad Lead, this is Sigma Two-Three."
"Kilo One-Oh copying, Sigma Two-Three," a distracted woman answered.
"I've taken over the MS Unit of Four-Five and I'm moving to the RV location right now."
"Roger," Kilo One-Oh said, sounding somewhat exasperated. "Where did--" She seemed to hesitate, then said instead: "See you at the RV."
I maneuvered the mobile suit over the cityscape, watching all of the sensor screens diligently. Small Bedlam forces were moving across city blocks, and some even had the nerve to direct fire at me. What a waste. On top of the tough alloy armor, the suit had an energy shield, and really the only threat to its integrity besides anti-aircraft rounds was a mobile suit of the same (or better) caliber. So I deduced that they had no semblance of anti-aircraft guns, and ignored them. With a press of the foot pedals, I engaged the drives to get to the RV point and, subsequently, Flare.
I was dreading about the low chance of Flare's survival when the proximity alarm began to blare, and suddenly I found my own life in jeopardy. The view screen showed another mobile suit, one not of humanoid design, and therefore Bedlam. The mobile suit was grotesque in design to human standards, its "head" piece long and snout-like, arm attachments long, bulky, and ending in sharp, crab-like claws that were ostensible grappling apparatuses. Its variously-sized cannons were mounted on its shoulders and forearms, and I didn't quite have the observational skills to take in much else.
My heart rate spiked, knuckles whitening as my hands clamped tightly to the controls. I had never really fought against another mobile suit before.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Tethers: The Catacombs
Tethers: The Catacombs
A quick author's note: I'm reposting this chapter after making some minor changes to it, mostly pertaining to the change in uniform for the squad, as well as some other edits. This is what I plan to make the first 'chapter' of my Tethers compilation.
"Can you hear them?"
I made sure my com was off before I heaved a sigh, trying uselessly to ignore my squad mate's question. I squeezed my eyes shut, making the darkness around me disappear under my eyelids. Yes, I could hear them--feel them, too. The resounding "boom" was felt in the pit of my stomach, the enemy's artillery fire above us both destroying our comrades and our resolve. Well, mine, at least. I could only hope that the others weren't as nervous as I was.
Movement, the sound of armor and under lays rustling, roused me and I watched a dark figure rise. I didn't need to shroud the tunnel in my helmet's spotlight to know it was Storm, the biggest of us by far. He was only two years older than me, but he seemed much more mature, both in his size and marble demeanor, cold and unbreakable.
"We'd better get moving, then. It's time," he said in response to Flare's question, which came somewhere from up the tunnel. Storm had the grizzled voice of a soldier, though he'd only seen as much combat as the rest of us, which was hardly a boastful sum. "I'll lead. Puck, you cover my six."
I nodded, then, realizing he couldn't see me, said, "Yessir." He began to move and I followed, hefting my sniper rifle on my shoulder. Taking up the rear was never a glamorous job, but it was a task I could easily do. I have a tendency to freeze up when I'm surprised, unlike Storm, who reacts with guns blazing.
At length, Storm stopped. I shuffled to a halt behind him. He was holding up a fist, which meant his special motion sensors picked up unfriendly contacts ahead. I swallowed as he pointed to the adjacent tunnel to our right, then his finger pointed up the tunnel. I had to play sniper.
Wishing Tide was with us as I positioned myself using the corner as cover from enemy fire, I readied my sniper rifle to wait for the oncoming onslaught.
It came faster than I anticipated. I thrust the butt of the rifle under my arm, nearly knocking myself in the jaw with the sight. They were fast--one was practically on top of Storm, limbs swinging, though Storm's assault rifle was rapidly tearing mucky holes through its chest cavity. I aimed and fired a headshot, and the beast went down in a heap. The shot resonated, and time seemed to halt as we tried to make sense of the grotesque heap of flesh at Storm's feet. There was a shriek--a roar--something that sounded foul or pained, and I had the next creature in my sights and it fell. Then I scoped for more.
It felt like hours, but it was over in less than three minutes. Storm yanked the clip of ammunition out of his rifle and slapped in a new one. I lowered my sniper, also sliding in reloads, and I could feel my hands shaking with adrenaline. Glancing up, I noticed that even Storm looked pale in the face.
"What were those things?" he whispered.
The corpse at his feet was liquefying, decaying at a tremendously fast rate. And it smelled, too, with the stench of rotting tissue. I covered my mouth and nose with a gloved hand, then I tentatively knelt down and examined it, trying to find any discernable qualities amidst the gore. Its head was absent from its neck, which I suspected was a result of the sniper slug I rather forcibly inserted into its cranium. Nearly gagging, I rose, shaking my head at Storm. "I have no idea."
Storm was busy sopping blood and what I supposed were pieces of flesh from his armored suit, using a specialized rag made just for the job. Mellites, part of the Bedlam Army, the enemy we should have encountered, were attracted by the scent of their comrades' blood from great radiuses, so it was best not to roam about bathed in it. Whether or not these things were mellites, it was best not to take any unnecessary risks. Storm nodded, no longer visibly perturbed. "We need to find the others."
We weren't allowed to use our coms in the Catacomb Tunnels, though Flare had contacted us earlier right after we split. No one could be certain of what Bedlam system monitored the air waves at any given time, making electronic communications, even verbal communications very precarious. I accessed my mental map of the Catacombs, thinking about where we started and how many turns we had made. The cavernous tunnels honey combed underground, in criss-crossing patterns like the board of a game Sarge showed me called Tic-Tac-Toe. Only the map looked as thought someone didn't draw the game board with straight lines, the tunnels curved, and many of the paths led to dead ends, creating a maze. There were two ways through it, and Storm and I were covering one, Flare and Tide on the other. Our rendezvous point was at the end – and so was my personal battle, the Bedlam reactor core control center.
Storm halted again, fist held up. We were nowhere near an intersecting tunnel, which meant no cover around corners. Storm and I dug in, preparing ourselves, unsure if this onslaught will fail to use projectile weapons like the last one, or if we would even come in contact with the same monstrosities. At that point, I wasn't sure which enemy was worse. Six or seven of the same misshapen creatures approached us, and I held up my sniper to start picking them off. Through my sight, I was able to observe them for the split second before I blew off their heads. They had insect-like, bulging, red eyes with a reptilian snout, broad shoulders with disproportionately large arms, thin, crouched legs…
"They're mellites," Storm and I breathed in unison, the last of the creatures falling, dead.
"Only three times as large," I continued as we looked at each other. Mellites were tough, little aliens only about a meter high. But these things were taller than Storm, and more than able to contend with him.
"Genetically enhanced, perhaps?" Storm speculated quietly.
"Defective is more likely. Their flesh is already rotting away." I could vaguely feel moisture through my gloves, and I was sickened to realize that they were covered in torn tissue. I immediately wondered if the flesh was infectious, but I kept that grotesque curiosity to myself. Storm hummed in thought, the deep rumble in his throat simply churning with calculated thoughts that he didn't vocalize, then we started moving once more. We didn't dare to speak more or stay in that one place for too long. The truth was, I was scared shitless. It was one thing to fight normal, living enemies, albeit with plasma pistols, but it was another to fight nauseating undead.
We reached the rendezvous point after three more similar encounters with the freak mellites, but Flare and Tide weren't there. More mellites, however, were, and they greeted us with howls and swinging, clawed arms. I knocked a few off right away, but there were a lot, many at close range and hard to target for headshots. Enveloped in my sight, I didn't realize one was coming at my side, and I took a blow to the back. The shield breach alarm was trilling in my ears as I tried to move, but it felt like the hit had turned my insides into a bloody sauce.
"Puck!" Storm yelled. "Get up! Goddamn it, get up!"
I couldn't, so I rolled away, onto my back. The creature's fist smashed the ground and cracked the surface where I had been moments before. My sniper, which my frozen fingers gripped for dear life, hadn't been dropped, but I couldn't get an angle when I tried lifting the rifle. Then a shot cut through my fear, the creature's head, and it fell. Before I could react more than realizing it was Tide's doing, I was hefted to my feet.
"Tide'll cover you," Flare said after steadying me, surprisingly calm as his shotgun tore through a mellite-zombie. "Get to the core."
I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I could even move. Then, all doubt left my mind as I painfully ducked another swing of a mellite, narrowly dodging. I crawled away, heard a grunt and the thud of a boot connecting with flesh, then a shotgun shell detonation. Once on my feet, I was running somewhat sluggishly, tuning out the booms of combat that rattled my being. Half stumbling up to a computer operating console, my fingers danced shakily across the touch screen.
I wondered if they could hear us, too.
A quick author's note: I'm reposting this chapter after making some minor changes to it, mostly pertaining to the change in uniform for the squad, as well as some other edits. This is what I plan to make the first 'chapter' of my Tethers compilation.
"Can you hear them?"
I made sure my com was off before I heaved a sigh, trying uselessly to ignore my squad mate's question. I squeezed my eyes shut, making the darkness around me disappear under my eyelids. Yes, I could hear them--feel them, too. The resounding "boom" was felt in the pit of my stomach, the enemy's artillery fire above us both destroying our comrades and our resolve. Well, mine, at least. I could only hope that the others weren't as nervous as I was.
Movement, the sound of armor and under lays rustling, roused me and I watched a dark figure rise. I didn't need to shroud the tunnel in my helmet's spotlight to know it was Storm, the biggest of us by far. He was only two years older than me, but he seemed much more mature, both in his size and marble demeanor, cold and unbreakable.
"We'd better get moving, then. It's time," he said in response to Flare's question, which came somewhere from up the tunnel. Storm had the grizzled voice of a soldier, though he'd only seen as much combat as the rest of us, which was hardly a boastful sum. "I'll lead. Puck, you cover my six."
I nodded, then, realizing he couldn't see me, said, "Yessir." He began to move and I followed, hefting my sniper rifle on my shoulder. Taking up the rear was never a glamorous job, but it was a task I could easily do. I have a tendency to freeze up when I'm surprised, unlike Storm, who reacts with guns blazing.
At length, Storm stopped. I shuffled to a halt behind him. He was holding up a fist, which meant his special motion sensors picked up unfriendly contacts ahead. I swallowed as he pointed to the adjacent tunnel to our right, then his finger pointed up the tunnel. I had to play sniper.
Wishing Tide was with us as I positioned myself using the corner as cover from enemy fire, I readied my sniper rifle to wait for the oncoming onslaught.
It came faster than I anticipated. I thrust the butt of the rifle under my arm, nearly knocking myself in the jaw with the sight. They were fast--one was practically on top of Storm, limbs swinging, though Storm's assault rifle was rapidly tearing mucky holes through its chest cavity. I aimed and fired a headshot, and the beast went down in a heap. The shot resonated, and time seemed to halt as we tried to make sense of the grotesque heap of flesh at Storm's feet. There was a shriek--a roar--something that sounded foul or pained, and I had the next creature in my sights and it fell. Then I scoped for more.
It felt like hours, but it was over in less than three minutes. Storm yanked the clip of ammunition out of his rifle and slapped in a new one. I lowered my sniper, also sliding in reloads, and I could feel my hands shaking with adrenaline. Glancing up, I noticed that even Storm looked pale in the face.
"What were those things?" he whispered.
The corpse at his feet was liquefying, decaying at a tremendously fast rate. And it smelled, too, with the stench of rotting tissue. I covered my mouth and nose with a gloved hand, then I tentatively knelt down and examined it, trying to find any discernable qualities amidst the gore. Its head was absent from its neck, which I suspected was a result of the sniper slug I rather forcibly inserted into its cranium. Nearly gagging, I rose, shaking my head at Storm. "I have no idea."
Storm was busy sopping blood and what I supposed were pieces of flesh from his armored suit, using a specialized rag made just for the job. Mellites, part of the Bedlam Army, the enemy we should have encountered, were attracted by the scent of their comrades' blood from great radiuses, so it was best not to roam about bathed in it. Whether or not these things were mellites, it was best not to take any unnecessary risks. Storm nodded, no longer visibly perturbed. "We need to find the others."
We weren't allowed to use our coms in the Catacomb Tunnels, though Flare had contacted us earlier right after we split. No one could be certain of what Bedlam system monitored the air waves at any given time, making electronic communications, even verbal communications very precarious. I accessed my mental map of the Catacombs, thinking about where we started and how many turns we had made. The cavernous tunnels honey combed underground, in criss-crossing patterns like the board of a game Sarge showed me called Tic-Tac-Toe. Only the map looked as thought someone didn't draw the game board with straight lines, the tunnels curved, and many of the paths led to dead ends, creating a maze. There were two ways through it, and Storm and I were covering one, Flare and Tide on the other. Our rendezvous point was at the end – and so was my personal battle, the Bedlam reactor core control center.
Storm halted again, fist held up. We were nowhere near an intersecting tunnel, which meant no cover around corners. Storm and I dug in, preparing ourselves, unsure if this onslaught will fail to use projectile weapons like the last one, or if we would even come in contact with the same monstrosities. At that point, I wasn't sure which enemy was worse. Six or seven of the same misshapen creatures approached us, and I held up my sniper to start picking them off. Through my sight, I was able to observe them for the split second before I blew off their heads. They had insect-like, bulging, red eyes with a reptilian snout, broad shoulders with disproportionately large arms, thin, crouched legs…
"They're mellites," Storm and I breathed in unison, the last of the creatures falling, dead.
"Only three times as large," I continued as we looked at each other. Mellites were tough, little aliens only about a meter high. But these things were taller than Storm, and more than able to contend with him.
"Genetically enhanced, perhaps?" Storm speculated quietly.
"Defective is more likely. Their flesh is already rotting away." I could vaguely feel moisture through my gloves, and I was sickened to realize that they were covered in torn tissue. I immediately wondered if the flesh was infectious, but I kept that grotesque curiosity to myself. Storm hummed in thought, the deep rumble in his throat simply churning with calculated thoughts that he didn't vocalize, then we started moving once more. We didn't dare to speak more or stay in that one place for too long. The truth was, I was scared shitless. It was one thing to fight normal, living enemies, albeit with plasma pistols, but it was another to fight nauseating undead.
We reached the rendezvous point after three more similar encounters with the freak mellites, but Flare and Tide weren't there. More mellites, however, were, and they greeted us with howls and swinging, clawed arms. I knocked a few off right away, but there were a lot, many at close range and hard to target for headshots. Enveloped in my sight, I didn't realize one was coming at my side, and I took a blow to the back. The shield breach alarm was trilling in my ears as I tried to move, but it felt like the hit had turned my insides into a bloody sauce.
"Puck!" Storm yelled. "Get up! Goddamn it, get up!"
I couldn't, so I rolled away, onto my back. The creature's fist smashed the ground and cracked the surface where I had been moments before. My sniper, which my frozen fingers gripped for dear life, hadn't been dropped, but I couldn't get an angle when I tried lifting the rifle. Then a shot cut through my fear, the creature's head, and it fell. Before I could react more than realizing it was Tide's doing, I was hefted to my feet.
"Tide'll cover you," Flare said after steadying me, surprisingly calm as his shotgun tore through a mellite-zombie. "Get to the core."
I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I could even move. Then, all doubt left my mind as I painfully ducked another swing of a mellite, narrowly dodging. I crawled away, heard a grunt and the thud of a boot connecting with flesh, then a shotgun shell detonation. Once on my feet, I was running somewhat sluggishly, tuning out the booms of combat that rattled my being. Half stumbling up to a computer operating console, my fingers danced shakily across the touch screen.
I wondered if they could hear us, too.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Tethers: Valentine's Day
Tethers: Valentine's Day
To say that Tide was unimpressed would be an understatement.
Flare was trying very hard to bench press one hundred and sixty pounds, and Tide was spotting him with a look of such boredom that she could have been in cell biology class. She counted for him until he reached twelve and had to cease, and she helped him put the dumbbell back onto its rack and watched him sit up.
Flare grinned triumphantly. "Increased the weight by ten pounds and did the same amount of sets as last time!"
"Woohoo," Tide said without any inflection whatsoever. She wasn't glaring, though, which Flare didn't notice--but Tide knew subconsciously that it was because she was intrigued by the brightness of his grin. It seemed silly to take interest in one of Flare's default expressions, but there was something boyish and oddly innocent by this tiny victory that Tide just couldn't glower at him.
Flare got up from the bench with a flourish and made exaggerated stretching motions while Tide took his place on her back. Flare began removing weights from the dumbbell. "You're at, what, one hundred now?"
"One hundred and five," Tide corrected him coldly. It didn't settle well with her that she had the lowest bench press weight, but she couldn't help it that her bone structure made her look as though she could blow away in the wind.
"One-oh-five," Flare repeated without a humorous quip about her skinny arms. Tide was surprised. Having finished adjusting the weights, Flare stood behind Tide and assumed the spotting position. His face was neutral, very calm, and natural-looking, no hint of a smile or a funny face to break her concentration. It would not have been such a strange occurrence if Storm had been with them as he usually was--but he had a meeting with Sarge. And Flare acting serious without the presence of Storm was something worth noticing.
Tide finished her set and put the dumbbell back with the help of Flare, who then proceeded to gently place his hand on her back between her shoulder blades as she sat up. Tide checked the impulse to direct her attention toward him, instead keeping her surprise to herself. She stood and walked without looking at Flare to the free weights by the mirror, taking a ten-pound weight in each hand.
Flare paused at the rack of weights and pursed his lips at Tide. "Don't you want to take a little rest first?"
"No," Tide grumbled, disagreeing only on the principle that Flare was trying to parent her. She lifted the weights so that her arms were parallel to the ground, really feeling her muscles strain. Flare's eyes were on her from the mirror, but she maintained her routine of ignoring his odd behavior for fear of discovering something she didn't want to know.
Tide was in mid-lift when Flare walked behind her and placed his hands on her shoulder blades. "You're bending your spine with you lift," he pointed out, still watching her through the mirror. He was just under a head taller than her, and it was very obvious by the way he was standing. Tide didn't like feeling dwarfed, but she didn't move. In fact, she lowered her arms and froze.
Her heart was pounding. Flare was so sincere, so serious, and so not like him. And yet Tide couldn't help but like this sudden change. Flare grinned a little at her, his hands still gently placed on her back. "I'm surprised you haven't kicked me in the balls yet," he said.
"Me, too," Tide replied. Her voice didn't sound like her own, it was just above a whisper. Her senses were filling with an odor she knew should have repulsed her, but somehow, it was gripping--every time she breathed out, she was desperate to breathe in again to pick up the scent.
Who the hell am I kidding?
Tide set the weights down on the floor and turned toward Flare, who now looked at her directly. There was a moment when her eyes searched his before she pressed herself against him and kissed him on the mouth.
---
Puck enjoyed Tuesday afternoons. There was an extended break from training and classes, and Storm, Tide, and Flare often went to the gym to get some sets in before dinner. Puck, however, took advantage of the empty room to blast music from his console and search the Net.
People still tried to bother him, though. He could at least take solace in knowing he didn't have to get up to let them in the door; all he had to do was push the button at his bedside to let unwanted visitors enter the room.
Here came one now.
Puck didn't look away from his console as he hit the button, causing the door to slide open. Whoever it was, they sure were quick to enter.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Puck!" said a cheerful voice. Puck turned off the music and pushed away his console, smiling as Ari sat next to him on his bed and gave him a small, homemade card.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he replied, opening the card. It had red and pink cutout hearts pasted inside, and in florid calligraphy, it read: "You're a great catch!" and it was signed in the same, neat handwriting: "Love, Ari."
Puck looked up to see Ari looking expectantly at him, and over the past few weeks, he had picked up on the fact that she craved affirmation from others. He was sort of speechless for a moment, unsure of what it all meant--he was a catch? She signed it with love? Did she do that for everyone she had given a Valentine? Did she even give away others?
"Do you like it?" Ari asked tentatively.
"Oh," Puck said, snapping out of his thoughts. "Yes, thank you." He grinned sheepishly.
Ari giggled and threw her arms around Puck, who awkwardly returned the hug, his mind racing and reminding him that his bed was messy, he hadn't showered yet, and his hair looked the same as it did when he woke up this morning. He was fully unprepared, and he didn't even realize it was Valentine's Day until Ari had come in--he hadn't anything to give her in return!
She was busy resting her cheek against his shoulder as his thoughts spiraled, and he figured he better say something. "Hey, uhm, sorry I don't have anything for you."
"Don't be silly," Ari said, looking up at Puck. "I didn't expect anyone else to care that it was Valentine's Day."
Puck wasn't used to hugging someone for as long as he was, but Ari didn't seem intent on letting go any time soon. "Sorry my bed is a mess," Puck said.
"What? Oh, geez, Puck, I don't care."
"Okay. Uh, sorry," Puck said limply.
Ari pulled away and looked intensely at Puck. "Are you uncomfortable?"
"No. No, of course not," Puck said, scoffing.
Ari grinned. "So you're always this awkward."
"I figured you would have picked up on that by now," Puck said with a wry smile.
"I have," Ari said, kissing him on the cheek.
Simultaneously, the door slid open and Storm appeared. Ari immediately withdrew from Puck and stood up as if she had been sitting on hot coals, and Puck did the same--only he didn't quite get to his feet, his head having hit the top of the bunk.
Storm looked annoyed but otherwise uninterested, to no one's surprise. "Where are Tide and Flare?" he asked Puck.
Puck was rubbing the sore spot on his head. "I dunno, Storm. The weight room? Weren't you with them?"
"No, I was with Sarge. I'm going to go find them," Storm said tersely. He gave a nod of acknowledgment to Ari, not making eye contact with her, perhaps out of sheer awkwardness. He left in a hurry.
Puck looked at Ari warily, and she had her mouth covered with her hands. For a moment, he feared she was upset, but she was actually laughing.
"I think he's more awkward than you," she said.
---
Tide shoved Flare away and stared at him, both of them breathing heavier than normal. That idiosyncratic grin of his crept onto his flushed face, and Tide felt like she could have hit him. The only thing he had done wrong, though, was smile.
"Can I just say--"
"No," Tide cut him off, lifting the weights that had been discarded and placing them back on their stand.
"So I can't--"
"Nope," Tide said again. Without telling Flare where she was going, she shouldered past him and headed for the door of the weight room.
"It was hot, Tide!" Flare said after her. Her only acknowledgment was an obscene hand gesture.
Have I gone nutters? Kissing Flare practically in public like that?
Anyone monitoring the security feed in the weight room was probably very entertained, having just watched two hormonal teenagers lock lips for a good ten minutes. Tide was flustered and confused as she strode toward the locker rooms to be alone. Did she really want that? Did he really want it? In all honesty, Tide had never been kissed before, but there was something so genuine and so needy about the whole thing that she couldn't quite ascertain that the exchange was random.
So what did that mean? That her incessant repulsions of everything that was Flare had actually been some sort of subconscious cover over an insatiable lust for him? Yes, lust had to be the word. Love was too strong of a sentiment toward her squad mate, someone she had seen wet his pants when he was six years old, someone who snored loudly and talked in his sleep every other night. No, Tide didn't love Flare. Flare couldn't love. He was a notorious womanizer (as much as a busy soldier could be, anyway), and when he wasn't kissing random girls in abandoned hallways, at least five girls were pining after him. No, Flare wasn't one for emotional attachment. And that was all right because neither was Tide.
But it would be absolutely unacceptable if Tide discovered she had become one of Flare's "squeezes" that he could summon at his every whim. Tide refused to be at his beck and call, and she may have just blown her chances of avoiding that by this random display of affection--a word seemingly too mild to describe what had just happened between them.
Tide saw Storm approaching her and she stopped dead as if she had forgotten where she was going. His expression moved from dogged determination to bewilderment. "Tide? You okay?"
Tide stiffened. So she looked visibly shaken. Wonderful. "Yeah, Storm. I'm fine. Just had an argument with Flare, that's all." Not a total lie. Whatever that kiss was, it didn't exactly flow like a well-mannered conversation. Storm had had his suspicions about Flare and Tide, one of those hunches that they argued too much to not be feigning dislike. But he'd believe her if only to avoid a conversation.
Storm stared at her a moment before he nodded. "Well, I had some things to discuss, but they're not that important. Go clean up."
Tide never felt like her brother was ordering her around; he simply told her to do things she intended to do to begin with. "See you." She brushed passed him and resumed her course for the locker room showers, not worried that he would be suspicious that she wasn't going to the room. Sometimes when she fought with Flare, they wouldn't speak to each other outside of training for days. Of course she would avoid him.
This was completely, totally normal. Except for the image of Flare standing inches away from her, smiling down at her in a way she'd never seen before. It was burned into her mind as if she'd been staring at the sun too long. It was unsettling, and very far from normal.
---
Puck and Ari had settled down on his bed, their backs facing the door. Ari seemed to like resting her head on his shoulder, and Puck had gotten used to the feeling of someone other than one of his squad being that close to him. He even found the guts to put his arm loosely around her shoulders, and his stomach settled into the silence when he realized he didn't always have to talk to someone to avoid having an awkward encounter. Yes, he finally felt comfortable sitting with a girl like this.
But were all couples' Valentine's Days so...mild?
Ari gave Puck a small squeeze right above his knee. He hadn't even noticed that her hand had been resting there. "I need to go," she said quietly, straightening. She looked expectantly at Puck, who looked back at her and smiled gently. There was a moment where Puck simply admired her face and the way her strawberry blonde curls flopped effortlessly into her face.
"Well," she said as she stood, looking suddenly sullen, "I'll see you at dinner."
"All right." Puck got up and hesitated, a sort of awkward pause when he moved but stopped himself, then he went in and hugged her. When they parted, Ari gave him a small smile that she didn't seem to mean, then left the dorm. With a sigh, Puck sat down on his bed again and went back to his console. He had this nagging feeling that he had done something wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Puck ran his hand through his hair and stared blankly at the console's screen, having no real interest in the article he had been reading before Ari came in. The door to the dorm slid open and Flare came in without greeting him, and he climbed onto his bunk above Puck.
"Hey, man, aren't you going to shower? You stink to high heaven," said Puck.
"I'm going to sleep. Don't wake me up for dinner."
Puck shrugged to himself. "Okay."
The two boys sat in silence on their beds, Flare above Puck, and became lost in their own respective thoughts.
To say that Tide was unimpressed would be an understatement.
Flare was trying very hard to bench press one hundred and sixty pounds, and Tide was spotting him with a look of such boredom that she could have been in cell biology class. She counted for him until he reached twelve and had to cease, and she helped him put the dumbbell back onto its rack and watched him sit up.
Flare grinned triumphantly. "Increased the weight by ten pounds and did the same amount of sets as last time!"
"Woohoo," Tide said without any inflection whatsoever. She wasn't glaring, though, which Flare didn't notice--but Tide knew subconsciously that it was because she was intrigued by the brightness of his grin. It seemed silly to take interest in one of Flare's default expressions, but there was something boyish and oddly innocent by this tiny victory that Tide just couldn't glower at him.
Flare got up from the bench with a flourish and made exaggerated stretching motions while Tide took his place on her back. Flare began removing weights from the dumbbell. "You're at, what, one hundred now?"
"One hundred and five," Tide corrected him coldly. It didn't settle well with her that she had the lowest bench press weight, but she couldn't help it that her bone structure made her look as though she could blow away in the wind.
"One-oh-five," Flare repeated without a humorous quip about her skinny arms. Tide was surprised. Having finished adjusting the weights, Flare stood behind Tide and assumed the spotting position. His face was neutral, very calm, and natural-looking, no hint of a smile or a funny face to break her concentration. It would not have been such a strange occurrence if Storm had been with them as he usually was--but he had a meeting with Sarge. And Flare acting serious without the presence of Storm was something worth noticing.
Tide finished her set and put the dumbbell back with the help of Flare, who then proceeded to gently place his hand on her back between her shoulder blades as she sat up. Tide checked the impulse to direct her attention toward him, instead keeping her surprise to herself. She stood and walked without looking at Flare to the free weights by the mirror, taking a ten-pound weight in each hand.
Flare paused at the rack of weights and pursed his lips at Tide. "Don't you want to take a little rest first?"
"No," Tide grumbled, disagreeing only on the principle that Flare was trying to parent her. She lifted the weights so that her arms were parallel to the ground, really feeling her muscles strain. Flare's eyes were on her from the mirror, but she maintained her routine of ignoring his odd behavior for fear of discovering something she didn't want to know.
Tide was in mid-lift when Flare walked behind her and placed his hands on her shoulder blades. "You're bending your spine with you lift," he pointed out, still watching her through the mirror. He was just under a head taller than her, and it was very obvious by the way he was standing. Tide didn't like feeling dwarfed, but she didn't move. In fact, she lowered her arms and froze.
Her heart was pounding. Flare was so sincere, so serious, and so not like him. And yet Tide couldn't help but like this sudden change. Flare grinned a little at her, his hands still gently placed on her back. "I'm surprised you haven't kicked me in the balls yet," he said.
"Me, too," Tide replied. Her voice didn't sound like her own, it was just above a whisper. Her senses were filling with an odor she knew should have repulsed her, but somehow, it was gripping--every time she breathed out, she was desperate to breathe in again to pick up the scent.
Who the hell am I kidding?
Tide set the weights down on the floor and turned toward Flare, who now looked at her directly. There was a moment when her eyes searched his before she pressed herself against him and kissed him on the mouth.
---
Puck enjoyed Tuesday afternoons. There was an extended break from training and classes, and Storm, Tide, and Flare often went to the gym to get some sets in before dinner. Puck, however, took advantage of the empty room to blast music from his console and search the Net.
People still tried to bother him, though. He could at least take solace in knowing he didn't have to get up to let them in the door; all he had to do was push the button at his bedside to let unwanted visitors enter the room.
Here came one now.
Puck didn't look away from his console as he hit the button, causing the door to slide open. Whoever it was, they sure were quick to enter.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Puck!" said a cheerful voice. Puck turned off the music and pushed away his console, smiling as Ari sat next to him on his bed and gave him a small, homemade card.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he replied, opening the card. It had red and pink cutout hearts pasted inside, and in florid calligraphy, it read: "You're a great catch!" and it was signed in the same, neat handwriting: "Love, Ari."
Puck looked up to see Ari looking expectantly at him, and over the past few weeks, he had picked up on the fact that she craved affirmation from others. He was sort of speechless for a moment, unsure of what it all meant--he was a catch? She signed it with love? Did she do that for everyone she had given a Valentine? Did she even give away others?
"Do you like it?" Ari asked tentatively.
"Oh," Puck said, snapping out of his thoughts. "Yes, thank you." He grinned sheepishly.
Ari giggled and threw her arms around Puck, who awkwardly returned the hug, his mind racing and reminding him that his bed was messy, he hadn't showered yet, and his hair looked the same as it did when he woke up this morning. He was fully unprepared, and he didn't even realize it was Valentine's Day until Ari had come in--he hadn't anything to give her in return!
She was busy resting her cheek against his shoulder as his thoughts spiraled, and he figured he better say something. "Hey, uhm, sorry I don't have anything for you."
"Don't be silly," Ari said, looking up at Puck. "I didn't expect anyone else to care that it was Valentine's Day."
Puck wasn't used to hugging someone for as long as he was, but Ari didn't seem intent on letting go any time soon. "Sorry my bed is a mess," Puck said.
"What? Oh, geez, Puck, I don't care."
"Okay. Uh, sorry," Puck said limply.
Ari pulled away and looked intensely at Puck. "Are you uncomfortable?"
"No. No, of course not," Puck said, scoffing.
Ari grinned. "So you're always this awkward."
"I figured you would have picked up on that by now," Puck said with a wry smile.
"I have," Ari said, kissing him on the cheek.
Simultaneously, the door slid open and Storm appeared. Ari immediately withdrew from Puck and stood up as if she had been sitting on hot coals, and Puck did the same--only he didn't quite get to his feet, his head having hit the top of the bunk.
Storm looked annoyed but otherwise uninterested, to no one's surprise. "Where are Tide and Flare?" he asked Puck.
Puck was rubbing the sore spot on his head. "I dunno, Storm. The weight room? Weren't you with them?"
"No, I was with Sarge. I'm going to go find them," Storm said tersely. He gave a nod of acknowledgment to Ari, not making eye contact with her, perhaps out of sheer awkwardness. He left in a hurry.
Puck looked at Ari warily, and she had her mouth covered with her hands. For a moment, he feared she was upset, but she was actually laughing.
"I think he's more awkward than you," she said.
---
Tide shoved Flare away and stared at him, both of them breathing heavier than normal. That idiosyncratic grin of his crept onto his flushed face, and Tide felt like she could have hit him. The only thing he had done wrong, though, was smile.
"Can I just say--"
"No," Tide cut him off, lifting the weights that had been discarded and placing them back on their stand.
"So I can't--"
"Nope," Tide said again. Without telling Flare where she was going, she shouldered past him and headed for the door of the weight room.
"It was hot, Tide!" Flare said after her. Her only acknowledgment was an obscene hand gesture.
Have I gone nutters? Kissing Flare practically in public like that?
Anyone monitoring the security feed in the weight room was probably very entertained, having just watched two hormonal teenagers lock lips for a good ten minutes. Tide was flustered and confused as she strode toward the locker rooms to be alone. Did she really want that? Did he really want it? In all honesty, Tide had never been kissed before, but there was something so genuine and so needy about the whole thing that she couldn't quite ascertain that the exchange was random.
So what did that mean? That her incessant repulsions of everything that was Flare had actually been some sort of subconscious cover over an insatiable lust for him? Yes, lust had to be the word. Love was too strong of a sentiment toward her squad mate, someone she had seen wet his pants when he was six years old, someone who snored loudly and talked in his sleep every other night. No, Tide didn't love Flare. Flare couldn't love. He was a notorious womanizer (as much as a busy soldier could be, anyway), and when he wasn't kissing random girls in abandoned hallways, at least five girls were pining after him. No, Flare wasn't one for emotional attachment. And that was all right because neither was Tide.
But it would be absolutely unacceptable if Tide discovered she had become one of Flare's "squeezes" that he could summon at his every whim. Tide refused to be at his beck and call, and she may have just blown her chances of avoiding that by this random display of affection--a word seemingly too mild to describe what had just happened between them.
Tide saw Storm approaching her and she stopped dead as if she had forgotten where she was going. His expression moved from dogged determination to bewilderment. "Tide? You okay?"
Tide stiffened. So she looked visibly shaken. Wonderful. "Yeah, Storm. I'm fine. Just had an argument with Flare, that's all." Not a total lie. Whatever that kiss was, it didn't exactly flow like a well-mannered conversation. Storm had had his suspicions about Flare and Tide, one of those hunches that they argued too much to not be feigning dislike. But he'd believe her if only to avoid a conversation.
Storm stared at her a moment before he nodded. "Well, I had some things to discuss, but they're not that important. Go clean up."
Tide never felt like her brother was ordering her around; he simply told her to do things she intended to do to begin with. "See you." She brushed passed him and resumed her course for the locker room showers, not worried that he would be suspicious that she wasn't going to the room. Sometimes when she fought with Flare, they wouldn't speak to each other outside of training for days. Of course she would avoid him.
This was completely, totally normal. Except for the image of Flare standing inches away from her, smiling down at her in a way she'd never seen before. It was burned into her mind as if she'd been staring at the sun too long. It was unsettling, and very far from normal.
---
Puck and Ari had settled down on his bed, their backs facing the door. Ari seemed to like resting her head on his shoulder, and Puck had gotten used to the feeling of someone other than one of his squad being that close to him. He even found the guts to put his arm loosely around her shoulders, and his stomach settled into the silence when he realized he didn't always have to talk to someone to avoid having an awkward encounter. Yes, he finally felt comfortable sitting with a girl like this.
But were all couples' Valentine's Days so...mild?
Ari gave Puck a small squeeze right above his knee. He hadn't even noticed that her hand had been resting there. "I need to go," she said quietly, straightening. She looked expectantly at Puck, who looked back at her and smiled gently. There was a moment where Puck simply admired her face and the way her strawberry blonde curls flopped effortlessly into her face.
"Well," she said as she stood, looking suddenly sullen, "I'll see you at dinner."
"All right." Puck got up and hesitated, a sort of awkward pause when he moved but stopped himself, then he went in and hugged her. When they parted, Ari gave him a small smile that she didn't seem to mean, then left the dorm. With a sigh, Puck sat down on his bed again and went back to his console. He had this nagging feeling that he had done something wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Puck ran his hand through his hair and stared blankly at the console's screen, having no real interest in the article he had been reading before Ari came in. The door to the dorm slid open and Flare came in without greeting him, and he climbed onto his bunk above Puck.
"Hey, man, aren't you going to shower? You stink to high heaven," said Puck.
"I'm going to sleep. Don't wake me up for dinner."
Puck shrugged to himself. "Okay."
The two boys sat in silence on their beds, Flare above Puck, and became lost in their own respective thoughts.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Tethers: Squad Leader
Tethers: Squad Leader
The lights went out at 2300 hours as they were programmed to do every night. A hazy, green light kept the room lightly illuminated as Puck typed quietly on his computer for another thirty minutes. Then, at length, Puck shut down the console and the light went away, and for the following ten seconds he was rustling around his bed until, finally, he settled in with a soft sigh. Flare turned over, his arm dangling unknowingly off of the side of the bunk, a disturbed snort escaping his sleepy throat. He made another noise, a sound that could have been a word, then he settled once more. Tide lied motionless on her own bunk, the back of her hand rested on her forehead, her other arm stretched across her stomach. She always slept through the night.
Storm listened for the calm, rhythmic breathing of Puck's sleep, and he knew he was alone in a room of four people. Storm quietly slipped his hands behind his head and stared at the bottom of Tide's bunked bed where there were pieces of paper taped so he could see them. Two were maps for their upcoming mission--their first mission; one was a picture of some blonde swimsuit model that Rooney found on the Net; and one was a piece of artwork on lined paper that read: "GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE!" It was written and decorated in various colors of highlighter marker, and in bottom corner, it was signed: "Love, Flare," in surprisingly elegant cursive. The latter two pictures were superfluous wastes of space that Storm meant to take down every time he got into bed, but somehow, every time he got up, the last moment his eyes looked at the bunk surface, the familiar pictures were just part of the scenery, the same as the fake wood-surface plastic stickers that covered much of the metal in the room.
The mind was a terrible thing to let get a hold of you. Storm spent many nights awake for hours after his exhausted squad mates went to sleep. Images played back through his head of the day's events like a holovid on repeat; he ran maneuvers over and over again, trying to remember where everyone was supposed to go, how fast they had to move, when to be silent, how to fight surreptitiously. Door breaching maneuvers, rapid entries, how to take a prisoner alive. Perfection could be obtained only through practice, Storm knew that much; but the squad would be so much more efficient if Storm could simply get everything right the first time.
It was easy for Storm to forget that Sarge was a kind man. The squads under his command loved him; the squad leaders did not. They respected Sergeant Elias Kadlec, and this respect was not earned from positive reinforcement in the form of candy rewards and pats on the head. The squad leaders respected Sarge because he demanded that they get the job done right. Nothing less than their best. And Storm wanted his best to be perfection.
That was what kept the squad alive. Perfection.
Storm squeezed his eyes shut, but only for a moment. He had a twisted feeling in his gut, the kind he felt nearly every night for the past several weeks that were leading up to Sigma Squad's first deployment. Tomorrow was another day of training. The pressure was mounting, collecting into a contorted heap in his gut. And Storm was no stranger to its presence. He was not in denial that such worrying was affecting him physically, either. Storm knew damn well that he could very easily literally worry himself sick. Many would see this as a glaring health problem--but Storm liked to think of it as a solution.
It was all part of the job description, after all.
The worry in his gut was his fuel for excellence. For perfection. It pained him, sometimes terribly, but to him it was a very small price to pay for perfection. For prowess and skill and progress and, above all, the lives of his squad. This pain was the siphoned danger from their mission, the invisible protector. Yes, it was a significantly small price.
Storm rose gingerly from the bed and ambled quietly to the lavatory, shutting the door and flicking on the light once it closed. He saw himself in the mirror, his sister's piercing blue eyes, his dark, buzzed hair, the stern brow, wide jaw, gaunt cheeks. His mouth was insidiously thin and unsmiling. The black sleeveless shirt that he slept in clung to the sculpted masses of muscle embedded in his torso. His face morphed into a scowl as one hand reached up and touched his cheek.
"I'm one ugly son of a bitch," he said almost inaudibly.
It was not that realization, however, that made Storm gag and lean over the toilet.
Sleep came easier afterward.
Morning arrived. Sigma Squad was already awake for it at 0600 hours sharp. They were in the Galley eating breakfast when Storm's comlink flashed red and beeped three times. Storm shut his eyes to mentally will the dread out of his stomach in lieu of the cup of coffee he was intent on finishing before he got up.
Puck, Tide, and Flare expectantly looked up from their toast and freeze-dried eggs to see their squad leader.
"I'll be back," Storm told them without actually looking at them. He turned to leave the Galley.
"Tell Sarge I say 'hey!'" Flare called facetiously after him.
Storm walked deliberately up the sleek hallway of the Crossex base, his eyes glued to the path and seeing no one else. New acquaintances sometimes made the mistake of greeting Storm in the halls before they learned after several attempts that Storm never responded. He was busy. No time for small talk, and when you greeted someone, such useless nuances were bound to happen.
Nobody said anything.
Storm squared himself in front of the door to Sarge's office. He simply hardened his gaze and stood with his arms behind his back, stiff at attention. Sarge would open the door when he was ready to yell himself hoarse.
There was a melodious ping which was a misleading prelude for the ensuing beating, then the door opened. Storm stepped into the office and snapped a rigid salute.
"Sigma-05 reporting, sir!"
"At ease," Sergeant Elias Kadlec said, motioning for Storm to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Storm sat, for the millionth time wishing that he could stand while being scolded; it made him feel less small. He placed his hands on his knees and looked stoically at Sergeant Kadlec. Storm's profile, CXS 1107-05, was open on the screen behind Sergeant Kadlec, his ugly mug staring at him from his ID picture.
Sarge looked down, drew a deep breath, and threaded his fingers on top of a folder laying on his desk. "Happy Birthday, Storm."
Storm's eyebrows lifted in bemusement. "Thank you, sir."
Sarge, smiling, leaned back in his chair and let it bounce with his weight. "You're eighteen today. Your squad is almost ready for its first real mission."
Storm simply waited for Sarge to go on.
"On everyone's eighteenth birthday, I ask them if they want to know anything about their families. Their real families. As an adult, it's time to let you know everything."
Storm considered this, but remained silent for several seconds.
"Well, Storm? What do you say?"
"I wouldn't know what to ask, sir."
Sarge did something peculiar: he chuckled. "You never were much for sentiments, Storm."
Sarge gave Storm an intense stare that made Storm squirm slightly in his seat, as it was a look that Storm had never seen on Sarge's face before. There was something almost soft about it, the way Sarge's green eyes were settled on him, not narrowed or angry, just... placid, slightly squinted as if there was a phantom smile on Sarge's face.
"I was actually rather disarmed by that quality of yours. You and your sister... you're both serious. You always have been, even when you were little." Sarge's eyes drifted to the ceiling and he seemed to have gone elsewhere for several seconds, or perhaps he wanted to pretend that Storm wasn't giving him a purposefully bored look. "I haven't been disappointed yet by my decision to make you squad leader. You've done an excellent job."
"Thank you, sir. But it's my birthday. Are you sure you're not just saying that?" Storm asked plainly.
Sarge chuckled again and leaned forward on the desk. "I'm sure." He looked down at the folder and opened it, flipping some papers. "Now, how about I just tell you everything that's in here?"
"Go right ahead, sir."
Sarge slipped on a pair of reading glasses, which under different circumstances would have made Storm mentally laugh, then began to read: "You were born Bruce Shepard just before your twin sister, Elisebeth Shepard. Your parents names are Craig and Wendy Shepard; you and your sister were their third and fourth child."
Sarge looked up at Storm, seeing that Storm had lowered his head and begun to stare at the floor between his feet. "Go on," Storm said after realizing Sarge had stopped because of him.
"You and your sister were conceived and bought by the military for this project," Sarge said carefully, now looking intently at Storm.
Storm raised his head and gave Sarge an incredulous look. "We were... bought?"
Sarge nodded grimly. "Bruce and Elisebeth Shepard were genetically enhanced to have traits favoring soldier-like qualities."
Storm could tell Sarge was reading straight from the file, now. "And that was legal?" Storm asked.
"'Was' and still is," Sarge said. His brow had furrowed with consternation when he noticed Storm's troubled look. "I'm sorry, Storm."
"Sorry for what? That my parents brought life into the galaxy to sell it to die?" Storm questioned bitterly.
Sarge let the folder drop from his hands and he shook his head, looking even more agitated by the second. "Storm, they did it to better the human race. They did it to protect--"
"Protect what?" Storm cut in. "The kids they wanted to keep?"
"All of us, Storm," Sarge said in a low voice. "Even you. You'll benefit from what you're going to do for the galaxy."
"If I don't die first," Storm muttered, looking down again at the floor.
"Storm," Sarge said gently after several seconds, "I can understand if you don't want to lead your squad into battle right away."
Storm raised his eyes dangerously. "With all due respect, sir, there's no way in hell I'm going to abandon my squad because of a bruise to my pride," he said very slowly, carefully. "I have a job to do, even if I didn't ask for it. But I'll be damned if I don't get it done, and done right."
Nodding, Sarge's eyes closed for a moment. "Very well, Storm. Is there anything else you would want to hear about?"
"Absolutely not, sir."
"Then you're dismissed. Tell your sister it's her turn."
"Yes, sir."
Storm stood and snapped a quick salute to Sarge before leaving the office. The door slid closed behind him, and Storm simply stood there as if he had forgotten which way led back to the Galley. Everything looked different, somehow. Ari, a young nurse in training that seemed to take a liking to Puck, noticed him standing there as she walked by. "Hello!" she said brightly.
"Hello," Storm said in a dazed response.
Ari stopped and smiled at him, looking like she had the face of a perfectly sculptured doll, her features soft. "It's your birthday today, isn't it?"
Storm nodded numbly.
"Happy birthday!" Ari said brightly. She gave him a hug, which Storm returned with one hand patting her awkwardly on the back. He stared over her shoulder at the opposite wall.
"Thanks," he said.
"Well, tell Tide I say 'happy birthday' too."
"Will do," Storm replied.
Ari left and Storm walked in the opposite direction, taking the long way back to the Galley where his squad was still waiting for him. He stopped short when he encountered the scene at the table.
Tide was sitting with her arms folded between Puck and Flare, her head adorned with a crown that had been cut out of white paper and decorated with highlighter markers. It read: "Birthday Queen."
"Storm," Tide said levelly, "leave now while you still have your dignity."
Puck grinned and said: "Well, he did just come back from Sarge's office."
"Puck," Storm said, looking wounded. "I wouldn't expect that coming from you. And on my birthday."
Puck wilted in his chair and wouldn't look up from the table at him, and it suddenly occurred to Storm that Puck thought he was being serious.
"I'm kidding, Puck," Storm said, trying to smile.
Puck chuckled nervously, and his uneasiness made Storm suddenly feel very small in front of his squad. At was at that moment that Flare reached over the table and put another paper hat on his head that read: "Birthday Boy."
"Uhm," Storm said awkwardly, "Tide, Sarge also wants to see you."
Tide tore off the paper crown and set it on the table, Flare looking devastated as she did so. "Bye, boys," she said, then took her leave of the Galley.
"So," Flare started, watching Storm as he sat himself down at the table, "what enlightening lectures did Sarge have for you on your birthday, big guy?"
Storm shrugged impartially. "He told me my name is Bruce."
Flare snorted and covered his mouth. "Bruce," he repeated, sniggering.
"I like Bruce," Puck said, propping up his elbows on the table. "It's a good name. At least it's not... Augusten or something, right?"
Storm started laughing. He was laughing so hard that he didn't see the strange looks that Flare and Puck gave him before they joined in laughing, hesitantly at first. Storm hit his fist on the table, trying to stop, then he bit the top of his hand and finally managed to calm down.
"Thanks, guys. I won't kick your asses in training today. How's that sound?"
"Divine," Puck said with a sigh of relief.
Flare put his arms behind his head and tipped back in his chair comfortably. "You sure are mellowing out in your old age, Storm."
"I hope so," Storm agreed quietly.
The lights went out at 2300 hours as they were programmed to do every night. A hazy, green light kept the room lightly illuminated as Puck typed quietly on his computer for another thirty minutes. Then, at length, Puck shut down the console and the light went away, and for the following ten seconds he was rustling around his bed until, finally, he settled in with a soft sigh. Flare turned over, his arm dangling unknowingly off of the side of the bunk, a disturbed snort escaping his sleepy throat. He made another noise, a sound that could have been a word, then he settled once more. Tide lied motionless on her own bunk, the back of her hand rested on her forehead, her other arm stretched across her stomach. She always slept through the night.
Storm listened for the calm, rhythmic breathing of Puck's sleep, and he knew he was alone in a room of four people. Storm quietly slipped his hands behind his head and stared at the bottom of Tide's bunked bed where there were pieces of paper taped so he could see them. Two were maps for their upcoming mission--their first mission; one was a picture of some blonde swimsuit model that Rooney found on the Net; and one was a piece of artwork on lined paper that read: "GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE!" It was written and decorated in various colors of highlighter marker, and in bottom corner, it was signed: "Love, Flare," in surprisingly elegant cursive. The latter two pictures were superfluous wastes of space that Storm meant to take down every time he got into bed, but somehow, every time he got up, the last moment his eyes looked at the bunk surface, the familiar pictures were just part of the scenery, the same as the fake wood-surface plastic stickers that covered much of the metal in the room.
The mind was a terrible thing to let get a hold of you. Storm spent many nights awake for hours after his exhausted squad mates went to sleep. Images played back through his head of the day's events like a holovid on repeat; he ran maneuvers over and over again, trying to remember where everyone was supposed to go, how fast they had to move, when to be silent, how to fight surreptitiously. Door breaching maneuvers, rapid entries, how to take a prisoner alive. Perfection could be obtained only through practice, Storm knew that much; but the squad would be so much more efficient if Storm could simply get everything right the first time.
It was easy for Storm to forget that Sarge was a kind man. The squads under his command loved him; the squad leaders did not. They respected Sergeant Elias Kadlec, and this respect was not earned from positive reinforcement in the form of candy rewards and pats on the head. The squad leaders respected Sarge because he demanded that they get the job done right. Nothing less than their best. And Storm wanted his best to be perfection.
That was what kept the squad alive. Perfection.
Storm squeezed his eyes shut, but only for a moment. He had a twisted feeling in his gut, the kind he felt nearly every night for the past several weeks that were leading up to Sigma Squad's first deployment. Tomorrow was another day of training. The pressure was mounting, collecting into a contorted heap in his gut. And Storm was no stranger to its presence. He was not in denial that such worrying was affecting him physically, either. Storm knew damn well that he could very easily literally worry himself sick. Many would see this as a glaring health problem--but Storm liked to think of it as a solution.
It was all part of the job description, after all.
The worry in his gut was his fuel for excellence. For perfection. It pained him, sometimes terribly, but to him it was a very small price to pay for perfection. For prowess and skill and progress and, above all, the lives of his squad. This pain was the siphoned danger from their mission, the invisible protector. Yes, it was a significantly small price.
Storm rose gingerly from the bed and ambled quietly to the lavatory, shutting the door and flicking on the light once it closed. He saw himself in the mirror, his sister's piercing blue eyes, his dark, buzzed hair, the stern brow, wide jaw, gaunt cheeks. His mouth was insidiously thin and unsmiling. The black sleeveless shirt that he slept in clung to the sculpted masses of muscle embedded in his torso. His face morphed into a scowl as one hand reached up and touched his cheek.
"I'm one ugly son of a bitch," he said almost inaudibly.
It was not that realization, however, that made Storm gag and lean over the toilet.
Sleep came easier afterward.
Morning arrived. Sigma Squad was already awake for it at 0600 hours sharp. They were in the Galley eating breakfast when Storm's comlink flashed red and beeped three times. Storm shut his eyes to mentally will the dread out of his stomach in lieu of the cup of coffee he was intent on finishing before he got up.
Puck, Tide, and Flare expectantly looked up from their toast and freeze-dried eggs to see their squad leader.
"I'll be back," Storm told them without actually looking at them. He turned to leave the Galley.
"Tell Sarge I say 'hey!'" Flare called facetiously after him.
Storm walked deliberately up the sleek hallway of the Crossex base, his eyes glued to the path and seeing no one else. New acquaintances sometimes made the mistake of greeting Storm in the halls before they learned after several attempts that Storm never responded. He was busy. No time for small talk, and when you greeted someone, such useless nuances were bound to happen.
Nobody said anything.
Storm squared himself in front of the door to Sarge's office. He simply hardened his gaze and stood with his arms behind his back, stiff at attention. Sarge would open the door when he was ready to yell himself hoarse.
There was a melodious ping which was a misleading prelude for the ensuing beating, then the door opened. Storm stepped into the office and snapped a rigid salute.
"Sigma-05 reporting, sir!"
"At ease," Sergeant Elias Kadlec said, motioning for Storm to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Storm sat, for the millionth time wishing that he could stand while being scolded; it made him feel less small. He placed his hands on his knees and looked stoically at Sergeant Kadlec. Storm's profile, CXS 1107-05, was open on the screen behind Sergeant Kadlec, his ugly mug staring at him from his ID picture.
Sarge looked down, drew a deep breath, and threaded his fingers on top of a folder laying on his desk. "Happy Birthday, Storm."
Storm's eyebrows lifted in bemusement. "Thank you, sir."
Sarge, smiling, leaned back in his chair and let it bounce with his weight. "You're eighteen today. Your squad is almost ready for its first real mission."
Storm simply waited for Sarge to go on.
"On everyone's eighteenth birthday, I ask them if they want to know anything about their families. Their real families. As an adult, it's time to let you know everything."
Storm considered this, but remained silent for several seconds.
"Well, Storm? What do you say?"
"I wouldn't know what to ask, sir."
Sarge did something peculiar: he chuckled. "You never were much for sentiments, Storm."
Sarge gave Storm an intense stare that made Storm squirm slightly in his seat, as it was a look that Storm had never seen on Sarge's face before. There was something almost soft about it, the way Sarge's green eyes were settled on him, not narrowed or angry, just... placid, slightly squinted as if there was a phantom smile on Sarge's face.
"I was actually rather disarmed by that quality of yours. You and your sister... you're both serious. You always have been, even when you were little." Sarge's eyes drifted to the ceiling and he seemed to have gone elsewhere for several seconds, or perhaps he wanted to pretend that Storm wasn't giving him a purposefully bored look. "I haven't been disappointed yet by my decision to make you squad leader. You've done an excellent job."
"Thank you, sir. But it's my birthday. Are you sure you're not just saying that?" Storm asked plainly.
Sarge chuckled again and leaned forward on the desk. "I'm sure." He looked down at the folder and opened it, flipping some papers. "Now, how about I just tell you everything that's in here?"
"Go right ahead, sir."
Sarge slipped on a pair of reading glasses, which under different circumstances would have made Storm mentally laugh, then began to read: "You were born Bruce Shepard just before your twin sister, Elisebeth Shepard. Your parents names are Craig and Wendy Shepard; you and your sister were their third and fourth child."
Sarge looked up at Storm, seeing that Storm had lowered his head and begun to stare at the floor between his feet. "Go on," Storm said after realizing Sarge had stopped because of him.
"You and your sister were conceived and bought by the military for this project," Sarge said carefully, now looking intently at Storm.
Storm raised his head and gave Sarge an incredulous look. "We were... bought?"
Sarge nodded grimly. "Bruce and Elisebeth Shepard were genetically enhanced to have traits favoring soldier-like qualities."
Storm could tell Sarge was reading straight from the file, now. "And that was legal?" Storm asked.
"'Was' and still is," Sarge said. His brow had furrowed with consternation when he noticed Storm's troubled look. "I'm sorry, Storm."
"Sorry for what? That my parents brought life into the galaxy to sell it to die?" Storm questioned bitterly.
Sarge let the folder drop from his hands and he shook his head, looking even more agitated by the second. "Storm, they did it to better the human race. They did it to protect--"
"Protect what?" Storm cut in. "The kids they wanted to keep?"
"All of us, Storm," Sarge said in a low voice. "Even you. You'll benefit from what you're going to do for the galaxy."
"If I don't die first," Storm muttered, looking down again at the floor.
"Storm," Sarge said gently after several seconds, "I can understand if you don't want to lead your squad into battle right away."
Storm raised his eyes dangerously. "With all due respect, sir, there's no way in hell I'm going to abandon my squad because of a bruise to my pride," he said very slowly, carefully. "I have a job to do, even if I didn't ask for it. But I'll be damned if I don't get it done, and done right."
Nodding, Sarge's eyes closed for a moment. "Very well, Storm. Is there anything else you would want to hear about?"
"Absolutely not, sir."
"Then you're dismissed. Tell your sister it's her turn."
"Yes, sir."
Storm stood and snapped a quick salute to Sarge before leaving the office. The door slid closed behind him, and Storm simply stood there as if he had forgotten which way led back to the Galley. Everything looked different, somehow. Ari, a young nurse in training that seemed to take a liking to Puck, noticed him standing there as she walked by. "Hello!" she said brightly.
"Hello," Storm said in a dazed response.
Ari stopped and smiled at him, looking like she had the face of a perfectly sculptured doll, her features soft. "It's your birthday today, isn't it?"
Storm nodded numbly.
"Happy birthday!" Ari said brightly. She gave him a hug, which Storm returned with one hand patting her awkwardly on the back. He stared over her shoulder at the opposite wall.
"Thanks," he said.
"Well, tell Tide I say 'happy birthday' too."
"Will do," Storm replied.
Ari left and Storm walked in the opposite direction, taking the long way back to the Galley where his squad was still waiting for him. He stopped short when he encountered the scene at the table.
Tide was sitting with her arms folded between Puck and Flare, her head adorned with a crown that had been cut out of white paper and decorated with highlighter markers. It read: "Birthday Queen."
"Storm," Tide said levelly, "leave now while you still have your dignity."
Puck grinned and said: "Well, he did just come back from Sarge's office."
"Puck," Storm said, looking wounded. "I wouldn't expect that coming from you. And on my birthday."
Puck wilted in his chair and wouldn't look up from the table at him, and it suddenly occurred to Storm that Puck thought he was being serious.
"I'm kidding, Puck," Storm said, trying to smile.
Puck chuckled nervously, and his uneasiness made Storm suddenly feel very small in front of his squad. At was at that moment that Flare reached over the table and put another paper hat on his head that read: "Birthday Boy."
"Uhm," Storm said awkwardly, "Tide, Sarge also wants to see you."
Tide tore off the paper crown and set it on the table, Flare looking devastated as she did so. "Bye, boys," she said, then took her leave of the Galley.
"So," Flare started, watching Storm as he sat himself down at the table, "what enlightening lectures did Sarge have for you on your birthday, big guy?"
Storm shrugged impartially. "He told me my name is Bruce."
Flare snorted and covered his mouth. "Bruce," he repeated, sniggering.
"I like Bruce," Puck said, propping up his elbows on the table. "It's a good name. At least it's not... Augusten or something, right?"
Storm started laughing. He was laughing so hard that he didn't see the strange looks that Flare and Puck gave him before they joined in laughing, hesitantly at first. Storm hit his fist on the table, trying to stop, then he bit the top of his hand and finally managed to calm down.
"Thanks, guys. I won't kick your asses in training today. How's that sound?"
"Divine," Puck said with a sigh of relief.
Flare put his arms behind his head and tipped back in his chair comfortably. "You sure are mellowing out in your old age, Storm."
"I hope so," Storm agreed quietly.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
The Faraway War, Chapter One: The Death Tol
The Faraway War
Chapter One: The Death Toll
Chapter One: The Death Toll
May 10, 893
Still in the jungle
Striker was killed yesterday. No one has coped well with it. Sometimes you can really tell when somebody's lost his best friend because he's lost the fight with himself to stay alive. They sit in the sun and sweat, let the salt water rinse the dirt off their brows, give up their rations, hardly move even to swat the behemoth bugs that land on their tan faces. That is the state of the entire unit, and, as I write, I feel as though Striker is frowning down upon me--though this time not over my shoulder as he always did--and he is wondering why I am bothering with this useless journal.Still in the jungle
I persist, however. This pen and this paper are more important to me than ever now that Striker is gone. Here I can lay out my baggage, express my disgust, see in plain words what my mind insists on burning as an image in the back of my head. The carnage, the blood, the death. On many days we do not fight. We pile. We pile the bodies that our guns and our tanks rack up like points in a sick game, we pile them as though they are our trophies that must be properly stacked and out of the way so that our game can continue and we make more and more piles. The twisted game has no preference as to which color points we make stacks of - red and brown or blue and gray, who cares. And God only knows which stack Striker is in now.
I put his letter to Regina in the post this morning. I have not yet decided if I am going to compose a new letter that will go to Jamie should something happen to me, since the one I had given to Striker is, no doubt, missing. I find the smallest bit of solace knowing that Regina will receive Striker's letter before the pitiless military letter--no, notification. I fear "letter" has too much of a nice connotation. This organization is an ambitious, dishonorable cesspool of machines run by soulless tyrants who believe that the words "We regret to inform you" can console the razed hearts of the surviving parties.
I wrack my brain every night with questions that I cannot answer, and the one that lingers like a persistent echo as I fall asleep is: Why did I come here?
The Vendettan Army was closing in on the troops of Düren. Everyday the line was pushed farther and farther down the peninsula of the Nikut colonies, and the Vendettan high brass could toast each other every night and scratch a day off of their calendars that would bring the Düren Army closer to the sea and the Vendettan Army closer to victory. For three years, the Vendettan Army had made gradual progress. But gains were slow in the dense jungles of Nikut--not one person had ever taken into account the ageless trees, the thick underbrush, or the predators that lurked, hungrily feeding on the flesh of the dead, and often even the living, too. The war was fought between two rivaling countries and Nature, and it was not uncommon for Nature to take its prize in bodies on a daily basis.
The trees loomed limitlessly over the C Company, which had slowly rustled and awoken to the bright sunshine that shone through leafy filters. The air was so thick with moisture that it seemed to fill the entire earth with a gelatin-like material, which clogged the lungs and hung heavily on the shoulders of the weak soldiers. Roy Camlach Graves pushed himself up from the bed of his uniform jacket then pulled himself so that he could lean against the tree trunk whose gnarly girth rivaled that of Vendetta's most prized Val-Graves Airship. Streamline roots ran up and down the lower parts of the trunk, their straight patterns criss-crossing and wiggling together as they burrowed deep into the rich, rainforest soil. Roy stuck to the tree with the sap of his own body, which had been depositing itself steadily on his skin since the date of his last bathing excursion three days ago. Roy breathed sluggishly, his lungs tired now that he was awake, unable to distinguish oxygen from water in the air. His eyes closed again from the weight of the atmosphere, and sleep felt achievable once again.
A loud buzzing brushed passed his grimy ear. Though an extremely loud, abrupt noise, Roy had to force his eyes to open and focus upon the insect that had flown passed his head and landed on his propped knee. The creature was nearing seven centimeters in length, with a doubled wingspan to match. It had iridescent blue-green eyes that saw everything without moving, and its elongated body blended with the color of the sky--if it was possible to see it through the sea of leaves that blanketed the jungle.
The singing of birds had disappeared from the lush scenery, as if someone had grabbed a handful of canvas and ripped out the middle of a priceless painting. Hardly any animals made an appearance aside from the deadly tigers, which prowled and often times struck unsuspecting soldiers in the middle of the night. The only wildlife that the soldiers saw on a daily basis were the insects that roamed free with the food chain broken, their natural predators driven off.
Roy stared at the insect with the intensity of a feverish child. "Get off," he muttered with so little inflection that it could have sounded gentle.
Roy sat with his back against the gnarly, ancient tree for what could have been hours. The sun's progression across the sky was marked by its rays of light whose angles shifted as the day slowly crept by, not with any deliberation at all. The sun was without concern for its role as the harbinger of defeat or victory; it simply went at its own, crawling pace.
The bug flapped its wings, then suddenly flew away. The ground rumbled as if it had missed breakfast and it was empty and hungry. Roy scrambled to his feet, pulling on his uniform jacket over his stained, white shirt while the other hand reached for his brown helmet and threw it on his head.
"Incoming!" Roy shouted. The rest of his squad, who had been physically awake but just as mentally asleep as him, jumped to their feet and found cover. Corporal Roy C. Graves watched the sky intently for smoke. Here, there was no enemy in front of you--he came from above, combusting, until the climactic explosion wiped out its opponent before he realized what was happening. Corporal Graves lifted his rifle and checked the scope, which had a crack that stretched halfway across the diameter in a jagged line. It was a blind spot, he hated it--regrettably, he found himself wishing that he had snagged Striker's Winchester as he had gone down.
Roy gagged suddenly, lowered his rifle, and stared at his feet, wide-eyed. The thought had made him literally sick.
Taking deep, slow breaths, Corporal Graves raised his rifle again, scanning with the scope for any sign of human life amongst the trees. His ears confirmed his suspicions of the approaching enemy, the Düren artillery working steadily, perhaps clearing some trees, perhaps searching for targets. They couldn't be sure--they could only hope that they were the ones fortunate to first encounter the enemy with piercing rounds.
"Summers," Corporal Graves said urgently, his voice hoarse, drained of moisture. The younger soldier looked to his superior from his cover behind another tree and nodded in acknowledgement. "Get us some aerial recon reports, backup, or something so we're not sitting ducks when the big guns get on top of us."
"Yessir," Private Summers quivered, snapping an unnecessarily respectful salute and shakily running back toward the headquarters camp. The rest of C Company must have been aroused by the artillery fire, now, the storm creeping ever closer to their camp.
Roy shut his eyes and let his head fall forward until his forehead hit the smooth bark of the ancient tree. He let his mind scatter aimlessly into the darkness while his ears remained staunchly attuned to the thunder, his feet aware of the rumbling in the earth.
I don't want to fight today.
Right now, Striker would be laughing. Striker would be trying to stifle his laughter by pinching his arms and holding his stomach, but Striker would not be able to get the image of the Düren tanks out of his head, which he found so poorly engineered that it made his stomach ache with glee. Striker would pantomime the movement of the tanks, which rolled on six wheels with no treads, with his arms outstretched as if he was overweight, and sometimes he would even completely fall over with his arms and legs still tensed like he had been struck with rigor mortis, imitating the clumsy vehicles when they rolled because of the lumpy terrain. Striker. He would be laughing.
When Roy opened his eyes, his fingers felt weak, and he saw that he had been gripping the rifle in his hands until his knuckles had drained of color. Relaxing with great effort, Corporal Graves resumed his diligent watch of the jagged horizon, that nagging feeling of regret, sadness, whatever it was, still nipping at the back of his neck. He heard a faint buzzing, and his eyes narrowed--it was no insect, this buzzing was all-encompassing, not some strange sound that could only be heard in one ear from mere centimeters away. This was the rattling of metal on metal, haphazard rivets, and screaming engines. This was the pride of the Düren Army, the laughingstock of Paul Striker, the Rhye-Noh.
Roy suspected that there was no man named "Rhye" and no man named "Noh" who actually built the sad excuse for a machine, and the idea that such a craft could be compared to a rhinoceros by sound was simply preposterous. Düren was not as clever as it wanted the world to think. The dull country really needed to stick with what it was good at: being dull.
Looking over his shoulder and searching for any sign of Private Summers, Corporal Graves began grinding his teeth nervously. Support. They needed support. Or, for God's sake, at least a launcher! Rickety and poorly constructed though it was, the Rhye-Noh could very easily destroy the entire C Company once it got close enough.
Provided it didn't flip on its way toward them.
Right now, though, Corporal Graves had to pray that the tank was not fully prepared for an assault. That could buy them enough time to pick off any of its entourage and perhaps damage it with a barrage of grenades. Yes, that would be the plan.
Corporal Graves straightened and held up his open, right hand, hopefully grabbing the attention of his watchful squad. He motioned toward the currently invisible machine, then pointed at Grainger and Hill and made sure they knew to sharp shoot the soldiers on foot, then he pointed at Bard and pretended to throw a grenade, obviously at the big, semi-armored vehicle. The squad nodded in tandem.
Roy would never stop being unsettled by their uniformity.
The squad's concentration on each other was broken suddenly when the sound of rustling trees above them alerted them to the presence of another being. An animal? Perhaps. The enemy? More likely. Predators knew not to come out in broad daylight with trained gunmen on the loose in their jungle. This rustling did not bode well for C Company.
Corporal Graves shaded his eyes from the sun and squinted, trying to find the cause of the noise. It seemed as though one beam of light was stabbing him right in the face, preventing his delicate eyes from finding whatever they sought. Then, he heard the rustling again, stronger, right above him--fear gripped his heart with a bony hand, freezing his entire chest solid.
I'm gonna die.
It all happened at one time. The green form dropped from the canopy and Roy reeled backwards; he felt his rifle wriggle free from his grip, saw the shadow of the enemy in front of him. Roy did the first thing that came to mind: he tossed his helmet at the guy's face. Roy swung his legs around, slipped the knife from his boot, and pounced forward. He tackled the green-clad enemy to the ground, struggling as the man grabbed his arms, his eyes wild at the glint of the knife. Roy lifted his knee, shoved it hard into the man's solar plexus, felt the air and the strength leave him, then he jabbed with the knife into the abdomen--several times, rhythmically, systematically, and just as he was taught.
Removing himself from the quivering man, Roy quickly retrieved his rifle, paying close attention to the enemy on the ground, and he pointed the barrel at the man's head. He wasn't sure, he had been so ready with the trigger, but the man might have raised his hand and tried to speak just before Roy shot him.
Mind blank, Roy replaced his helmet to its proper place on his head, then his eyes groped for the forms of his comrades in the shady trees. Other enemies in green were around him where his comrades had once stood, and Roy panicked. He heard shots, thought that it was his turn to die, and he dropped to the ground. The green enemies began returning fire, Roy thought he had a chance, so he scrambled around the tree and took cover. He lifted the scope to his face, found the back of a green enemy's body, and fired. Roy didn't wait to see what happened, he simply found another and did the same, and in seconds the firing stopped. He was breathing heavily and feeling as though no oxygen was entering his lungs; he wanted to faint.
Roy saw Private Summers standing on the edge of a short ravine, beams of light on either side of him as he dropped his gun, aghast. "We--" he stuttered.
Roy simply stared at him, waiting.
"We should be dead," Summers breathed.
There was a moment of hesitation before Roy joined Summers again. This pause was a small lapse in adrenaline that reminded Roy that he should be checking for wounded, or confirming the dead. But not now--not with Hellbingers dropping from the sky like angelic demons.
"We need to get back to headquarters," Corporal Graves said as he pulled himself onto the ravine. The voices of the approaching Rhye-Noh entourage were becoming louder, as they had obviously heard the scuffle that had just occurred. A retreat was in order, lest the victory become a loss.
Summers nodded in agreement, or perhaps let his head fall out of pure weakness, or perhaps, for a moment, faltered in his will to live.
The two soldiers started to walk, and, upon hearing another explosive artillery shell practically at their heels, they began to run. To say that the soldiers ran, however, was a bit of an exaggeration, because really the terrain was too jagged with uneven soil and tree roots for one to properly propel himself at great speeds without tripping and hitting the dirt. But they tried--they jumped and dodged around environmental obstacles. It could not have been far, Roy assured himself. He had lost track of how much ground C Company had covered in the past three days, and whether or not headquarters had moved up with them, but Roy had to believe that they were close. Sunbeams watched them go by, some bending over their hunched forms. The trees on either side of them were so big that it seemed to take hours to actually pass them. Their progress felt slow, too much effort for little gain. The sound of artillery fire followed them, but grew fainter, perhaps unaware that its scout group of Hellbingers had been slain by the enemy.
But the artillery would find out soon enough when it happened upon the bodies. And if the two soldiers were lucky, the artillery would believe that every life from either side had been taken and remained lying on the moist grass.
Adrenaline wore off quickly. Roy learned that early on in his travels as a soldier. Primal instincts were not something to live off of--instincts were to be harnessed in emergencies (which, to most every soldier, are frequently encountered), but not relied upon entirely. Roy's own endurance was his crutch when he needed to run a little over a kilometer from the enemy, not some chemical reaction that temporarily made him a super hero. Self-reliance was the key to survival for Roy C. Graves, not instincts.
Or, at least, that was what he led himself to believe.
Roy's legs burned as he and Private Summers came to an abrupt stop. The trees had disappeared and left gargantuan graves--stumps so big that a few could fit over a dozen men on its surface. The trees were dead, but the area was alive with movement, some frantic and some trudging. Tents were scattered about, a couple of VG tanks were parked nearby, as well as a handful of big guns awaiting departure. Wounded men were being carried on stretchers, others limped alongside comrades, some happened upon a sanctuary unaware and stumbling. At one time, one couldn't approach a Vendettan Army headquarters without passing several guards and undergoing several checkpoints--tags, badges, and, if suspicious enough, distinguishing marks such as tattoos and scars had to be seen, checked, and approved before any messengers or parties smaller than a squad could approach headquarters.
This particular camp was a satellite of the main headquarters back in Nikut's capital city (if one considered a Vendettan puppet government-run, barely-developed, tribal community a city), Jagra. Only one of the five Vendettan Generals was stationed here, one of the more brilliant, up-and-coming Generals, to be more specific, and Roy sought him out immediately in a serpentine path through the camp, Private Summers in tow.
"Hold it," the guard at the tent door said, moving his rifle to block Roy's path. Roy sighed and fumbled through his belt compartments until he finally retrieved his papers. He handed the crumpled, ripped, burned, held together by threads parchment to the guard, who inspected them thoroughly.
"Corporal Graves," the guard addressed him with a slight arch of the brow. He lifted his rifle from Corporal Graves' path.
They saluted each other, and Roy passed into the tent, ducking under the swinging, tarp door. As he entered, the guard stopped Private Summers, and Roy found himself alone in the tent, which was completely dark.
"Corporal Roy Graves," Corporal Graves said, snapping a salute and staying at attention. The shade was wonderful, but the stifling humidity was still thick in the air. An oil lamp flicked on, and Corporal Graves' hard stare met the sad, blue eyes of General Graves.
"At ease," the General said kindly. He smiled but still looked just as morose as ever, weariness emanating from the dark circles under his eyes.
"Marcus," Roy said softly, returning his brother's smile, whose character now mirrored the General's sadness rather than the optimism of three years prior.
Marcus stood with his left hand leaning on a wooden cane, weight shifted completely on his left side. His blonde hair was shorn short, and his sickly gray skin reflected the warm light of the lamp. He was not the same man that Roy had been accustomed to several years ago when they lived with their father in Canan. Marcus had since been stricken with a terrible sickness at the hands of the enemy's biological weapon, and his recovery had been a long and arduous one. For a long time, his brother could not walk or even feed himself. Time worked on Marcus' side, however, and his loving wife nursed him back to health.
Marcus looked as though he had not slept in weeks, which could have either been an accurate assumption, or simply an observation of how he normally looked. Ever since his second son was born, he seemed more morose than ever, and even less available for correspondence from Roy. Marcus was only allowed so many letters from certain people, and it wasn't always clear where he resided because of the constant need to travel to see other generals.
"Funny thing we received in the mail this morning," Marcus said tonelessly. He motioned for
Roy to come to the wide table that was set up under the swinging oil lamp. Roy stood at his brother's side and looked at the scroll of parchment on the table.
VENDETTA AND DÜREN MAKE PEACE, the first line read.
Roy's jaw dropped.
"Check the date," Marcus said, putting his finger on the parchment. "It was three weeks ago."
"I need a smoke," Roy rasped.
Peace between Düren and Vendetta never came as easily as war. Düren was through with its futile war with technology. It was impossible to adapt at the rate of J. L. Valentine and L. R. Graves, whose prolific designs and productions were in blueprints one week and on the battlefield the next. The terms of peace were complicated and hard to reach, not unlike a child's plan to obtain the sun. Neither side could compromise on whose soldiers would die in vain. Vendetta did not want to give up its land won, and Düren did not want to surrender with no territory to claim. Queen Abigail simply abhorred war (but could not quite control herself when it came to out-doing Düren), and it was completely against her morals to dishonor the young men who died. Riechenbach V was as much of a Hawk as his father and grandfather and fathers before him, and would therefore surrender only if his terms were met--despite the outrageous odds if he continued to fight. The peace talks were arduous and slow, and neither side would even agree to a ceasefire until they could agree on the final papers. Riechenbach V would propose brazen, uneven solutions, which Queen Abigail would readily veto, while her contributions, though mild and fair, to her, were shot down by Riechenbach V. Finally, they agreed to let their foreign advisers and highest-ranking generals work out the Treaty of Hoffsworth, which laid out these terms: Vendetta kept its territory won, but would allow for a controlled amount of Dürenian activity to take place in Jagra and its surrounding provinces. The rest of the market and resources would belong to Vendetta. These terms were not ideal for Düren--in fact, most of the public was outraged at the turn of events, but the Dürenian foreign advisers and military generals signed the Treaty with warm hands to shake and genuine smiles.
Corporal Graves held on tightly to the rifle in his lap, which bounced and tumbled along with the tank that he rode on, plowing full speed toward its next destination: Jagra. The terrain was much flatter than the jungle's bumpy, rooted surface, but its properties as a plane for transportation left just about as much to be desired. Outside of the rainforest, it became marshy, the ground perhaps a similar consistency to the air in the rainforest. In the marsh, however, there was more moisture to go around, not to mention fungi and plant life to feed off of it. The marsh was as hot as the rainforest and not nearly as pleasant; while the jungle had its occasional charming creature and interesting flora, the marsh had deadly aquatic life and the rank of a moldy dungeon. It was darker in the marsh, more monotone in its color palette, which was mostly grimy green, dank blue, and brown. Where there wasn't water, the ground was coated not in grass, but moss. It took no less than the genius of the VG dual-engineering technology to get tanks and troops across the terrain quickly: tanks were fitted with gargantuan propellers which were placed on the widened tank's undercarriage, causing them to seemingly "float" across the precarious surfaces. But when the tanks reached moss-covered bodies of water, many unfortunate accidents occurred where tanks slipped nose-first into the water, never to be recovered in the deeper cases. Trial and error was the only way for tanks to find a path, and such was the course for Corporal Graves and the 46th Artillery Regiment.
The constant jarring and sloshing of the tank's progress was progressively making Roy sick to his stomach. Taking long, deep breaths, Roy scratched the scruff of his chin and attempted, quite fruitlessly, to relax for the ride. The benefits of his affiliation with the 46th were numerous, including but not limited to: not having to walk, several tons of metal as a barrier against attack, and some interesting company. The tank operators were a strange breed of soldier, and this was a conclusion that Roy could readily decide upon after spending several days with a few of the men of the 46th. They were undaunted by closed spaces as well as the phrase: "No chance of escape." If their tank was fired upon and damaged to the point of imminent explosion, the cockpit was not designed to free its operators in such an emergency situation. The soldiers of the 46th could contort themselves to fit into the tiny spaces available in the cockpit and still manage to work like dogs to keep the tank going. The gunman, perhaps the one most likely to escape an attack because of his seat in the upper gun turret, was also the main target of most assaults. It was, as he put it himself, his job to destroy as many enemies as he could before he was killed. And it was not with any hypothetical air that the gunman told Roy this grim task: it was imminent to the gunman that he would die before the war was over.
Luckily for the gunman, though, the ceasefire had been issued--at least to the Vendettan troops. It was not uncommon for either side of the warring parties to continue fighting, whether it was because they had not yet received the ceasefire, or even because some soldiers wanted to take it upon themselves to reconcile an unfavorable treaty. As far as Roy's tired bones were concerned, ceasefire meant ceasefire, and maybe that was unsoldier-like of him, but if he worried himself over anything more than not losing his lunch rations to the tumultuous ride, he might just break down crying.
And Corporal Roy C. Graves did not cry. Not after Striker died, not after his unit was killed, and not because he was sick to his stomach and under potential enemy fire.
"Oi, Corporal Graves," the gunman called from his turret, almost chidingly.
Roy looked up at him, forcing a smile.
The gunman, Lieutenant Nicholas, gave Roy a thumbs-up and a toothy grin. "Jest a few more hours, Corporal," Nicholas assured him. He had the accent of a true Northerner, bouncy and having a sort of tart flavor, with shortened syllables and completely different inflection from the inhabitants of Canan and other mid-Vendetta citizens. Roy merely nodded and shut his eyes again, clinging to his gun. He would be in Jagra soon. Soon.
The tank passed out of the marshlands and onto solid ground, which meant that the small convoy of the 46th was only 60 minutes from the Jagra capital. Trees reappeared, though these not as large and crowded as their rainforest cousins. The 46th Regiment convoy consisted of six green and black tanks, all doing their part to help transfer Vendettan troops from the frontlines back toward civilization and, ultimately, home.
"Think ye'll volunteer to stay in this hellhole when we get there, Corporal?" Lieutenant Nicholas inquired out of the blue.
"No, don't think I will," Roy replied. He yawned and stretched, having recently woken up from a short, not entirely worthwhile nap.
"I 'aven't decided yet," Lieutenant Nicholas added. "Is' not like I've got much to go 'ome to, y'know."
Roy folded in his lips and remained silent. He couldn't relate to Lieutenant Nicholas' situation; he had his father and his brother, the Valentines, Jamie, the ring... He had so much to go home to that it seemed borderline insanity to leave in the first place. But everyone has his own ideals and motives and ambitions that often drive him away from what he desires. Not all of them, however, come back missing his best friend, stained with the blood of dozens upon dozens of men on his hands, and a serious doubt in his own will to live. In that sense, Roy had much more of a reason to leave than to stay, and he would truly have to reassess his morals if, for some reason, he was ordered to stay in Nikut; he would risk defaming the name of his General brother--and not only Marcus, but his father, too. He would be the only Graves boy that wasn't helping in the war effort, and that would be disdainfully dishonorable. Roy squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about the possibility of going AWOL. It was not in his agenda right now--getting to Jagra in one piece in order to bathe, however, was.
Several events happened all in the same moment. The last thing Roy remembered was hearing the high-pitched crescendo of an incoming shell. Nobody even yelled: "Incoming!"
The shell exploded on the ground to the left of the tank, the opposite side from where Roy was lounging, tossing the tank to the side. Roy was thrown off and sent tumbling to the dirt; the tank shielded him from the shrapnel, and it landed on its side, slid, and barely missed running into an all-but aware Roy Graves. There was a loud ringing in his ears that deafened him to the noises around him. He remembered, then, that it was superstitious to believe that angels try to contact humans by making their ears ring. Roy believed they were going to tell him it was his time to die.
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