HEART OF A SOLDIER
fandom: falling skies.
pairing: hal/lourdes.
rating: t for violence, mild swearing, and kissing.
disclaimer: falling skies does not belong to me. and, sadly, neither does drew roy. also, the song this = love by the script, which lends its lyrics to the title and chapter titles, is not mine either.
for your information: this story is set post season one, and i'm trying to keep it as canon and realistic as possible. it basically picks up right where season one left off, except hal decides to leave the school early to catch up with the civilians who'd left before the mech attack. this is all pretty much taking place at the same time that tom was out rescuing weaver and then getting captured by the aliens, which also means, for reference, that it's nighttime.
prologue: eyes of the children
it got cold and then dark so suddenly and rained
it rained so hard the two of us were the only thing
that we could see for miles and miles
... the lightning strike, snow patrol ...
It's over, he realizes.
Secretly, he's kind of glad that he missed the attack. The camp is quiet, a couple of dead mechs littering the streets surrounding the area, the rest having retreated. He rocks the metal chair back onto its legs and shoots Ben a hesitant glance across the table. "Everyone else went forward, then? All the civilians?" And Matt? The question and its unspoken counterpart settles thickly between them and Ben nods once, quick and silent. Hal lets the legs of the chair fall forward. "I'll be right back. I – I have to go see about something."
He stands, walks from the room, wanders down the hall. Something stirs in the pit of his stomach. Something bad. He can't explain it, but he needs to see Matt. He needs to see his little brother with his own two eyes.
He needs to make sure.
He needs to make sure that Matt's okay. He bites down on his lip, shoving down the feeling in the pit of his stomach as he enters the make-shift hospital room. Anne is there, as he suspected she would be, tending to a few of the soldiers with the last of the medical supplies, the ones Lourdes didn't take. He stumbles over his words, at loss for what to say to voice the feelings in the pit of his stomach. "What's the plan? Are we … are we waiting for my dad to return with – with the rest –"
He doesn't need to finish. She understands. "I think so. We have a rendezvous point, that's where we're supposed to meet the rest of the civilians. Tom – your dad, I mean – should be back soon. I think." Her voice wavers, unsure, and she turns suddenly, fixing her gaze intently on a patient's wrist as she wraps a gauze bandage around it.
He swallows. "I think I'm going to go ahead. Now, I mean. Assuming my dad gets back by tomorrow morning, the rest of you won't be far behind. And, well, someone needs to see that, make sure – I can't, I mean, it's just –"
Anne interrupts again, her tone soft. "You need to make sure that Matt is okay." It's not a question, but a statement.
Hal coughs. "Yeah, that."
"Then go ahead." She looks up, meets his eyes, and a smile quirks at the corner of her lips, threatening to break through. "I'll look after Ben for you, alright? You go do what you got to do. Just … be careful. Your dad would want me to say that."
He re-adjusts the straps of his backpack and starts walking toward the door. "Alright, I will. And, um, thanks." He lifts his eyes to meet hers. "Really. I mean it."
And then he's gone.
. . .
"Lourdes?"
A small, sweaty hand reaches up to grasp her own, fingers entwining with hers. She squeezes, a gesture of comfort. "What is it?"
He takes a moment to respond, thinking deeply in that way of his. "Is Ben going to be okay?" The words spill from his mouth, hanging in the air around them like a thick veil. She looks up at the sky, the clouds that grow steadily darker as day turns to night, and then down at her shoes as they trudge along the dusty road, scuffed and dirty and tired. Just how she feels.
"Ben is strong," she answers finally, avoiding the question. She doesn't know how to tell him that the skitters are actually harnessed, themselves, that they still have control over Ben, that the whole situation is much, much worse than they initially thought. "Ben's going to do whatever he has to do." Only she's not sure, exactly, what she means by that. Is it good, or is it bad?
Matt takes the answer in stride, seemingly satisfied. "What about Hal? And my dad? And Doctor Glass?" He tightens his grip on her hand. "What about everyone else, who stayed back? Are they going to be okay?" And then, he summons the courage to ask the question that he's been wondering all along: "Am I going to see them again?"
She doesn't know what to say. Because the truth is, she's worried too. So, so worried. They have no way of knowing if everything went off without a hitch, or if something happened and – she can't think that; she can't think that way. Positive. She needs to be positive. Faith and love and hope. That's what she needs. For Matt. For everyone. "You'll see them again," she assures him. This, at least, she is sure of. They'll see all of them again, everyone. Whether it be in three days at the rendezvous point, as planned, or whether it be tomorrow or a month from now, in Heaven.
One way or another, they'll all see each other again.
. . .
He hates being out on the road.
It's too empty; the pavement cracked and broken, like the remains of another life. No other vehicles for miles and miles and miles. The dark of the sky is haunting, as if inviting something bad to happen. It almost makes him feel like he's alone in all this. Like that Will Smith movie, I Am Legend. He thinks about how he used to laugh at that movie with his buddies; they used to talk about how ridiculous it was, while secretly admiring all of the fight scenes.
But not anymore.
The motorcycle purrs beneath him as he cruises down the road. South for two miles, he chants to himself, Anne's instructions repeating over and over in his head, then west for another eight, take the right fork, south for twenty-four miles, south-west for a half mile, take the fourth left, south for another seven, and then to the rendezvous.
Of course, he doubts that they've reached the rendezvous by now, seeing as how they're all on foot. Probably, he thinks, they're on the second or third stretch at this point. It shouldn't take him long to reach them, not with his motorcycle.
And he's right.
He's been riding for maybe twenty or twenty-five minutes when he spots the group. They're far off, still, little specks and dots of color in the distance, only visible in the night because of his headlights. It should only take him another couple of minutes to reach them. Matt's there, he reassures himself. The engine revs beneath his fingers as he increases his speed the tiniest bit. They can't hear him, yet, but they will soon; the motorcycle is loud.
And then, less than a moment later, everything changes. There's a crash. A stomping sound. He's close enough at this point that they could hear him, could hear the motorcycle, if they were listening. They'd see him if they turned around. But they're not listening, and they're not turning around.
Because there's an army of mechs coming down the road towards them.
Panicked screams. People dive for the ground, scrambling off of the road towards the high grass, looking for cover. Giant bursts of light fly through the air, accompanied by loud, ear-shattering explosions. The mechs are shooting, he realizes. And suddenly, he's right there. In the middle of it all. He drops his motorcycle and climbs off, running into the mass of civilians. Someone flies backwards towards him, hit by a mech maybe, and he ducks instinctively. It's like the invasion all over again.
And he needs to find Matt.
. . .
It's unmistakable.
They're walking along slowly, surely, following the intended route to the rendezvous point when they hear it. The stomps are loud and mechanical. Horror washes through her as the first mech comes into view. And then another. And another and another and another.
Oh, God. People start screaming, hysterical sounds of horror. The first shot is fired from the front mech, a resounding blast, like a terrible explosion of fireworks. Instinctively, she pulls Matt behind her. "Hold on to me," she instructs him and he grasps her hand in one hand and the back of her jacket in the other, his fingers fisting around the material, trembling fearfully. "Don't let go. Whatever you do, don't let go, alright? Stick with me."
There's more shots, screams. Lots and lots and lots of screams. Someone falls to the ground next to them, crimson blood pooling all around, seeping onto her shoes. Behind her, Matt lets out a strangled sound. "We have to run!" she screams. She yanks on his hand and starts dragging him along next to her as they run. They need to find cover, she thinks. But she doesn't know where.
Others are running for the grass, but it seems no use; the mechs follow slowly, as if they haven't a care in the world, continuously firing shot after shot. She bites back the scream that bubbles up in her own throat. A blast rings out right next to them and she ducks down for the briefest of moments, yanking Matt with her, before they're up and running again.
Too slow. They need to go faster. Matt trips over his feet, stumbling in his haste to keep up and without a second thought, she scoops him up in her arms. His legs wrap around her waist, his arms coming to rest tightly around her neck as she stumbles blindly forward as fast as she can, looking for a safe haven. Matt buries his head in her shoulder, as if he's afraid to look.
She's afraid to look, too.
. . .
He's sorry.
Really sorry. He wants to take back every bad thing he's ever said or thought about his little brother. All the times he was horribly embarrassed when he had friends over and Matt kept peeking in on them, wanting to hang out with the 'big boys.' All the times he screamed at Matt to get the hell out of his room and all the times he laughed along with his friends at Matt's expense. He's so, so, so sorry.
And then, he spots him. With Lourdes. Thank God. He doesn't think he's ever been so glad of anything in his entire life. He ducks to the ground as an explosion sounds out, watching as Matt trips and Lourdes stops for less than a moment to pick him up before continuing to run. Her eyes are frantic, scared, searching.
"LOURDES!" The cry is loud and hoarse, his throat dry and thick. He begins to run towards them, crouching and covering his head, swerving to avoid the shots from the mechs. "LOURDES!" Finally her head snaps in his direction, her eyes meeting his as she stops in her tracks. He reads the confusion in them, the unspoken question.
And then he's next to her. "Keep running!" His hand finds the small of her back, pushing her forward, and together they stumble in search of shelter. "The grass!" His voice is loud and quiet at the same time, distinct through the sounds of explosion and screaming around them. "We have to find a thick patch of it and get down." It's the only way, he's sure of it. They'll have to lie down in the grass, still as statues, and hope the mechs pass them by.
Because, at this point, hope is all that they have left.
. . .
Oh, God.
She doesn't know what to think. She clutches Matt tightly, holding the boy in her arms and tripping forwards in the direction Hal leads her. Her shoulder is wet, soaked, and she realizes, suddenly, that Matt is crying. She squeezes his shoulder with one hand. "It's okay," she whispers, pressing her face to his hair as they run. "I'm here. Hal's here. We've got you."
"Get down!" Hal cries; and then he's pushing her down, sending them sprawling onto the grass. "Crawl." His voice is sharp, taking command. Where she's scatter-brained and confused and unsure what to do next besides run, he's formulating a plan, all military tactics and survival instincts.
She unwinds Matt's arms from around her neck but keeps a hold of one of his hands. Behind her, Hal pushes them both forward. "Go, to the bushes," he hisses, and they scoot forward on their hands and knees. Almost there. And then, suddenly, there's a blast of light right above their heads. Hal's hand is on her back immediately, shoving her down flat against the ground. She squeezes Matt's hand and yanks him closer to her, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as he tucks into her side, shivering with fear.
"Stay still," Hal whispers from behind them. "No noise, no movement, flat against the ground." She nods lightly and then there's another burst of light and explosion flying over their heads. They freeze, silent. Every nerve is on end, everything amplified. The stomps of the mechs sound like cannonballs, the screams of the others like echoing shrieks of despair. The grass feels rough beneath her, the long strands tickling her cheeks and her hair. She can feel Matt's hand distinctly curling into a fist around the material of her jacket, Hal's hand still and reassuring on the small of her back.
Everything will be okay. Everything will be okay. Everything will be okay. She repeats the phrase over and over to herself, a mantra of sorts. It's the only thing anchoring her, the only thing keeping her from screaming out. She bites her lip, hard, not letting go even when she tastes blood. This is the first time she's been in a mech attack since the invasion, and she's scared shitless. Everything will be okay.
But she's not so sure anymore.
. . .
Fighter.
That's what he is. That's his job. Literally. But right now, he feels like anything but a fighter; he feels like a scared little boy, cowering under the covers after a bad nightmare. Except, this nightmare isn't over. It won't ever be over. Sometimes, it all feels like a terrible dream. After all, an alien invasion was always the sort of thing that happened in television, in movies, in those action books that Ben liked to read – but not in real life. Not to him.
Other times, though, it all feels real. So real. Times like these, when he's cowering in the grass, hiding, and praying to something, anything, that they won't find him and kill him or, worse, harness him. He longs for the nights, at this point. He longs for the nights when he can sleep and forget and dream of better days.
That is, when he isn't having nightmares.
Another explosion sounds over their heads, though farther away this time, not as close. His right arm is wrapped tightly around both Loudres' and Matt's legs, squeezing reassuringly, while his left hand rests on Lourdes' back. He's keeping them down, keeping them safe, he tells himself, although he wonders if, right now, maybe he just needs human contact; maybe he just needs to hold onto something solid to anchor him to reality.
The screams are starting to die down, the explosions becoming less and less intense. All of his hairs stand on end. And then, suddenly, there's a mech walking towards them. The ground shakes with the stomping as it comes nearer, nearer. He feels Lourdes stiffen, feels Matt shaking. He presses his arm down tighter over their legs, a silent warning to keep still and keep quiet.
The mech walks over them, pausing for an excruciating moment before moving on, stomping past them. A few screams ring out from the direction of the road and Hal dares to lift his head for less than a moment, eyes widening at what he sees before he presses the side of his face back against the grass. More kids. They're taking more kids, grabbing them and hauling them off to who-knows-where. It's all he can do to remain absolutely still because he knows, at this point, that getting up and trying to get the kids back by engaging the mechs will do more harm than good.
No matter how much he wishes that he could get them back.
a word from our author: i hope everyone enjoyed reading the prologue as much as enjoyed writing it! chapter one should be up sometime within the next few days, so keep your eyes peeled for that. reviews, by the way, are absolutely lovely and make the world go round, so i'd love to receive one or two … or fifty. lmao, just kidding. although that would be pretty amazing.
this chapter's playlist:
all those pretty lights by andrew belle
ordinary world (duran, duran cover) by red
meant to live by switchfoot
tyrant by onerepublic
the lightning strike by snow patrol
next time on heart of a soldier:
"Lourdes?" Hal's voice sounds distant, far away. "Lourdes, what is it?" She doesn't answer, caught in a trance as she reaches two fingers out, pressing them against a cool neck. She waits for a moment. Nothing. "Lourdes, what – oh." Above her, Hal's voice cuts off abruptly. She moves her fingers to rest against another cool neck, waiting for a pulse. Again, nothing. Something catches in the back of her throat. Oh, God.
see you later alligators,
tangledinthesun