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War without End
folder
Original - Misc › Science Fiction
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
4
Views:
764
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Original - Misc › Science Fiction
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
4
Views:
764
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Bravado
Bravado
A War without End fiction by Setsuna-Jikan
It takes a certain type of bravado to be a fighter. You have to balance the cold knowledge of everything that can go wrong with the headless foolery that nothing will. I've seen men and women crack, unable to handle the crushing pressure. They're the ones that flash you that last reckless grin as a grenade lands in front of them, almost saying "So what? Give me your best shot!" just as their face explodes into a million pieces.
The other way is paranoia. So complete, so total, you don't want to move out of the little tiny shelter that you've found behind a wall, even when your comrades are screaming at you, screaming--
It gets to everybody, at some point. A week or so ago I found Egan curled up in the corner of our bunker, rocking, speaking that gibberish that he knows. Three hours later he was fine, sitting next to McCartney in the mess hall smiling nervously at all the crude jokes.
I've seen Bengosha with red-hot pieces of shrapnel in his face, refusing help, raging against the medics and even Shourisha, screaming that he was going to kill them all.
None of us are invincible against this. The doubt, the fear.
I'm behind a wall--wall, hah, more like a pile of gravel--hiding, bullets chipping away over my head. I don't even have a freaking helmet; I'm so fucked if I can't keep my head covered. I want to curl up, disappear.
A scream behind me reminds me why I can't. The wall takes another direct hit, and I know that I can get through the wall, just fucking look and pull back and be fine, but I can't move. My body's shaking so bad I feel like I'm dancing, performing a spider's waltz. A strangled whimper comes out; I grit my teeth harder.
I'm responsible for my squad's life and I can't even get myself to move.
Then he's there, arm over my shoulders and pressing me down. A bullet ricochets off the wall and shoots through my hair; a green and red beaded lock singes on the ground before me.
I don't question how he's here, how he managed to dodge fire crossing three lines. He's shouting in my ears, but at this point I can't understand him. I bob my head in agreement, twitching, limply pushing him away so I can move through the fucking wall. I watch without seeing, detaching, floating away until the bullets and explosions become music, a lullaby my mom used to sing.
When I come back to myself, I'm sitting in the middle of a carnage, lighting up a smoke. A tiny luxury my body needs right now. He's standing next to me, gun at the ready, beautiful grey-blue eyes roving over everything with a mechanical slowness.
I feel something in my mouth a spit it out. A bloody chunk of my lip sticks on the wall, sliding down, adhered by blood. I feel a laugh threatening to bubble out; I grit my teeth so hard I ate my own lip.
Egan's clutching my shoulder, squeezing. The hysteria lowered; I sucked down a deep lungful, titling my head back as I saw her do and exhaling. Egan winced, shifting away from the smoke.
My lips twist in a bitter smile; I crush the lit end of the cigarette, stowing the rest for later as I stand up.
"Alright, everybody fan out. Search everywhere, every corpse, every room," I command, stalking over the crisp and bloody bodies, hand swinging out. "You know what we want, so get to it!"
I watch them scatter, following my orders with a grim sense of familiarity. I lean back against Egan, knowing that he's standing right behind me.
"Who?"
"Hawkeye, Sprat, and Muerte," he says softly, knowing what I meant. A spasm wracks my face. I had heard Sprat cry out when I froze. Damnit. "Healer managed to keep everyone else okay."
"That's fan-fucking-tastic." I rolled my shoulders. "Now, let's get this stupid mission over with."
It takes a certain type of bravado to be a fighter. It takes an even more specific type of resilience to be a commander.
AN: Another WwE story written while watching BoB. Just a thought, really.
I own all o that *general sweeping gesture above head*. War without End is another one of those long-winded things I'll get around to writing one day. ^^
Sets, out!
::end transmission::
A War without End fiction by Setsuna-Jikan
It takes a certain type of bravado to be a fighter. You have to balance the cold knowledge of everything that can go wrong with the headless foolery that nothing will. I've seen men and women crack, unable to handle the crushing pressure. They're the ones that flash you that last reckless grin as a grenade lands in front of them, almost saying "So what? Give me your best shot!" just as their face explodes into a million pieces.
The other way is paranoia. So complete, so total, you don't want to move out of the little tiny shelter that you've found behind a wall, even when your comrades are screaming at you, screaming--
It gets to everybody, at some point. A week or so ago I found Egan curled up in the corner of our bunker, rocking, speaking that gibberish that he knows. Three hours later he was fine, sitting next to McCartney in the mess hall smiling nervously at all the crude jokes.
I've seen Bengosha with red-hot pieces of shrapnel in his face, refusing help, raging against the medics and even Shourisha, screaming that he was going to kill them all.
None of us are invincible against this. The doubt, the fear.
I'm behind a wall--wall, hah, more like a pile of gravel--hiding, bullets chipping away over my head. I don't even have a freaking helmet; I'm so fucked if I can't keep my head covered. I want to curl up, disappear.
A scream behind me reminds me why I can't. The wall takes another direct hit, and I know that I can get through the wall, just fucking look and pull back and be fine, but I can't move. My body's shaking so bad I feel like I'm dancing, performing a spider's waltz. A strangled whimper comes out; I grit my teeth harder.
I'm responsible for my squad's life and I can't even get myself to move.
Then he's there, arm over my shoulders and pressing me down. A bullet ricochets off the wall and shoots through my hair; a green and red beaded lock singes on the ground before me.
I don't question how he's here, how he managed to dodge fire crossing three lines. He's shouting in my ears, but at this point I can't understand him. I bob my head in agreement, twitching, limply pushing him away so I can move through the fucking wall. I watch without seeing, detaching, floating away until the bullets and explosions become music, a lullaby my mom used to sing.
When I come back to myself, I'm sitting in the middle of a carnage, lighting up a smoke. A tiny luxury my body needs right now. He's standing next to me, gun at the ready, beautiful grey-blue eyes roving over everything with a mechanical slowness.
I feel something in my mouth a spit it out. A bloody chunk of my lip sticks on the wall, sliding down, adhered by blood. I feel a laugh threatening to bubble out; I grit my teeth so hard I ate my own lip.
Egan's clutching my shoulder, squeezing. The hysteria lowered; I sucked down a deep lungful, titling my head back as I saw her do and exhaling. Egan winced, shifting away from the smoke.
My lips twist in a bitter smile; I crush the lit end of the cigarette, stowing the rest for later as I stand up.
"Alright, everybody fan out. Search everywhere, every corpse, every room," I command, stalking over the crisp and bloody bodies, hand swinging out. "You know what we want, so get to it!"
I watch them scatter, following my orders with a grim sense of familiarity. I lean back against Egan, knowing that he's standing right behind me.
"Who?"
"Hawkeye, Sprat, and Muerte," he says softly, knowing what I meant. A spasm wracks my face. I had heard Sprat cry out when I froze. Damnit. "Healer managed to keep everyone else okay."
"That's fan-fucking-tastic." I rolled my shoulders. "Now, let's get this stupid mission over with."
It takes a certain type of bravado to be a fighter. It takes an even more specific type of resilience to be a commander.
AN: Another WwE story written while watching BoB. Just a thought, really.
I own all o that *general sweeping gesture above head*. War without End is another one of those long-winded things I'll get around to writing one day. ^^
Sets, out!
::end transmission::