That American was an idiot.
Crashing through the jungle, loudly whistling "The Star-Spangled Banner", and wearing that ridiculous American flag bandana? Anyone could see that he was being exceedingly foolish. A soldier ought to move with the forest, follow the paths between the trees and stay silent in the shadows, not stumble and force his way through the land like a bumbling water buffalo. And that whistling—that loud, incessant song—was just another call for attention. The only thing he was doing right was being the ideal target for her sniper's rifle. Honestly, he ought to know that if you make that much racket, anyone can hear you coming.
And then they can kill you.
That idiot must truly want to die.
Vietnam would be happy to oblige.
No really, nothing would make her happier than to get that Westerner out of her land. Well, she'd like to get rid of all Westerners, actually. Westerners were strangers, people who had no respect for her country, and crashed their way through her land as they pleased
Westerners are, after all, a destructive group. They enjoy chaos and war, and the current group in her country seemed to take spiteful pleasure from dropping napalm bombs over the villagers.
Her villagers.
These were her people, her lands. And she had to protect them.
Even if that meant challenging the world's superpowers.
She shifted slightly, careful to maintain her balance on her treetop perch. She had scaled the ancient tree a few minutes ago, knowing that her target would be along shortly. There was no need to hunt him down if she could figure out his plan and simply wait a short distance ahead for him to come to her. Strategy: that was all it took.
He was getting closer; she could see the tips of his startlingly-blond hair move toward her. He couldn't see her, though. No one could, because no one knew all the tricks she had up her sleeve. And, after all the wars she had been though, she had quite a few. If you want to make it past war's bloodthirsty jaws, you need to know a thing or two about hiding. People who don't learn those survival skills, not surprisingly, don't survive.
He was directly beneath her now, and one, two, three steps later, he had left the tree behind him. Perfect.
She jumped down, landing softly, almost silently, a few feet behind him. He was a good few inches taller than her, and she wasn't going to give him the chance to tower over her. No, she would keep a distance, not let him see how small she was, how scared she was.
Because, on the inside? She was terrified.
She'd faced many an opponent in her time, but this one, this strange boy with the impish nature, was different. She had no strategy that she could employ. He did not fear threats, and whenever she crushed his attacks, he had not looked at her in fear or shock—merely a grim acknowledgment and fiercer determination. To be sure, this case was unlike any other.
But she had to do what she could. So she forced a smirk, a strange sort of smile that she had learned to use when negotiating with Francis at the treaty of Versailles. Francis was a tricky, slippery opponent who was difficult to pin down. But he had very little confidence in his army. So she could bluff, scoff at his treaties, and negotiate as she pleased. That strategy always seemed to work on her opponents, so she used it now.
"Jones!" She called loudly, challengingly, "Are you planning on retreating back to your side of the Pacific any time soon?"
He whirled around, eyes that were, for a second, stunned, before they narrowed in defense.
"Nice going there" he admitted grudgingly, "I sure as hell didn't see it coming"
"Obviously you didn't" Vietnam nodded, and let her cold smirk appear again "Now I suggest you get out of my country before I do any worse than injure your pretty-boy pride"
He rolled his eyes. "You already know my answer to that" he replied flatly, "I'm here until Ivan leaves too". He shrugged, shouldering his backpack.
"Perhaps you didn't understand what I said" she replied coldly. Her voice was at a soft, silently dangerous level. It was a velvet voice, one that, had the situation been different, could have been mistaken for seductive. There was a smooth, commanding edge to it, one that made it known she was not to be challenged. "Why don't you…Get. Out. Of. My. Country" Her anger finally revealed itself as the last word left her lips, making it sharply contrast with the others in a bullet-like forcefulness.
He frowned right back at her, just as stubbornly, "I understood you just fine, thanks" he snapped, but you need a hero, and I'm gonna stay here until you let me be that hero" He cocked his head to the side and smirked a bit.
She wanted to wipe that cocky smile off of his face. Or smack him with her rice paddle until he took it off himself. It was downright infuriating, the way he believed she would just faint into his arms like some pathetic ninny of a damsel.
"I don't need a hero" she growled, "What I need is for a certain idiot to get off my land!" Her voice grew challenging and surprisingly loud for such a small girl.
His eyes narrowed. He wasn't used to being turned down like that.
"Listen, I don't know what you think you're doing," he said, "but until you come up with a better plan to save yourself, I'm going to stay here and help".
She glared, letting her frosty anger chill her voice as she slowly enunciated again. "You are in great danger, Mr. Jones, of not only getting injured in this war, but of getting injured within the next few minutes" she was through with his games and childish persistence.
He raised an eyebrow. "You're challenging me? You know that's not a good idea. We both know I'm just as stubborn as you are" he retorted, "But I've got the firepower you don't. You can't outlast me". Logically, that made sense, didn't it? And, since he always saw her muttering to herself about "strategy" and "tactics", that logic should make her see reason, right?
Instead, she laughed darkly, He was just like all the others, just as arrogant about his skills and foolish about the realities of war. He thought he could defeat her and display her head on the wall like some kind of trophy. He was exceedingly overconfident and pathetically misinformed.
That would be his downfall.
"This isn't the first time I've been at a disadvantage, you foolish American boy. I'd be dead if I was as weak as you thought I was".
He scowled at the word 'boy'. He had experienced his share of struggle too, fought for his independence and fended for himself, after all. He wasn't some spoiled, demanding little punk like she thought he was. And if staying here and toughing it out would prove her wrong, then sure as hell he would stay.
He walked up to her and stared into her eyes, tilting his head so that frozen blue met directly with cold obsidian.
"I'm not leaving. Get that through your head. If you're too blind to see the danger you're in, then fine. But I'm not going to just let you fall like that."
He was talking about communism, of course. Ivan and Yao had been eager for Vietnam to join their ranks, and were aggressively "encouraging" her to do so.
The only voice that had protested when they began doing so was his. He wanted her to stay free. Heck, he'd be willing to help her, even.
But that was before he knew she was going to give up. Come on, where would the world be if people threw up their hands and surrendered like that? Nowhere, that's where. She had to get up and fight for herself, damn it!
Something inside her visibly snapped after he said that. Her eyes sparked like flint flecks, as a new intensity of outrage and anger flared in her eyes.
"You think it's so easy" she sneered. "You think surviving for three thousand years, fighting off meddling Westerners like you, is easy". She bent closer, dipping her head toward his ear…
"You don't know anything" she whispered softly.
"You call yourself a hero" she continued in the same quiet voice, pulling away from him. "But you have all the advantages I never did. You didn't fight England alone, did you? That Frenchman helped you."
She scoffed. "Funny, no one helped me when I overthrew that Frenchman myself." Her lips curled, "You stood up for yourself once. That doesn't make you a hero, boy."
"That makes you lucky"
He frowned. Well, sure, he'd had help but he did his part too! He fought with what he had, and gave it his all, and didn't that count for something?
Francis had been pretty helpful though. Alfred was pretty sure he would have been in hot water if he hadn't received the extra troops. Huh, it must have been pretty difficult for someone as small as she was to fight those same troops off. And beat them, too…
But Vietnam wasn't done yet. Alfred thought she was a quitter, did he? Idiot. He didn't know what she'd been though. And she would make him see, once and for all, that she was not a quitter. Her pride was at stake here. And, in the midst of war, it was really all she had left. So, like an injured tiger, she lashed out more fiercely than ever.
She ripped up the sleeve of her uniform, revealing multiple harsh burns and scars that made his eyes widen.
"You caused this" she challenged. "You're as much a cause in this war as Ivan and Yao. You think I'm unaware of who they are, what they stand for? I know what I'm signing up for. But I know they will protect me, keep me alive, if only for their own sake."
"You," she frowned, "You say you'll save me". She raised her other sleeve, showing him more burn scars as well as deep red welts. "But I have trouble believing that. You burn my forests and kill my people. You spray Agent Orange, your toxic poison powder, and destroy the forests that have been growing on my land for thousands of years. You fling napalm bombs at my villages, watching them burn and explode at hell-like temperatures". Her voice faltered for the briefest of seconds, "Maybe you didn't know this, but all the people who are hit, die. And all the children…all my children…are becoming orphans. Those who survive the bomb, that is"
She took a silent step toward him. "That's not saving me, is it?"
His mouth was dry as the full impact of her words hit him. She was hurt pretty badly, wasn't she? And, no matter how hard he was fighting to save her, he was fighting against her too. It was a strange paradox that he had trouble wrapping his head around: he was trying to save her…by killing her.
"I…" he hesitated, "I'm sorry".
Her eyes were sad…almost…dare he consider it…vulnerable?
It was then that he began to see a different side of her. A side that was injured, but continuing on nonetheless. A side that was stubborn and a little too proud as it stumbled and felt its way around in the "cruel world". A side that was lost, but determined, as it picked itself up and walked on, albeit a bit more cautiously each time it fell. He had trouble understanding this new side, this girl behind the stoic mask he usually saw. In a way, this was his first time seeing the real Vietnam. But something about her, something about the way she got up after others constantly pushed her down, made him want to reach out to her…
He sighed. His apologies seemed so empty now. So stupid and meaningless. He felt helpless, as if he was watching her through a glass wall and couldn't do a thing. She was just suffering…so much…
She nodded slowly. Maybe he was imagining it, but it seemed to take her a bit of effort to do so. As if she was struggling to stay in control of her own body, or as if she was so worn out and exhausted, that the small motion tired her.
He bit his lip, thinking silently and trying to figure out the muddle of emotions swirling around his mind. Guilt was definitely there, gnawing at the pit of his stomach. And it multiplied as he kept looking at her. It was his fault. All his fault. She was in pain.
And…he trembled slightly at the thought…he was the reason she was dying.
His voice caught in his throat as a raspy, strangled "I'm so…sorry" fell brokenly from his mouth.
"We can't undo the past" she breathed, her voice weary and ragged "No one can take back words…or blows"
He wasn't sure what happened next. But suddenly, he had grabbed her hands, pulled her close, and caught her gently in his arms.
She lurched forward, tugged off balance by his superhuman strength. He caught her, holding her tightly to his chest as if he could physically keep her from falling apart and crumbling in his arms.
He suddenly noticed that he was looking at her through blurred eyes. The outline of her small, trembling body, so close to his, was fuzzy and dim. He noticed the dark, gritty smears of dirt and blood across her pale face. She was so pale. As his tears blurred her features, the scarlet scars and scratches seemed to stand out more prominently against her pale skin. And it suddenly dawned upon him that these were scars that he had caused. Tears formed—tears full of regrets and silent apologies—before he was even aware. He blinked rapidly to clear them away.
But more of them kept forming. He didn't want her to see them. He just wanted her to be okay, for both of them to be okay. He buried his head in her hair and, to his surprise, heard the tiniest audible break in her voice. He realized with a start that she was as shattered on the inside as he was, and was just as close to breaking down completely.
It had been so long since a human hand, a human heart, had reached out to either of them…
She didn't push him away. Didn't react defensively or violently. For some reason, she found herself holding onto him just as tightly. Closing her eyes tightly, trying to block out the images of war and carnage that haunted her dreams, she didn't want to let go of the one person who seemed real amidst the ghastly nightmares.
And so they held on, bracing themselves against one another as they let tears seep out, let their shoulders heave with the quiet, broken sobs they had never let out before.
For that one moment, despite all the chaos that had happened, Vietnam felt almost human. Not like a sniper methodically exterminating enemies, not like a soldier running endless laps in training. She felt…like she wasn't alone.
She could kill him some other time. But not now.