Post by Deleted on Sept 27, 2012 22:36:33 GMT -5
[/center]A Day in the Life Of: Salton“Hey, Baz, it’s Pad. It’s been awhile since we talked, I know, but things have been... well, not busy, but definitely filling. War’s not going so great for us these days, but I do my part to make sure we all stay alive. Sometimes I’m kind of glad you didn’t make it through the first year, mate—I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, let alone the Hammer strikes... heh, what kind of man does that make me, glad my best friend’s dead? What kind of world is that?”- Padrick Salton, in front of Baz’ grave
CRESSY ESCARPMENT, EPHYRA: FROST 9 AFTER E-DAY, PRESENT DAY, 2540 HOURS
Snick.
It’s getting colder. Ephyra’s falling underneath the curtain of snow I’ve seen every year since I was stationed here. It blankets the landscape, dangerous in its innocuous white. It conceals the land, makes it easier to be spotted—worst of all, food becomes scarce in an already dying world.
Snick-snick. Fwoosh.
Flames flicker to life in front of me and send a barrage of sparks into the air. They’re bright and fragile, glowing counterparts to the snowflakes falling outside my makeshift shelter. One flares into existence in front of me and I just stop what I’m doing to track its progress, eyes still as sharp as ever despite... everything they’ve seen—everything they’ve witnessed.
The ember flits about, dimming as it traces its way through the air, before completely extinguishing itself in the frigid temperature. There’s poetry about that, a single spark erupting from home to find its own wooden embrace. I remember reading it as a kid, bored in school and wondering what point there was in learning about poems.
“Swift as a finch did it fly,
into the air only to die,
I watch as it twists and it turns,
staring with wonder and dread as it burns.
Yet chance would decree a more potent fate,
as I look it—”
I stop mid-whisper, my mind blank, the line teasingly out of reach. I’m surprised I remember any of it. I shake my head, abandoning that line of thought and rubbing my hands together over the warmth of the crackling fire. A pinprick of old guilt needles through my chest like a wriggling worm at how easy it was to just not care. Baz loved poetry.
Keep busy. That was they key. Don’t ever stop moving or you’re done, as crippled as losing an arm or leg. My eyes lift from the fire, searching the shelves of what used to be a small storage room for some department store. Now it’s the only part of the infrastructure left standing, though the small crater in its roof is just the beginnings of its eventual demise.
My hand shoots out, grabbing at the neatly lined row of cans sitting there, clutching my prize in front of me with my survival knife already out in the other. No wasted movement. Energy efficiency. Any more would be death. Count the calories. Eat what you need, no more. Pack away what you don’t, continue.
The beans are cold, of course, heated only slightly by the fire I made, but filling. Tasteless save for the faintest flavor, almost ashes in my mouth. Nothing ever tasted good anymore, not after the Hammer—
I scoop another finger-full of beans, eating mechanically and being careful to keep my mind blank. Exhaustion looms like a curtain in front of me after a long day spent hunting and scouting, taking notes on Locust movement and the best spots to place a trap. With the can empty, there’s nothing holding me back from the welcome black of sleep. I bank the fire and curl up in my bedroll, only hoping I won’t dream.
*****
SARFURTH-MARANDAY BORDER: BLOOM, 13 YEARS AGO, 0425 HOURS
“Hey, Pad, listen to that,” the spotter whispered, shouldering his friend with barely contained glee. The stripped down version of Gear armor lessened the impact, but not by much.
Padrick Salton wearily turned his head toward his companion, scratching at his shock of red hair with one hand and holding his sniper rifle steady with the other. He could barely see the other man in the soft moonlight, even though they were laying right next to each other. “What now, Baz?”
Baz held up a finger to his lips in response, closing his eyes with a smirk plastered across his weathered face. Pad stared at his friend for a second before shaking his head and focusing on the sounds around him. His sniper training made it easy—the melody of nature’s disparate parts combined together to create the ambience every Seran grew used to when in the woods. Still, he couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary, especially not something that would make his partner so happy.
“I don’t—”
“Well listen harder, mate,” Pad’s spotter interrupted softly, his voice lilting in an imitation of a South Islander accent. Before he could reply, Baz flicked him on the forehead
The sniper clenched his jaw, but obeyed the other’s whimsy. He closed his eyes, listening to the rustle of the pine leaves dancing in the wind. Crickets sawed away the night while the rapid whisper of wings flitted above his head. A throaty trill struck through the air, loud so close to him. Still, it was one he knew would barely register over anything else if he hadn’t been listening as hard as he was.
His eyes opened to Baz’ grin and explanation. “It’s a finch.”
“And that makes you so bloody chipper this early in the morning... why?” Pad grumbled in a low tone, so as not to send the small, red bird into flight.
The other man shrugged, his armor creaking and more than one tendon popping with the motion. “Reminds me of times I spent out with my dad. Good times, back before he passed. Hunting and fishing, just camping out under the trees, you know.”
“Oh, I know alright,” the sniper replied with an easy grin, shimmying side to side to ease his aching muscles. “‘Wish I had a nice sized hare right now.”
They’d been out here in the forest acting as overwatch on the local pipelines the whole night. Making sure no Indies, soldiers of the Union of Independent Republics, decided to jaunt across the Sarfurth-Maranday border and play with the valves was a full time job. The Coalition took sabotage rather seriously.
Baz groaned good naturedly. “Don’t talk about food. I could eat an entire—”
Pad shushed his friend with a closed fist, bringing his rifle scope back to his eye. The spotter joined him instantly, barely the slightest scrape as he drew up closer to line up his own scope. Magnified through the rifle’s optics, the red haired man sighted up on movement near the pipeline.
“See it?” Pad whispered.
The spotter grunted an affirmative. “One target in sight, male, armed with, what, is that a bow? Any others?”
The sniper panned his scope around the area. “No, nothing yet. What do you think; hunter or saboteur?”
“I bet hunter. Call it in anyway. They’ll probably just have us keep an eye on him until he starts messing with the pipes.”
Pad pushed the comm in his ear to initiate the circuit. “Control, this is Sniper Team Three-Zero. How copy, over?”
A moment of soft static was cut by a calm, feminine voice. “Loud and clear. This is Control, Three-Zero. What’s the situation?”
“Tango just popped up near the pipeline. Male, armed with a bow. Looks like a hunter, but his ruck could hold anything. Want to send a team over or just have us watch him?”
There was a beat of silence before the Controller replied. “Just watch him for now.”
“Told you,” Baz muttered as she continued.
“If the target gets too near the fuel line, contact me and I’ll route one of our teams over. If the target touches the pipeline before the team gets there, you are weapons free. How copy?”
“Orders received, wait and watch, pounce if the target touches the pipes,” Pad whispered into his mic. “Thank you, Control.”
The woman disconnected without response, which set a grin up on Baz’ face. “You pissed her off.”
“I was just thanking her,” the sniper muttered, sighting up on the possible terrorist. The man was checking something on the ground, probably a trap, but Pad couldn’t see it from this angle. “I don’t suppose you found anything while I was chatting with the lady, eh?”
“Negative.” Baz sighed. “You ever think of a family?”
Pad resisted the urge to look away from his scope. “A family? Nah. Guy like me’s too crazy to start raising kids. You?”
“Sometimes,” the other admitted, his voice curiously wistful. “I just want to have a son, you know, and—wait, where’s he going now?”
“Bloody hell, mate, don’t tell me you’re going for the pipes. Just piss off and go home,” Pad muttered disconsolately, watching the hunter glance around with his bow nocked in readiness. “Sh*t... tosser’s going for it.”
The circuit crackled on again, this time from Baz. “Control, Sniper Team Three-Zero. Tango is heading for the pipes, I repeat, Tango is heading for the pipes. Please advise, over.”
“Baz, I don’t think he knows the fuel lines are there,” the sniper said. Even though he couldn’t turn to look, Pad could feel his friend’s eyes on him.
“What do you mean—”
“This is Control, Three-Zero,” the woman’s voice was frosty. “Are you sure the target is heading toward the pipeline?”
“Wait one, Control,” Baz grunted and looked over at the red-headed sniper. “What do you mean, he doesn’t see them?”
Pad grimaced, wondering if he was making the right call. “He’s not looking at them at all, Baz. He’s just watching the forest, like any hunter would and he’s being careful about it. I recognize a stalking pace when I see one.”
“Three-Zero, please stand by. I’m rerouting a team toward your position. They should be there in less than five minutes,” Control continued despite the lack of response. “How copy?”
“Solid copy, Control,” Baz growled as the circuit cut off. “Pad, that Gear team is going to show up here any minute. Are you sure he’s not just trying to stealth his way to the pipes? Because we need that information now, not later.”
The man in Pad’s vision stopped suddenly, crouching low behind a bush. “He’s moving at a diagonal toward them. If he wanted to knock them out, he’d be heading straight toward them. Definitely hunting. Wait, he’s pulling off his bag. Dammit. Can’t see what he’s taking out. You got a line on him?”
“No line of sight here either. Pad...” The spotter’s voice raised in warning.
“I know, I know,” he replied angrily, the crosshairs of his scope drilling into the hunter’s bobbing head. “I’ve got this.”
The target stood up suddenly, his head turned to the right so his profile was visible. He was young, a light beard dusting his chin and thumb of dirt smeared across his cheek.
“Sh*t, Baz, it’s a kid. A friggin’ teenager.”
Pad could feel his spotter stiffen next to him. “Doesn’t matter, man. Doesn’t matter.”
That would have made him feel better if it didn’t sound like his partner was trying to convince himself at the same time. Dammit, he’d been trained to take out targets, regardless of age. Everyone was a threat. It really didn’t matter—he had a job to do. But what if the kid was innocent?
“He’s got something in his hands, now. Guesses?” the sniper’s lips felt numb as he mouthed the words.
“Satchel charge, possibly. Could be a knife. Can’t tell from this angle.”
Pad felt like hitting something. He was out of options and the kid was almost to the pipeline. The sniper resisted the urge to pan his scope across the immediate area, silently willing his target to veer away. The whine of an engine cut through the forest then, freezing the kid in his tracks. Pad silently thanked whatever god was listening and then cursed them almost immediately afterward as his target sprung into motion.
“Pad, he’s on a direct line for the pipes. If he gets within five meters, you have to shoot him,” Baz ordered, his voice betraying just the hint of frustration in it. “Copy?”
The sniper gritted his teeth. “Dammit! Dammit! Do you see anything he could have been hunting? A deer? Some kind of rabbit? Anything?”
“Three-zero, this is Echo Three. We are less than thirty seconds from your location. Target location?” the radio crackled, the man’s tone serious.
“Pad! The Gear team isn’t going to reach him in time! Shoot the damn gun!” Baz barely kept his voice under control.
Padrick Salton’s world fell away, silent and dark save for the splash of vivid color he saw through his scope. The kid had turned his head toward the sound of the engine again, his face filled with panic. The sniper filed away that detail, ignoring the small voice yelling and cursing him in the back of his mind. His breath came in slowly, steadying the crosshairs. This was the moment he trained for—he wouldn’t miss.
Just before he fired, a flash of red filled his vision. It was shocking in its suddenness, detail springing through his mind as he pulled the trigger. A yellow eye stared at him, into him, orange and yellow surrounding by a field of red.
The report of the sniper rifle echoed through the forest, sending a tremor into Pad’s soul.
*****
PRESENT DAY, 0630 HOURS
I can still remember the first time it happened. That first moment when I failed both myself and another life. It haunts me, whispering at the edge of my conscious every day and night. I keep a memento of it next to my breast—a single red feather flecked with blood.
It’s easier these days to bear it, knowing the things I’ve done and knowing too that I had a choice each time. I choose not to think of the alternatives, remembering that it’s a burden I have to carry forever. Such is as it should be.
That’s as far as my thoughts dwell on the subject. The day is new, the sun not yet peering over the horizon of blasted metal and broken lives, but there’s a lot to be done. I reach for my pack first, having rolled up my tattered sleeping bag with military neatness, which left me more room for the horde of treasure I found the night before—beans, salted meat and ammunition for an old Boltok that lies on the shelf.
I leave the rusted pistol where it is along with a few rounds and two strips of meat, hoping it’d be enough if someone else finds the cache. It’s unlikely, but the chance to help someone else in this wasteland is more than worth the loss. Besides, I have more than enough for myself.
Grabbing my old rifle, the same one Bai Tak had captured for me so many years ago, I move into the snow-covered morning. My boots crunch against the packed snow, thankfully no more than two inches deep. A soft wind is moaning through the streets, swirling bits of snow around in a graceful dance across the cracked concrete. I stand still for a few minutes, listening for any signs of life, eyes flitting from one area of cover to the next. Examining possible enemy positions as ones I would take myself has saved me on more than one occasion. Still, nothing stands out now, no sound or sight to worry me.
Even so, I keep my ears and eyes open for any threats as I pull out the map from one of the pouches on my pants. The weathered paper softly flaps in the minor wind, my finger tracing the area until I find my next destination. A Stranded community is located nearby and I have to warn them of the Locust activity increasing in this sector. Chances are they already know about it, but I have to make sure.
Satisfied, I pull out a compass and check its dimly glowing arrows for direction. The community is northwest from my current position, about an hour away. I start walking, my mind focused on my surroundings and possible escape routes should I run into any unexpected issues. There’s also the small problem of getting the Stranded to trust me; even though I’ve been in the wilderness for the last six weeks, I still looked and acted military.
Once again I sighed, regret filling my chest with a crisp image of a dirt-smeared woman crawling in the sewers. She’d cursed me then, right after the Hammer strikes, but by that time I was already cursing myself.
*****
JACINTO CITY, THE RUSTY NAIL, TWELVE DAYS AFTER THE HAMMER STRIKES, 8 YEARS AGO, 2128 HOURS
He’s dead. They’re dead. We’re all dead.
The thoughts swirled through Padrick’s head, dizzying in their intensity. He could see their faces spinning with the words, locked in grimaces of pain or hatred. Even Baz was there, staring down on him with condemning eyes, silently blaming him for not being able to stop it—for destroying everything they had fought for through the Pendulum Wars.
What was it all for? he thought through the buzz of alcohol blurring his mind. What was the point if we were just going to burn it all down anyway?
The Hammer of Dawn had fallen on Sera, blazing clear almost all life that littered the surface. Vaporized, if they were lucky, rendered statues of ash if they weren’t. Pad had seen the last with his own eyes, their clawing hands and beseeching gazes devoid of all hope. Just a touch would send them floating away or collapse their frames into piles of ash.
His hands tightened on the bottle in front of him, a tremor rocking through his body as he remembered those awful moments when the air was clear enough of noxious fumes and death to scout in. Five days after what remained of the world clustered together inside buildings, watching the flakes of drifting ash coat their homes. Five days until he was brought face to face with the enormity of what the Coalition had done.
Tears stung his eyes, the normal sounds of the bar around him muted somewhat. Every day he came here and every day the patrons had gotten a bit louder, just a bit more relaxed. The soldiers and citizens moved on with their lives, even in the face of a broken world. It was grating.
A ringing bell announced the entrance of a loud group of soldiers just coming in from patrol. Pad ignored the laughter and jokes filtering in, knowing that was how some handled what the world threw at them. Hell, even he had resorted to gallows humor during the Pendulum Wars. Still, that didn’t stop the irritation from sending a flush through his neck.
“You think those Locust are scared yet?” one of the louder soldiers asked lightly.
One of the others, the leader, Pad noticed when he turned to look, barked a quick laugh. “I sure as hell would be. We’ve got the Hammer, man! They crawl out of their damn holes and we’ll fry ‘em like the bastards deserve.”
“Good thing old man Fenix thought up those satellites, huh Tannin?” another man said, bumping his shoulder against his leader’s.
The one they called Tannin shook his sandy blonde hair and took up a seat at the bar. “Nah. That asshole’s almost as bad as the grubs. Didn’t you see what we just walked through? Bodies everywhere, man. Biggest mass murderers in history, him and Prescott.”
Pad bristled at that comment, barely able to keep himself under control.
“Weren’t for Fenix, we wouldn’t even ‘a made it through to where we are now. He stopped the Pendulum Wars with the Hammer, remember? Guy’s just done what he had to do, same as us,” a big dark-skinned man countered, sitting next to Tannin and waving for the bartender. “Yo, beer please. ‘Sides, Hoffman was part of the Hammer decision. You callin’ him a murderer?”
“Nah, Hoffman was just followin’ orders. Fenix made the damn things.”
The bartender, a balding man with a stolid demeanor, came by with a beer and two Elder’s Ales, depositing them in front of three soldiers. “On the house, boys.”
Tannin looked up. “You sure, Joey? Got an extra ration bar handy. Thought you might like it for the missus.”
Joey smiled and shook his head. “Got plenty to eat, Tan’. Bar’s boomin’ these days, though I’d rather wish it wasn’t, given the circumstances.”
The loud-mouthed soldier on Tannin’s right lifted his ale. “I hear that. Damn shame.”
Pad felt his temperature falling back to appropriate levels. Disagreeable though his opinions were, the sniper couldn’t hate someone like Tannin. Nodding his head in silent agreement with himself, Pad drained the last of his beer and got down from his stool. He grabbed the bar when the expected dizziness hit him and shook his head to clear it.
“Hey, you’re Salton, right?”
The sniper glanced up with surprise at the dark-skinned man, who had turned toward him with a friendly smile. “Yeah, that’s me. I know you, mate?”
“Nah, man, but we know you. You saved our asses a couple months back,” Tannin said. “Buy you a drink?”
Pad already felt a dizzier than he wanted to be, so he shook his head. “Maybe some other time. Gonna have a bloody large headache tomorrow as is.”
“Fair enough.” Tannin shrugged and reached into his pocket. “Here, gotta ration burning a hole in my pocket. You take it.”
“Thanks,” Pad replied when he caught the ration, saluting sloppily with it.
Tannin nodded. “No problem. And tell the rest of your squad thanks, ‘specially Marcus. I imagine he’s got lots on his mind, having a dad like Fenix.”
“You got some kind of vendetta against his dad?” Pad asked before he could think his sentence through, his thoughts slower than normal due to the drink.
“Yeah, I do. See this ring?” the other man held up his left hand and pointed at a silver band there. “All that’s left of my wife. She didn’t make it to Jacinto. So sorry if I take what Fenix did a little harder than most. If it were my choice, that asshole’d already be dead.”
Pad turned to face the man, looking him in the eye and pointing to the tattoos on the side of his own face. “Think that’s bad, do ya? How’s about you look at it from my perspective? No contact with the South Islands since the Hammer dropped. I had family back there, too. I don’t blame Fenix, though. I blame the Locust for making us do what we did.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Tannin said dangerously.
The dark-skinned man put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Whoa there, Tan’. No need to goin’ and gettin’ in a fight.”
“Maybe he needs one to straighten up his head. Locust are the enemy, not people,” Pad said angrily, turning on his heel and walking toward the bar door.
He heard the other man coming before he could take two more steps. A massive weight crashed into him, both of them flying into the wall near the door. Pad’s face slammed into the wood, sending stars through his vision. Training took over, his elbow moving like a piston directly into his attacker’s face. He felt a crunch and heard Tannin bellow as the man relinquished his grip.
The sniper turned and fell into an unsteady battle stance, his head fogged with both the beer and the impact. He shook his head, feeling blood dripping from a cut on his lip. Before he could move to wipe it away, Tannin came at him with blood of his own streaming from the broken nose. Pad brought his arm up to deflect the man’s fist, slapping it aside with more than a little difficulty. The follow up punch to his gut, however, he didn’t manage to block.
He doubled over and tried to draw in a breath just as another fist rocketed into his face and smashed him in the left eye. His head snapped back and he fell, his back hitting the wall. He slid to the floor, stunned from the blows and equally bewildered by the fact that no more were raining down on him.
Sounds of grunting and struggle came to him and Pad glanced up to see Tannin’s two friends restraining the other man. He was shouting something, but the sniper couldn’t focus enough to decipher the words. A few seconds later, someone else touched his arm and he blinked up at the familiar face of Anya Stroud. The Lieutenant was asking him if he was okay, he realized.
“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” He stood up with her help, looking back at Tannin. The other man was glaring at him, still locked in his friends’ grip. “I’m drunk, but that’s no excuse. You lost someone close to you and I mouthed off. I’m sorry.”
Tannin just sneered at him and turned back to the bar, his friends letting him go. The two soldiers glanced at at Pad, equal parts condemning and apologetic. They shook their heads as they joined their buddy while Joey grabbed another round of alcohol. The ones they had been drinking were all over the floor now.
“Come on, Pad, let’s get you back to the barracks,” Anya spoke softly. “You’re lucky I was already here. And he was lucky Marcus wasn’t.”
Padrick Salton felt ashamed as the Lieutenant led him out—ashamed that he had lost his temper, ashamed that he was forced to ruin Anya’s night. Yet the thing he was most ashamed of was what Baz would think if he saw him right now; what would he say?
“F*cking war,” he sobbed, fighting back tears.
*****
PRESENT DAY; 0745 HOURS
The camp is nothing but ruins. There’s a fire smoldering through a tent, crackling in the orange morning light that coated the battle-scarred ruins. A few personal belongings are scattered out of the tents, the individual sleeping areas torn and covered in feces. There’s even a few bodies lying on the ground, not all of them human, the snow leaving them half-buried.
Wretches.
I adjust my scope from my perch in a nearby building, watching a pair of the monkey-dog things fight over a stack of books. They growl and posture, slapping each other in the face with those razor-sharp claws. Their skin is pitted with small holes and stretched over their frames in old age. Survivors from the battle maybe, but old or wise enough to live to reach this stage in their lifecycle.
My hand reaches for the notepad in my back pocket, pulling it out and laying it on the cement balcony of what once had been a nice hotel room. I make another note in the scribbled pages, further reinforcing my idea that wretches were smarter than most Gears gave them credit for. They were learning to survive longer.
A glimpse of motion in the corner of my eye draws my attention from the notepad. My eye is immediately back at the scope, panning it across the large alleyway the Stranded had made their home. Moving quickly, I adjust to scan the rooftops, the sun blinding and playing havoc with my sight. I hold one hand up and squint without the scope, my vision still sharp enough to spot details miles away.
At first all I see is shadow, a large air-conditioner unit sending its shade across the rooftop. Then the shape moves again, detaching itself from the shadow to peek over the edge. My heart freezes when I realize I’m looking at another person, not another Locust. Stranded.
Unfortunately, I’m not the only one to spot movement. One of the Wretches in the alley chooses that moment to look up, its piercing cry ringing loudly in the small space even from here. The rest of the pack instantly gathers in the square, pouring from the ramshackle huts and following their alpha up the side of the building like spiders.
My scope is already sighted up on the building and it takes only a slight adjustment to line the crosshairs up with the swiftly scrambling alpha male. From this range, there’s no way for me to miss.
Crack-crack.
The first shot rips through the leader’s middle, sending the beast tumbling to the side before falling heavily to the ground. My crosshairs are already centered on the next Wretch before the pack can react, another bullet already chambered. I squeeze the trigger emotionlessly, watching the blood mist the air as the monster’s head explodes like a ripe melon.
This time the body falls straight down, knocking another of its kin off the side of the building. The two tumble out of sight but I know that’ll only delay the one I hadn’t shot. The blighters are resilient.
By now the rest of the Wretches know they’re being shot at, some of them leaping to the ground in a loping run to my location while four more continue scaling the building. I ignore them for now—if I’m right, I’ve got about fifteen seconds before they reach me. Plenty of time to deal with two or three more Wretches.
A bullet falls to the floor, precious under normal circumstances but invaluable with the war cutting down on material production. It’s worth it. My breath mists in front of me as I switch to the next target, wasting no time. The body falls with another cracking report, a screeching death rattle cutting short when it hits the ground. My hands move like they’re on autopilot, my mind blank. This is where I’m most comfortable, behind the scope. There’s no thinking, no doubt—just swift and merciless death.
By the time I reload, I can hear the Wretches grunting and gibbering beneath my perch, their heavy claws digging into the stone with audible crunches. I grit my teeth, reloading automatically, slotting another round in with practiced ease.
Crack-crack
There’s no more time left. The world rushes back in as I leave the small view of my scope, slinging the weapon over my shoulder. If I was quick in dispatching these tossers, I could lay in one more shot before the Wretches reached the Stranded.
The first Wretch over the edge of my balcony receives a faceful of snub pistol fire, my hand pulling the trigger as fast as humanly possible. The next one after that gets the same, its razor sharp teeth shattering as the bullets rip through its mouth. I drop the gun to the ground at my feet when it clicks dry, my knife coming up in the other hand just as the two bodies drop back down to the street.
This time two Wretches spring from opposite sides, claws raised maliciously. I jump backward and they impact each other, bouncing to the now-crowded balcony. Before they can recover, I kick the right one with all my strength, sending it into the chest-high wall I had been using to steady my rifle.
I wish Bai was here to see what happened next. My knife hand shoots out, stabbing the left Wretch in the neck and twisting it in a graceful motion I knew even the old Pesenga would admire. Even so, one of his claws lashes out and scrapes against my arm, the leather not nearly enough to hold them back. Pain flashes through my forearm, red furrows appearing in my skin.
I twist the knife again and rip it out, growling against the pain and jabbing it into the other Wretch’s head between where the eyes would normally be. No twisting this time, not in the thing’s skull. It drops to the ground, taking my knife with it. What felt like minutes of battle was only seconds in real time.
My left arm is dripping blood but I’ve still got a job to finish. I unsling my rifle and steady it on the balcony’s sill again, kneeling atop the two Wretch corpses. Already a foul stench fills my nose as their bowels release, mingling with their natural musk. Ignoring it, I sight up on the building.
I needn’t have bothered.
Through my scope I see the corpse of one Wretch laying across the edge of the building, most of its bulk spilling onto the roof. Nearby, another body lays motionless and for a moment my heart stops.
It resumes its measured pace a second later when I realize its just another Wretch laying there, half shadowed by that massive air conditioner unit. The sun combined with the shade was playing tricks on me, thankfully. But where’s the Stranded?
My scope pans across the roof just as a cloud passes in front of the sun. As my eyes swiftly adjust to the new atmosphere, I see something written in white on the side of the AC unit. One word, hastily drawn in chalk.
Thanks!
I breathe a sigh of relief, lowering my head to my forearm that was resting on the sill. Perspiration drips down my face despite the cold and I feel a smile forming on my face. Laughter spills out of me, tears of mirth at the edge of my eyes. I stand up and tilt my head back, laughing into the frigid morning air.
Thanks. I suppose that’s enough. That’s all Baz ever needed. The thought of my best friend sobers me, dredging up memories of the man’s kindness to any civilians we met during the Pendulum Wars. The small smile that played across his face whenever I fell back into my accent.
My hands automatically reach for the set of COG tags resting under mine, hidden beneath my armor. Another piece of metal is attached to them, all that remained of the JACK unit I’d reprogrammed to respond to ‘Baz’. Both of them are gone now, leaving me here in this wasteland, alone.
I pull the dog tags from around my neck and hold the fragments of my past. The metal is still warm, even in this weather. Memories...
A drop of blood falls on the tags, startlingly red, as pain hits me, the adrenaline from combat finally wearing off. Got a whole world out there that needs us to keep it that way. That’s what Baz would say, especially those first few months after E-Day. He never did lose his good-natured personality, not even in the face of that atrocity.
The ground shook slightly underneath my boots, my senses tuned to tremors after years of experiencing what came after. Time to move. More Locust would be here soon to investigate the shots. I slip the tags back over my head, tucking them back underneath the armor and leave the balcony. Gotta stay alive, gotta keep going. Maybe I’ll even report back to base. I haven’t seen Hoffman in months.
And after that, a visit to an old grave is in order... just to say thanks.[/blockquote]
