.
Erik "Maverick" Thorn
*Fsssssssss…*
A bright flare brought light to a dim garage at Fort Benning, fusing two metal pieces together, sending sparks into an opaque welding mask. In a corner laid an old stereo playing a foreign song, indecipherable to all save for one man. The tunes helped him concentrate.
They were an ode to Rustam and Sohrab, subjects of a memorable folktale that Erik Thorne learned in Kabul. Once, there was a great warrior-king named Rustam who conceived a son with a princess, but he left her before their baby was born. That child, Sohrab, grew into a mighty champion of a rival kingdom. When war erupted, the two fighters clashed in a climactic battle, unaware of each other's identities. It was only after he pulled his sword out of Sohrab's dying body that Rustam realized that he had just slain his own flesh and blood. Such was the fallibility of man. Such was the price of duty.
This story quickly became one of Erik's faves, a fond memory forever welded into his mind. Unfortunately, nowadays Rustam's epic tale only reminded him of home. Not the place of his old folks to which he owed 36 years of existence. Rather, 'home' meant the dusty, but vibrant streets of Kabul, his favorite shisha bar in the Government Quarter, the mullah's place at the square. All that's left from that life was a well-worn and faded Pakol hat- a gift from the locals. Afghanistan, the vibrant and fascinating culture of the East, had become nothing more than a tattoo on the blonde man's forearm. Such was the price he paid, because he went above and beyond the call of duty to save a life. A stupid decision in hindsight, but it's what true warriors would've done in his shoes…
*Fsssssssss…*
…At least, he still had Suri. The ramshackle blowtorch showed that, all things considered, he got off rather easy from that whole mess more than two years ago.
Sparks continued to flicker onto Erik's face shield as he welded a brand-new seam onto an Army-issue quadbike. It was fresh from the Sandbox, brought to Benning by a unit that shipped home almost two days ago. The ex-intelligence officer had grown fond of the base's motor pool since his reassignment here; the peace and quiet reminded him of simpler times. People were more carefree and relaxed, and there was never a shortage of things for him and Suri to work on. Humvees, mopeds, jalopies, anything that came with a Form 2404. While he was by no-means a qualified mechanic, Erik relished playing grease monkey in his down time. As mundane as it was, the chore helped keep his life interesting. Kept his mind sharp trying new stuff, even if it meant going against a couple of regs.
Even in times of peace, he continued to live up to his nom de guerre. Maverick. An unconventional thinker. An unbranded steed, waiting for a master. A purpose.
…
"Thorn? You in there?"
He fumbled his hand after hearing someone call his name, breaking his concentration, and nearly letting Suri slip his fingers. Erik cussed under his breath as he raised his head, looking for the source of the noise. Peering beyond the quadbike in his midst, he saw a man enter the gaping door of the cluttered motor pool, standing outside where the sunlight flanked him. It was a tall guy wearing an Army BDU, a bandaged right leg and a pair of crutches underneath his armpits. The stranger's voice was loud enough to break through the tunes playing in the speakers.
"Hey, Thorn!"
"Over here...", he replied and raised his hand.
Erik stood up with an annoyed sigh, removing his face shield to reveal a rough, sweaty visage with golden whiskers. Rather than accommodate the guest, he immediately went to the bottle of cold water resting beside his toolbox, feeling rather parched all of a sudden. A quick gulp later and he was in the mood for a talk. He felt the need to admonish the guest for intruding such a delicate job, but that would've made him an ungrateful host. Foggy memory slowly gave way to clearness; he had been anticipating this meeting for a quite some time now.
This guy certainly took his sweet time to get to Georgia.
"…You're forty hours late, brother."
"What can I say? You made me limp all the way from Bragg, you bastard. ", the guest joked.
"What happened to your legs?"
"Training accident. You know how it is."
"Uh-huh."
The other man took a few steps forward, exerting greater effort because of his condition. His hands were full; crutches held by both hands, plus a thick-looking folder held onto his right. He also glanced at the radio, perplexed at the mix of percussion and strings coming out of its speakers.
"How've you been, Maverick? Still listening to your 'Greatest Hits of the Hindu Kush', I see..."
"That's my jam. Show some respect.", Erik glared in response, threateningly but halfhearted.
"Heh. Oh, I ain't judging. Just glad to know you're still an oddball…
A smile slowly graced the blonde man's scruffy face, even if it was just a faint turn of lips. Then, he burst into a light laugh with his visitor; it had been a while since the host conversed with another one of his kind. The motor pool was hardly the best place for a little chitchat, however. Mindful of the other people around him, Erik motioned to his guest to join him to a random corner, away from all the prying ears and other distractions. He let the stereo play unopposed.
The guest was an old acquaintance of his, a fellow warfighter in Afghanistan. Brown-haired with a matching scruff, looking none the worse for wear as most Tier-One guys tended to appear. He and Erik had worked together quite a few times, mostly on rare occasions when JSOC suddenly roped them into a joint operation. Granted, the blonde man didn't personally call this fellow a 'friend', as that was something that intelligence officers of all stripes could ill-afford to have. Still, he was glad for the familiarity that existed between them. For the companionship.
But Erik reminded himself to hold back. As much as he appreciated the company of a fellow 'D-Boy', he didn't want to leave his sanctuary just yet. He was still shackled in this place; prevailing marching orders still demanded that he remain here until further notice. The best way to keep an eye on a once-rogue Army spook. As such, Erik resolved to prolong this appointment as far as he could get away with. He offered the guest a cup of water from his bottle, rather the strike a conversation. The latter quickly turned it down, much to the former's slight surprise. If they were still in Afghanistan, the other guy just did something incredibly impolite, one that warranted a fierce shouting. At least that would've made this meeting a bit more interesting...
…
"…I suppose you know why I'm here?"
It was straight to business, then. To pick up from where he left off with that black lady, a few months ago.
"You wanna hire me…", Erik plainly replied. "…Wetworks… Autonomous Ops, off-the-books… That's about it, right?"
"You forgot 'counter-terrorism'. It's an international task force."
"International? Damn, sounds like you're planning an all-star jamboree or something."
His eyes then glanced at the bright green folder clutched by the guest's right hand. It had the word 'Confidential' printed in red, accompanied by the DOD's seal. Right then and there, it dawned to Erik that this definitely was not just some freelance-gig. Neither was it a PMC-type of job that typically appealed to many ex-Delta Force guys. So much time had gone by since that chance meeting in the Pentagon, the day of vindication had finally come. Something that Rustam never got after he killed his own son.
Between the pages contained in the folder was a job opening in the UK. All the paragraphs made it vague as all heck, but the black lady whom Erik talked to, presumably a top-dog in the Department of Defense, said that the job suited him quite nicely. And unlike those armchair idiots she shared an office with, she was more than willing to overlook his tarnished service record. A second chance, a new life away from the Army's overbearing presence. To any good soldier whose career was on probation, the promise of a fresh start would be sweet honey to their ears. And to meet her glorified errand boy in the flesh, this very day, would all but burn away any lingering doubt.
There was only one cinch.
"Why me, though?", Erik asked. "This has something to do with current events?"
The other man scoffed and turned to his side, visibly uncomfortable with the question. As if the blondie suddenly pried and opened a terrible chapter.
"You know the answer to that."
"Heh. Must've been tough being in the thick of it. Coordinated strikes across the board, but only a handful of guys to stop 'em with."
"Don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Oh come on, cut the crap."
There was hardly a soul in Fort Benning who didn't tune in on the news when New York was shot up more than two months ago. To say nothing of the carnage wrought by the attack on Bartlett University, much earlier than that. Erik crossed his arms, with inquisitive eyes looking ahead, staring into the face of the fellow Delta Operator. It was at this point that the brown-haired man knew that the truth was out. There was no use acting dumb in Lieutenant Thorn's midst.
"Bad guys still got what they wanted, even after they lost a lotta men. And despite everything we did, Congress now wants us out of the country."
The news was quite a surprise to Erik, who quickly rationalized his emotions. Some piece of legislation came to mind, but he quickly discarded the thought. This visit suddenly made even more sense.
"Well… You wouldn't be here if things are going well for you boys."
"*sigh* To be honest, manpower's not our only problem…", the guest continued. "…My boss thinks we could use a li'l paradigm shift. That's why we need your help."
"Oh yeah?"
"You have a different skillset, brother. HVT tracking, Human Intel, urban ops... You can run a mission on a shoestring budget… You and Suri are handy for quick infils, plus some S&D..."
"S&D? Sounds like you wanna start another war.", Erik feigned disappointment.
"Point is, we'll need both your brains and your brawn… You're still a crack shot with an M4, I hope."
The blonde man smiled a second time. Like a warrior finally hearing the clarion call after being kept at bay for so long. This was his chance to prove the naysayers wrong, become more than just an overpaid gearhead… But then, he hesitated. The grin quickly disappeared from his lips, replaced by a subdued expression. Wisdom kicked in, realizing he was about to return to the fray without knowing all of the particulars. Rather than indulge his guest further, Erik asked for the green folder again, anxious to gleam more about what he would be getting into. He read through the papers more fervently, anxiously looking for any key detail that would break this deal. Double-checking, even triple-checking to be completely certain.
Blue eyes scanned left to tight, top to bottom, digesting all of the facts until a grim picture was visualized in his brain. 'Current events', as he put it, were a lot worse than he thought. Chemical attacks against children. Indiscriminate bombings against innocents and soldiers alike. A body-count in the hundreds, with the rest of the world none the wiser as to who was responsible for it. All of which done for an unscrupulous agenda that all terrorist psychos usually swore themselves to. Little by little, it became clear to Erik that this new gig wasn't just a meal-ticket. This was certainly nothing as simple as going AWOL to find a missing reporter, barely surviving for two years, and returning with an incredulous tale. What he experienced back 'home' wouldn't hold a candle to the true face of evil.
'Home' suddenly felt like a misnomer.
"New York, Bartlett… they're just a taste of things to come.", the guest added. "And we think we haven't seen the worst of it either. We need to retrain, re-arm… change tactics even."
Erik returned the folder to him.
"If that's the case, then you'll also need someone who can follow orders. I went off-res on my own, remember?"
"You kidding? That Tony Stark-thing you did only tells us you'll fit right in. We could use someone with that kind of initiative..."
The man jerked his head back, to point at the motor pool behind him. That, he meant to say- the initiative to keep soldiering on. To adapt and thrive, no matter how bad things had gotten. No matter how much red tape he had to live with. Erik understood his point, nodding in silence. He also wanted to berate himself, for feeling unworthy of the praise. This whole place had taken a toll on him, perhaps more so than what those two hellish years had done. Fixing up useless crap had gotten him so out of practice.
"…And with you on our corner, maybe we'll get a different perspective on how we're gonna do our job from here on out."
"That's what you need me for? Good advice?"
The guest laughed.
"Well, it's certainly something your boy Rustam didn't get!"
That caused Erik to chuckle, eliciting another beaming a smile to grace his scruff. All the while, the song in the stereo reached its crescendo, as if to further hammer the point home.
"You know that story too?"
"Of course I do! You bored half my guys to death in Kabul with your damn folktales, remember?"
"Yeah, now I remember… Rohesh shaad (May they rest in peace)."
The two men laughed to themselves, catching a few glimpses from other people in the motor pool. It didn't bother them. This was home, for Erik and Suri. Not the drab and crowded walls of a large garage, but the company of another person who shared his vocation. A brother.
And the papers brought by this man were the key to this new life. Erik felt a bit more at ease with the knowledge, more than enough to assuage whatever doubt he had left. His guest then handed him another collection of papers. Blue eyes scanned again like clockwork, processing all the words, numbers, and charts that graced each page. They briefly talked about various subjects, to get him up to speed to things. Mission profiles talked about standard operating procedures that he was all too familiar with. The same brevity codes, the same levels of organization. There was one set of words that caught the intelligence officer's attention.
"Urban Tactical Response Unit…?"
"Yup. We call it 'Grim Sky'…", the other man explained. "…You'll have full OpCom, plus free reign to run it like AFO Wolfpack. Just like old times."
"How large will the roster be?"
"See for yourself. Additional assets will be supplied by our friends in Whitehall."
Whitehall. The namedrop was another reassurance that the Brits really were involved in this new job. It lent more weight to Erik's conversation with that black woman a long time ago. Therefore, none of this should be taken lightly. He continued reading, until he encountered the last page of the folder, which contained a series of names, paragraphs, and timelines. This particular page was also accompanied by two-by-two mugshots, thus giving each profile a different face and heading. "Dominic Brunsmeier". Miles Campbell". "Taina Pereira". "Mei Lin Siu". There was also a fearsome bare-headed chick on the list. "Morowa Evans", Detective Constable for the London Met.
New coworkers, hailing from different tongues and walks of life. His new colleagues. His fresh start.
"So, are you in?"
The guest was eager for a favorable answer. To Erik's shame, he was rather hesitant to respond in kind. He took a few seconds to glance around the motor pool, feasting on all the other jobs he would be leaving unfinished.
"I'm gonna need more time, man… There's still work to be done here."
It was quite a tough call to leave them at the drop of a hat, but he was now being called elsewhere. And he knew he had to answer. At this point, the sensible thing was to say 'yes' and shake the other man's hand. It would be the perfect segue to a whole new chapter in Erik's life. Instead, he glanced at Suri again, imagining what kind of crap they would go through this time. No matter. Their place was in battle, in the midst of warriors like the great Rustam himself in his time. If only he could return to those dusty streets, to the crowded bar, to the old teacher's house in the square...
No matter. This was the price Erik was willing to pay. He could still do some good.
"Well whatever you do, don't hurt yourself Maverick.", the guest motioned to his crutches. "The boss lady wants to snatch you before JSOC sends you off to another hellhole somewhere."
"Tch. 'Boss lady'…What the hell is her name anyway?"
His guest replied with a sheepish grin; a welcome to his new home.
"Rainbow Six."
…
Author's Comments/Notes: This (long overdue) first chapter is a soft-sequel to 'Freedom Day', of Ace meeting with Maverick to recruit him into Team Rainbow. The next chapters will be their own standalone affairs, unrelated to that story. Please stay tuned for more! Coming up next is Lion.