Disclaimer: It's all Terry Pratchett's.
Summary: The army mislays a certain vampire corporal. The results aren't pretty, and no-one's so sure what the truth is, or how to deal with it other than by smoking about a million cigarettes. A story about one trauma and its aftermath.
Characters/ Pairings: Polly/ Mal, Mal/ Clogston, the lads, OCs, Vimes, Angua, Margolotta.
Rating & Warnings (for the whole story): M (violence, torture, dark themes).
More specific warnings (scroll past the horizontal line to skip):
rape (physical, possibly mental), allusions to victim blaming (self and others), character death (of sorts), suicidality, self injury, coerced outing of sex, child abduction, strong hints at child abuse, post-traumatic stress, panic attacks, memory loss, eye injury, gunshot wounds, other injuries, starvation, forced drinking, power difference in relationship (not expanded upon), animal abuse, people being insensitive and sometimes crass about some of the aforementioned issues, and a lot of angst [I tried to include common warnings, but this list is probably not complete and may be updated with subsequent chapters. Feel free to ask more].
Schrödinger's Vampire: Chapter 1
The sun was almost done setting when Mal pointed out the incredibly obvious.
"You appear to be fretting just a little, sarge," she said while discarding her red-and-white uniform in favour of the dark grey tunic and trousers more suitable to the occasion. Earlier that evening, she'd dared complain that there was no matching hat.
"Well, I happen to think this is a terrible idea," said Polly, who was watching the spectacle with a ledger on her knees. "You've got everything?"
"Dagger up my sleeve," said Mal with a gesture meant to demonstrate the fact. "Knife down my boot. I'm an awesome ninja vampire! Map. Round thing that explodes if I look at it funny."
On her list, Polly checked off the dagger, the knife and the round thing that exploded if Mal looked at it funny, then her pen hesitated. "What's a ninja?" she asked.
There was a moment of shared, lip-biting confusion. "An awesome person who has knives?" volunteered Mal.
Polly noted that down on on her other, inner list of Things Mal Had Picked Up In Her Flashsides, for the later use in beating the lads at scrabble, and nodded at her to continue.
"Small amount of money for bribing purposes -," said Mal. Coins jingled.
"- that's not on the list," said Polly. "How am I supposed to account for it?"
"Never mind," said Mal, "I volunteer it for the good of Borogravia, and also, the saving of my behind in the face of national bankruptcy ... Newfangled gunpowder firearm thingy, pack of cigarettes, no lighter. No lighter?"
Check, check, whoops. Where did the lighter go?
"Whoops," said Polly with some delay, "I took it to start the camp fire last night... there you go."
"Thank you... handkerchief, toothbrush..."
"Ooh. Fancy."
"Comb... hey, don't leave me hanging!"
"Coffee?" asked Polly. That was also not on the original list.
"Necklace," said Mal, and Polly mentally ticked it off. "Is that going to be enough?" she asked.
"It's enough for a week, and I figured if I'm not back after that, I'm buggered either way," said Mal, halfway through fastening her bootlaces.
"What are you going to do if you get there and they take the coffee away or you run out?" Polly asked. "Theoretically."
"What are you going to do if they rip out your toenails?" asked Mal. "And I see your theoretically and raise you an introspectively."
"There's a point in there, but it isn't very appetising."
"That's the price you've got to pay for the superpowers and flawless Uberwaldean," said Mal, braiding her hair with quick fingers. "I am the best person for the job, and you're not coming. Sergeant. It's much too dangerous. Got a ribbon?"
"I wouldn't want to come, and I don't want you to go either," said Polly, handing her a piece of string she'd fished out of her coat pocket. "It's a daft plan by a complete madman. Who was probably drunk at the time."
"It was Christine's idea, and she adores me" said Mal, "Fresh air'll do me good, and I'll be back soon, anyway. It's just their damn headquarters, how hard can they be to find?"
"One more word, and I'll deduct this mission from your paid leave," said Polly.
There was a meaningful glance on a pocket watch, a cocky grin. "You may now hug me goodbye... or, apparently, kiss me goodbye - well, soldier on! I'm not standing in the way of progress."
Polly stood back, whistling innocently, as if she hadn't just kissed her chatty friend on the cheek for luck.
"You like me, sergeant," said Mal. It sounded rather gleeful, but maybe that was because she liked herself a chance to taunt.
Polly shrugged. "In a I-don't-particularly-want-you-to-die-sense, yes, I guess I do like you. Now get lost before you get conceited on me."
"A memory to keep me warm in my miserable Uberwaldean cell? Aw."
"If you absolutely have to leave, at least don't joke about this." Polly felt her eyes narrowing. She was pretty sure she could keep her annoyance over Christine's clever plan and her polite puzzlement over these new and delicate developments in local vampire-human relations apart. She knew she'd be just as annoyed if it were Private Igor being sent away to snoop around behind enemy lines.
"What will you do when you run out of coffee there?" she asked.
"Tell them everything I know," said Mal, shrugging. "You know how I am. I don't insist on patriotism in the face of undue hardship."
Polly got closer, so that her words would not be overheard by anyone listening outside of their tent. "Some advice from your superior," she said. "Don't you dare trying to be a hero."
"That's what she said," said Mal. "Chris knows I've got flexible morals."
"Clogston talking sense, who'd have thought," said Polly, passing up a chance to inquire as to the nature of Clogston's apparent introduction to Mal's morals. "You sure you're not taking more coffee than that?"
A shadow fell over Mal's face, just a hint of seriousness as she evidently chose not to say out loud what they both knew: if she were to be captured, sanity would be a disadvantage.
"I'll be back in five days and then you may peck me on the cheek all night long," said Mal, ducking under the canvas and out of the tent. "Don't worry so much. I must have done this a thousand times."
"Oh, bugger off already, and no," said Polly, as Mal disappeared into the dark with a winning smile and a little bow. "More like twice," she added, when the dark had swallowed her up.
The dreams that Polly had that night were worryingly sexual in theme, but focused on some weird sentimental aftermath that she wasn't possibly going to disentangle while asleep. She woke up several times, with the lingering desire to take the hand of the person next to her and press a drowsy kiss on her fingers and maybe go from there; it was gone soon and anyway she woke up next to nobody and was glad for a few seconds that she didn't have to share this vague sweatiness, here, where nothing was ever kept private; and every time she was hit with the fact that her slightly telepathic vampire tentmate was Not There for a somewhat more problematic reason than a three a.m. coffee break.
She was worried a little. The dreams may be a symptom of simple vampire overdose, or maybe even just a soldier thing, but the feeling of rejection she'd felt whenever her overly adventurous corporal was being, well, overly adventurous, when, how, and with whom she desired - while she was refusing tu put a name to it, she figured it was probably okay to miss Mal already.
Polly lit a candle and tried reading a book for a while. It was a tiny and scandalous little volume of the sort that Polly wouldn't be caught dead reading; she'd got on their last vacation back in the capital, had hauled it along since then and was going to haul it along for a little while longer, until Mal's birthday in two months when it would finally be her turn to carry the dratted extra baggage. But try buying a present out in the prairie sometimes. She just hoped she'd get the chance of giving it to Mal.
Five days were nothing, she told herself.
Somewhere between then and now, a cat becomes too curious, starting a chain of events that will ultimately lead to its untimely death at the hand of man, and thus is more a chain of decisions, and only some of them innocent. The cat, attracted by the impossible, decides to wriggle through underneath one of many metal bars as part of its well-loved spineless wonder routine, and goes to sit on a sleeping figure's face.
Later, at the tail-end of another hefty round of debriefing with the ruperts, Polly thought of the great Klatchian philosopher Zero who had discovered the number zero, who would have said that if five days were nothing, so were ten days, and then, so were twenty. Or even - she looked once again at the delicately wrought clock above the transportable mantelpiece in the conference tent - twenty-one now.
She was beginning to understand why Zero's discovery had been the subject of ridicule for so long. You couldn't even divide by it.
"... few casualties, but we will have to redistribute a few regiments as soon as possible," a clerk said. "Sergeants are responsible for replacing corporals, all other promotions will be decided on by this board. Any questions?"
The sergeants were bloody and tired and the procedure was very consistent in its lack of surprises, and they didn't have any questions.
"Fine, then if you would just step over here to pick up the letter blanks; there's one for each casualty reported -"
In the ensuing shuffle surrounding the stack of paper, Polly was held back by Major Clogston, who - dear sweet Nuggan, there was a place and time, she thought - was holding a sandwich, though at least not currently eating, and asked her to stay back for a while after the meeting.
Polly didn't want to stay behind. She'd planned to have a quiet evening in her tent, maybe to get a head start on those few death notifications before all the post-battle numbness wore off, or alternatively, to dive into the the icy cold water of the nearby mountain lake and have a go at the regimental record for staying underwater without coming up for air (the record was currently at one minute, forty-two seconds and would have been higher if not for the cold; the lads always complained having a vampire corporal held them up to unrealistic standards). But she didn't see an opportunity to sneak off, and thus, when she'd received her four letter forms, fresh from their transportable press, and all the soldiers had cleared off, she actually sat down with Clogston at the now seemingly huge, yet collapsible, conference table.
She opened her mouth to answer the question she thought was going to be asked, but then re-adjusted her degree of cooperation, and simply waited while Clogston got out a stack of neat hand-written notes and a quill.
"So," said Clogston, "I am currently writing a conclusive report for the general."
"That's nice," was what Polly almost replied, but thought better of. Instead she said, "You think we're done here?"
"Colonel Bergmann seems to think so," said Clogston, "I'm still trying to reason with him. What are your conclusions regarding the attack today?"
"My what - ?" said Polly, unbelieving and possibly still surfing on the edge of an adrenaline rush. "It was a vile and unprovoked attack on our brave -"
Clogston looked at her over the top of her spotless glasses. "Polly," she said, with emphasis.
Polly sighed. "All right," she said. "At first I thought they were just terribly disorganised, but then I thought they were just surprised and not dealing well, even though they were the surprise attackers, I mean. I noticed they'd put up all their heavy weaponry on the eastern side - their eastern, not ours - as if they were expecting someone, then our secret reinforcements hit them from northwest, and that was that."
"So, what you're saying is," Clogston said, "that they just didn't plan very well and thus lost two thousand men in under five hours?"
"After they'd played hide and seek for two months now?" said Polly. "Bugger that. They were very well prepared, but for a completely different situation. And of course, we had the guns. I think that helped."
Clogston ticked off something on her sheet, but Polly found it was too dark to read it upside down without being really obvious about it. Then Clogston looked up and smiled, and Polly, who had never been to a school, nevertheless felt like a teacher was commanding her for answering a particularly tricky question exactly right.
Well, Polly was nothing if not forward. "Also, they only brought part of their army," she added.
All through their short conversation, Clogston had been taking notes, but now she compared them to a colour-coded chart. "That last bit," she said. "How did you figure that out?"
"It's more of a speculation," said Polly. "But I got some of the lads to note down the Uberwaldeans' identification numbers. And all the regiment numbers are either smaller than four or even, see -" she borrowed a piece of paper from Clogston to demonstrate what exactly she meant, even though it wasn't a particularly complex thought.
"Yes," said Clogston, "but this is the Uberwaldean army we're talking about -"
"I thought so, too, but the personal identifiers -" she pointed towards the last three digits making up each number, "- are both odd and even, so I don't think it's just the Uberwaldeans being... particular about counting things."
It was a bit silly, Polly thought, but at least they divided their forces by regiments. The Borogravians usually went by last names, she'd found out that one time when unfortunately she'd been forced to raise hell once when she and Mal, whose last name started with a B, had almost been deployed to different fronts.
Clogston furrowed a brow, taking in the jotted-down numbers again. "That's a happy thought," she said. "One army down, one army of roughly the same size still to go."
"Yeah," said Polly, "and we're about as far from finding their headquarters as we were three weeks ago. Funny." What she didn't mention was that they'd have been floored if the Uberwaldeans had only brought everyone. It was more than a little strange.
"I shall remember to write a note to the general about this," said Clogston, infuriatingly, and closed her folder. "And I'll put in a word about you in our board meeting. Now, while we're at it, have you heard from Corporal Maladict?"
"If I had," said Polly, "I would have reported to you already."
Clogston noted something down. "I have no interest in rumours, sergeant," she said.
"Ah," said Polly after waiting for her to continue. Apparently some encouragement was needed.
"So you'll understand that this is strictly out of curiousity," said Clogston. "Is it true that the corporal has been planning to desert?"
"Yeah, I heard that too." Polly wasn't even attempting to lie; after all, it had been Mal who had started the rumours in the first place. The army could be a very boring place for even the most easily entertained vampire when all you did for a month was marching. Feeding the rumour mill was one of Mal's favourite pastimes.
"However," Polly added, "that's completely unfounded. Just idle talk." she insisted, praying to to the powers that were that Clogston, of all people, wasn't going to insist on an explanation for her conviction. Because she liked Mal and had missed her terribly and had harbored the hope Mal wouldn't just up and leave. Not now. Not when their friendship had been on the verge of becoming the most important thing in a world, and the world, in turn, was descending into sheer madness once again.
Typical, she'd thought, just when their government of warmongers had finally decided peace was an at least theoretically acceptable policy, Borogravia had to find itself under attack. Perfect.
"Good," said Clogston. "You don't think the Uberwaldeans captured him, either, I gather?"
"No," said Polly. "As you are no doubt aware of, their intelligence is rather effective in extracting information from prisoners. The attack today would have gone over differently. I mean, all they'd have to do was ambush our secret reinforcements properly and we'd have been, presumably, toast." Much as all wars were the same, Polly thought, all wars were different; and one fact about war with the Uberwaldeans was, they captured you, you talked, and later you'd refuse to talk about it. They weren't fuzzy with these things.
Of course, even if she were to be considering the inconceivable, that Mal had been captured and had somehow managed to ignore their methodical persuasion in order to tell them one or several clever little lies that would ultimately save the Borogravian army from untimely wipeout... as soon as news from the battle reached their elusive headquarters, that'd be it. No more sarcastic little vampire. If she was lucky.
"Right," said Clogston, "what you're saying is that the corporal got lost on the way back?" and suddenly Polly gained some understanding on why people tended to hate her, and some more surprise as to what ever Mal had seen in that woman. There was quite a lot of surprise already.
"No," said Polly, again, suddenly thankful for the remaining mindless bravery taking the edge off the impact of her thoughts, "what I'm saying here is that I think," hope, "the corporal is dead." There was an uncomfortable pause. "That's kind of an Uberwaldean specialty. Disposing off vampires, I mean," she added out of a very tired kind of malice.
What she was waiting for was a refute of some kind, but it never came. "I fear you may be right," said Clogston, and for the first time Polly noticed that all the years of responsibility, of deploying forces, often sending them to their death and then writing reports about it, must have taken some toll on Clogston; even though she was better at this than most. It was the kind interest in their well-being that did it; somewhere along the lines the dark rings under her eyes had become permanent.
Polly filed that thought under Inappropriate Musings on Major Clogston's Face. Was the day ever going to end?
"I've looked at his file," added Clogston, "and it is pretty fragmentary. Who are you going to send the notification to?"
It's your fault and you can write the damn thing yourself, thought Polly, and she may have said it out loud, but natural distrust at ruperts made her, even now, act with at least rudimentary care. "I know he has a mother," she said, "but she's a little -"
"Evil?" guessed Clogston. Maybe Mal had told her, too. "Vampires do have strong family bounds, though. It would be unfair to -"
Or maybe Mal hadn't.
"Oh, she loves Mal all right," said Polly. It was the truth, and majors didn't have to know everything. Like the fact it was a rather twisted kind of love that stole small children and pampered them all the way to adulthood and turned them on the night of their twenty-first birthday; the kind of love that probably needed a different label, after all. "I don't want her to know my name, though," added Polly, "especially not in relation to the death of her baby. It's a survival instinct, can't help it." That, and Mal hadn't cut family ties, really. She'd pulverised them.
Clogston shrugged so nonchalantly that Polly wasn't sure she had even been serious with her suggestion. "That would be all, then, Perks," she said. "Go get get some sleep, there'll be a lot of marching tomorrow."
Polly got up from her chair and was in the process of walking out without another work when Clogston called, "Oh, and Polly?"
She turned in the tent opening.
"I am sorry how this turned out," said Clogston, and it did sound sincere. The sentiment failed to bring Mal back, though.
"Yeah," said Polly, "and it was such a clever plan, too." With that, she left, took the long walk through the rows of tents toward her own, empty one, for the umpteenth time in as many hours contemplating the ifs and hows, the possibilities, and (seeing how it was Mal) the impossibilities; she clumsily lit up a cigarette and arrived, once again, at the same conclusion.
Even if Mal was alive somewhere, she'd have reverted by now.
Pay close attention to the cat. The cat is dead, and has been dead for two days now. One could argue that more important things have happened along the multiverse's multiple time axes. This is a question of perspective.
There's no fun in petting a dead cat.