AN: I guess this is my 'brainchild', because 1) I'm obsessed with music, and 2) I've wanted to do this for a long time. Every aspect of the show will be covered--preseries, futurefics, episodic clips, fictional cases, Booth/Brennan ship, Hodgela, Squint central, Booth/Cam ship, Booth's past, Brennan's past, Brennan's parents--angst, fluff, drama, comedy--I seriously mean everything if I can pin a relationship to the lyrics. Every update will be a oneshot, but because this is a collection, it will forever remain a WIP. As always, reviews feed my imagination!!
AN2: This one is a preseries. Big Angst Alert. But others will be happier, I promise.
"Bat Country"—Avenged Sevenfold
(Desert Storm: 1990)
He who makes a beast out of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man…Nobody had warned him when he enlisted in the army. Sure, his father had discreetly told him that things would get dangerous, that things would get hard. But he never fully delved into what those 'things' were: like the smell of blood mingled with smoke. The constant ringing in one's head from the sharp cracks of gunfire would even resonate in dreams. The screams of agony from a wounded comrade or the people who were killed would haunt.
At base, he had learned how to salute and fire a rifle and march—but the sergeants never taught him how to handle warfare on an emotional level. They were soldiers—pawns, as some of the cynical would say. All they needed to know was how to shoot accurately. So, when it came to the pain, he soon taught himself to push it back and fire his weapon mercilessly—to become an animal.
Caught here in a fiery blaze, won't lose my will to stay.
I tried to drive all through the night,
the heat stroke ridden weather, the barren empty sights.
No oasis here to see, the sand is singing deathless words to me…
There were some who had lost their way. You could spot them easily—their eyes held no emotions. They had become robots, and they forgot what taking a human life really meant. Others cried out in their sleep, snapping him awake in his tent. Others mumbled to themselves when they were under enemy shellfire, young voices begging to go back home. He had gritted his teeth, told them to get their damn act together, and that they'd pull through. He remembered chillingly that very few actually made it that night.
This was a wasteland. Nothing but the desert sand whipping into his eyes. Few people knew that bodies lay underneath this very same sand—mass graves from Saddam's massacres and such. But there were others, he realized, that were far more recent—the people that he'd sniped. With every step he had taken on that barren and scorched sand, he knew he was treading on Death.
Can't you help me as I'm startin' to burn (all alone),
Too many doses and I'm starting to get an attraction.
My confidence is leaving me on my own (all alone)
No one can save me and you know I don't want the attention…
One night he had almost enjoyed sniping. The s.o.b. had thrown a grenade at him. The deadly blast had missed him by fifteen or so feet, but the concussion had knocked him out. When he came to, his unstable shelter was on fire. He would have burned if he hadn't scrambled out. Out in the open, he knew he would be picked off unless he shot the enemy first. As soon as he spotted an inch of forehead, he made his fatal move—and nailed the other man between the eyes. He had felt a swell of pride and actually cheered. Remembering that a night later, he had almost vomited with self-disgust. He made a vow that he would never take joy in killing, because that would make him worse than the enemy.
As I adjust to my new sights, the rarely tired lights will take me to new heights.
My hand is on the trigger, I'm ready to ignite.
Tomorrow might not make it, but everything's all right.
Mental fiction, follow me; show me what it's like to be set free…
Wishing to be free from the violence was like, as his friend from high school quoted, "was like pissing into a fan." Violence would always exist, whether you were a soldier or not. He had seen it everyday. His hand was always on a trigger. He always wondered if he'd make it until tomorrow.
So sorry you're not here, I've been sane too long, my vision's so unclear,
Now, take a trip with me, but don't be surprised when things aren't what they seem…
People said he had changed when he came back to the States on leave. He just couldn't look at simple and carefree things the same way anymore without realizing that there was so much ugliness in the world.
Caught here in a fiery blaze, won't lose my will to stay,
These eyes won't see the same, after I flip today…
One day he saw his friend catch a bullet in the gut. He had tried to save him, but the medics were too far away. After pulling bloodied hands away from a lifeless body, he had a momentary breakdown. He had screamed and fired randomly into the general direction of the enemy. It had taken a tranquilizer from his squad leader to shut him the hell up after being dragged back into cover. The incident wasn't taken very serious to heart, mostly because he wasn't the first who became a nervous wreck in the field.
Sometimes I don't know why we'd rather live than die,
we look up towards the sky for answers to our lives.
We may get some solutions but most just pass us by,
don't want your absolution cause I can't make it right.
I'll make a beast out of myself, gets rid of all the pain of being a man…
His faith had traveled to very dark places back then. He had questioned why he was still alive, and why it seemed that God had turned his back on the world. But it was his faith that kept him going, because if he didn't have that, he didn't have anything.
So sorry you're not here, I've been sane too long, my vision's so unclear,
Now, take a trip with me, but don't be surprised when things aren't what they seem.
I've known it from the start, all these good ideas will tear your brain apart.
Scared, but you can follow me, I'm too weird to live but much too rare to die…
Yeah, he had changed. But he knew he was better off than some. He was still sane—and best of all—he wanted to live. Even with the pain and guilt. It meant that he was still human…
"Booth? Are you with me here?"
Special Agent Seeley Booth looked up sharply into the irritated face of his partner.
"I heard you, Bones."
"Really—then what did I say?"
He smiled weakly and admitted, "Okay, you got me. I was just…thinking."
Dr. Temperance Brennan softened her glare and didn't reply immediately.
"It's just…a lot of memories, ya know?"
"No, I don't, actually," Brennan answered.
Booth frowned and Brennan quickly explained, "What I mean is, I've never been in the army. That wasn't me being a smartass, I swear."
Booth visibly relaxed and said, "I thought you didn't know what a smartass was."
"I don't, but I'm pretty sure that term was running through your mind ten seconds ago," Brennan smiled.
She turned her attention back to the severely decomposed body before her feet. "Are you sure he committed suicide?" Booth asked.
"Quite sure, the thyr—"
"Can't you just cut to the how?" Booth interjected.
"He hung himself," Brennan said quietly. Silence descended the dark and rank basement they were in. She was trying to avoid a very touchy subject with Booth—but he finally cut through the awkwardness.
"Yes, Bones, I knew him. He wasn't a corporal when I last heard of him—he had been Private Matt Rivers. He was a sniper and a Ranger."
Brennan didn't know what to say, and listened to Booth's flat tone as he continued.
"He…he uh was kind of messed up when he came out of Desert Storm. I was surprised to find out he still stayed with the military."
"Why do you think he did?" Brennan said more to herself than him. But Booth answered anyway.
His voice starting to crack as emotions surfaced, he explained quietly, "Because that was what he only knew how to do. But it ate him up. Poor bastard didn't know what to do and he couldn't handle it anymore. So he took his own life…"
Brennan turned towards him and he cast his eyes to the ground.
"Do you…do you want to talk?" she asked quietly.
He looked up at her, his cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.
"No…no, I'm fine. Really."
She turned her attention back to the corpse. She estimated the body had been decaying for four months. The rope used for the hanging had snapped, leaving the body in a puddle mess. Rivers didn't have anybody in his life, so it took his rotting smell to alert the neighbors. What a way to go.
Her thoughts strayed to Booth. He wasn't fine, and she knew it.
"I can't even imagine what it was like, being a soldier. You told me once that with every shot, a piece of you dies. But this was a long time ago—don't you think it's about time to let your wounds finally heal?" Brennan spoke gently.
When she didn't get an answer, she faced Booth, waiting for a reply. Booth sighed and said, "Practicing on your Nobel Prize speech, Bones?"
Brennan frowned distastefully. "I'm serious."
"So am I. I said I'd be fine."
"Fine," Brennan finished, flustered.
"I'm just going to step out, okay?" Booth said. Brennan just gave a short nod as he headed outside. He stopped at the foot of the stairs for a moment. Her ears picked up a murmured sentenced and she found herself smiling sadly.
"Healing takes awhile. But thanks anyway, Tempe."