This was just an idea that's been running through my head in the last month, and now that I finished my first year of college (on Tuesday) I have time to actually work on my stories. This came out of my intrigue about the Cobra team. I think they're interesting. Especially The Boss, whom I completely admire, and The Fear, who I just have a weird obsession with. It's an outside view of the team from an unlikely source, a British Socialite turned nurse and agent during WWII. The prologue isn't much, and I've been told its depressing, but I guess I'll just have to wait and see. Reviews appreciated, although I don't expect any. I write for fun, that's it.
Shadow.
Truth and Honor:
Fall From Grace
xXxXxXx
"In war, truth is the first casualty." Aeschylus.
PROLOGUE
1964
United States of America
I wound my way through somber headstones. I imagined they had eyes- - the eyes of the dead - - and they stared up at me in their silent vigilance over the lifeless shells below their guard. I was an interloper, a disturber of the eternal rest these poor souls deserved. However, as I gazed upon the stone markers I couldn't help but wonder if they were the lucky ones after all. Their journey was over. Unfortunately, mine was just beginning.
My journey was not one of a physical sojourn. It was a trip into the past, a bloody past in which I had tried to reform over and over, tried to make amiable and glorious. Yet, you could never make fond memories of war. Even the good memories of friendship were tainted with the blood and gore of the death that had brought such companions together.
That is why I am here. Friendship and a promise.
It had been a long time since I had seen The Boss, too long I now realized. Back when everything seemed so clear we had made plans to meet again, perhaps under better circumstances. That was before The Boss was a legend, before her own country turned against her and dishonored her.
I knew deep down that this was what had happened. The woman I had known as The Joy would never have become the traitor that these Americans were now calling her. In my eyes I had always viewed her as a Goddess, a true soldier. Perhaps that had only been the invisible shining glory that a rookie sees, hanging like a divine aura around one that she or he idolizes. I'd like to believe that I hadn't imagined it though.
No matter what she was a woman to be admired for the things that she had done, the dedication for her duty that she placed above all else. People like her, whose honor and loyalty went beyond the call, were the ones that held up the world. They kept it moving with their timeless strength and quality of character even when it seemed like all was lost. What had really happened during that last mission? Why would the United States do a thing like this? I had never really liked Americans, but my encounter with Joy had given me a tolerance for them.
Not anymore.
I had tried to make myself think that they had to be at least somewhat like her, but after this I saw the truth. The Boss was one of a kind - - and her fellow countrymen were too stupid, or too jealous to see that. They would never be the kind of person she was. She was a warrior, and they were nothing but mindless drones, doing the bidding of whatever power paid more. I suppose the days of true honor have passed.
This realization depresses me.
I received the news about The Boss's death a few days ago. I had been in London meeting with my superiors when the message arrived. Immediately I took my leave, purchasing a plane ticket to America and packing a few bags. My direct superior, General Ashton, didn't take kindly to my sudden departure, but I explained the situation to him in the most simplest, and bluntest, terms I could possibly muster through my confusion.
The Boss had been one of my first superiors, and one of my dearest friends. Although that fact probably eluded her it had meant a great deal to me. It had been twenty years since I had last seen her. We'd said farewell over a drink at a command post over the German borders during the end of WWII. It was reluctant, especially on my part, but the war was over and our countries had needed us elsewhere.
I know I shouldn't be surprised by what has happened. I hoped that time would change things, but apparently I was wrong. I've been wrong about a lot of things. I suppose that disappointment is just a regularity in life.
I never thought I'd find the proper gravestone, but finally I reached my destination. Only, instead of finding the quiet place of solitude I expected I found that someone else had had the same idea. The man was younger than me, and was dressed as a soldier. There was a patch over one eye and I briefly wondered how he had received that injury. He looked very stern, but at the same time there was a sadness emanating from him that all too familiar.
After a moment I recognized him. "Hello. You must be the one they call Big Boss."
"I am." He replied slowly, then he reached his hand out in a cordial manner. "And you?"
"Tara Wickham." I took his hand, then turned back to the marker. "I kept telling myself I was going to visit, but every time I tried she was away on a mission."
"You knew her?"
I smiled softly. "A little. Not enough, but a little." With a sigh I added, "she was a true soldier, wasn't she?"
"Yes," He agreed. "She was." I saw the great degree of pain written over his face. I remembered that from what I'd heard, he had been the one that did it. He had killed her. It was an order, and of all people I knew what it was like to be ordered to do something I didn't want to. Luckily I had been spared having to go through it.
It was amazing how many things I had been wrong about, my own country being one of them. Perhaps every country is as devious and malicious when it wants something. I hoped not. Otherwise the human race has no chance of sustaining themselves - - has no right to sustain themselves.
"Bloody Politics." I muttered angrily, bowing my head at the rush of memories. "You're gone not because of a real enemy, but because of politics."
"You heard what happened?" He seemed surprised.
"No, but I didn't have to. I can pretty much tell." I spat in disgust.
"Did you fight together?"
"Fight?" I blinked, then smiled. "Do I really look like a soldier?"
"Your eyes do." He said solemnly.
"That look comes with age," I replied, "and to answer your question. No, not officially. I'd pick up a gun occasionally, but for the most part I stayed back and took notes."
"You were a data analyst?" Not a question. A statement.
"For the Cobra team, yes. From 1943 until the end of the war. I hated those days, but what I brought out of the chaos was something not many ever get the experience. True camaraderie. They were a flawless machine. They were a rarity, and I'm proud to have witnessed even a fraction of their exploits."
"So you admired them?"
"I wanted to be them, at least for a while. Then I learned, just like me and just like you, they were human and had their hard times. They suffered and bled, but they did it together."
We were silent for a few minutes, both of us lost in our thoughts. "It's so damned pretty today." I murmured, almost to myself. He heard and turned his gaze on me. I elaborated. "You'd think that there would be a permanent gloom hanging over cemeteries. Wouldn't you?"
He nodded, then inquired, "so tell me how you met them. If its not too much trouble."
"It's a long story." I warned.
He shrugged. "I have nothing else planned for today."
And so I began.
Thats the prologue. Sucks, doesn't it? Sometimes I hate writing original characters because they always come off so cliche at the beginning. I guess that's because I'm used to writing original stories where I give the characters a lot of complexity that can't be explained up front.
Sigh.
Chapter One coming whenever I get around to it. It'll go back to 1943 London where we get to meet a twenty one year old Tara and she gets to meet the Cobras.
Later.
Not that you care.
