F R A M E
It was given a title: FRAME. It was given boundaries: no contact with former past lives. Eventually it was given a mission: killing American enmities. Lacing his calloused hands together in a tight net, Vradel focuses on the small twirling of his index fingers around each other in an attempt to block out the irritating rumble of tracks the two Ultra Armored Patrol tanks make as the stiff steel sprockets convey the caterpillar tracks through the hard Iraqi desert.
Vradel was still adjusting to his new life, after giving his injection of Ca4PO3H4, coated with enamel filling that would give his bones enough reinforced protection that he could crush through concrete with his middle phalanx, unfortunately this doesn't go for Vradel's skin and muscle though, so although his bone would grind the concrete to powder, his flesh and muscle would have been abraded away. His previous living conditions consisted of a one-story auburn shaded house of moderate size with average furniture fit for necessities in the outside suburbs of Washington D.C. Vradel's services in the army paid handsomely so he had no grievances or pangs of greed therefore lived a modest life. He served mainly as a protector even though that isn't a roll nor rank in the military, yet he seems to have placed himself as more of a guardian angel than an actual fighter. Vradel hasn't slain a man since his first enrollment and he hopes to remain that way, blood-guiltless. Since he was drafted he blamed others for his position rather than himself but his courage of saving dying comrades and healing those that are sick in between the quick whistle of ammunition whispering past his ear caught his fellow soldiers attention and he eventually sped past the ranks into a sturdy position as 2nd CWO. Now that he is faced with a life or death situation, not to mention that to have his powers he must be in close contact, Vradel must finally come to the conclusion that by the end of the day he will have slaughtered dozens of men.
Everything on board the tungsten framed vehicle tilted back and forth in the harsh swaying motion of the ride. Dangling firearms hung loosely on iron chains bolted to the ceiling, having light waves cross the gleaming metal in glassy golden streaks stabbing through the tinted windows. The crew-members tried their best to sit still but were overwhelmed when going across the thick boulders and rubble made by earlier rocket fire. Don leaned back giving a slight sigh through crusted, pink lips as he rubbed his brawly, dust-grimed hand across his forehead. "How long must the wait be…?" He said proceeding a distressed exhale. Vradel had to admit, it was getting awfully humid inside the steel structured vehicle, but the Lieutenant said we only had two minutes to go … never object the Lieutenant.
Vradel sat hunched over after his fingers ceased their intricate display of swirls and focused his attention on one hand. His mind tuned into one thought as the skin on his hand crawled, and a thin lightning bolt-shaped vein traced the back of his palm. A small pencil sized point crowned the center of his metacarpus. The point grew until the skin could stretch no farther and a white stiletto appeared on the surface, which grew even sharper as a calcium-rich spike of bone climbed from his middle phalanx. The bone structure raised a good five inches glistening in the caramel light that weaved through the fractured diamond shaped glass windows plastered on the roof in eighteen various angles. Vradel turned his hand surveying the material from different directions; the bone was no bigger than 6 ½ inches tall and 4 centimeters wide. Strangely, he felt no pain as the ivory nail rose from his skin. The Ultra AP shuttered and eased to a stop suddenly causing Vradel to shrink back his miniature sculpture and look at Lieutenant Mitchell who was sluggishly bent against the side sleeping, unaffected by the constant rocking motion of the ride.
Lieutenant Mitchell was a well-built man of around 5'11, stocky with broad shoulders and chiseled from the thick cords of muscle lining his neck to his monstrous calves where they made a cone shape of sharp muscle from firm thighs to narrow ankles flattening it into his immense feet. A scar augmented his intimidating square face by dragging a black jagged line from his thick-pursed lips diagonally towards his left eye; he never told us his reason for getting it. Lt. Mitchell was a very audacious man as well, with short-cropped jet black hair tainted permanently with the sweat of worry and past nightmares that caused his dark tanned skin to give off a faint oily gleam. His bushy eyebrows added to the mystery of if he was conceived angry. He wore his badges wherever he went bound to it as if it was his own skin and bone. When this operation went under way Lt. Mitchell was the first of thousands to volunteer for the commanding post.
The first day of gaining recruits Lt. Mitchell set off with a bang searching for the most ferocious of them all. He spotted Vradel after his return home from Iraq back in 2016; he was only a Second Degree Chief Warrant Officer. Vradel, along with 8 others, Musik, Don, Riddick, Eric, Malacath, Ikuro, Cory and Melvin, set off on a strenuous mission that involved around two years of training. On their fifth month of training in drills they were called together for a brief meeting. In the meeting the crew was revealed the reason of this operation.
His head shook briefly as a quick slap on the man's shoulder molested him of his reminiscence. He stood up and gathered his things adjusting his dirty camouflaged desert uniform and duel M1911A1 pistols which glinted coldly a white streak on the short steel barrel, and started to walk out of the tank squinting his fainted hazel eyes to the unforgiving Middle Eastern sun. Vradel licked a dry tongue over his lips to free them of their crusted prison and lather them with a new thin saliva coating. He glanced over at the second AP tank that wheeled up alongside them and watched as the other five soldiers marched out, since the tank can only hold five in each; five passengers and two drivers. He looked straight ahead. They walked in two crisp lines, five on each side, with shoulders drawn out and up and chin cocked at a ninety-degree angle with their cervical vertebrae. We walked out thirty paces and stood, each of our ears welcoming the new atmosphere of machine fire being spat out of their barrels.
His stale hands formed tight wads of fist causing his knuckles to become bone white in the grasp as he thinks about what will transpire in the future. Another brutal slap on the back startled him from his jaundiced thinking and caused his head to spin, being without water for nine hours isn't common with him and left him weak and jaded. The turmoil in his stomach disheartened his desire to quench his thirst even though he was asked if he was thirsty on multiple occasions but he declined with a small wave of a hand and a shake of the head causing his glittery sweat to sparkle in the tanned sunbeams.
His desire to remain blood-guiltless pigeon holds him in the art of war because it leaves Vradel overly compassionate of the well being of others including his enemies.