Misunderstood
It's raining.
It's raining and I've got the wind against me – I can't hear a thing he's saying. I catch a word every time a lightning bolt strikes, casting light long enough for me to lip read.
Flash! Crack!
"Justice." He says.
Flash! Crack!
"Freedom." He says.
That's enough for me to know he's reciting the same pseudo-revolutionary bullshit he spoon-fed to the poor bastards who believed every word from his forked tongue. The poor bastards who did everything they were ordered without question, no matter the cost to themselves. The poor bastards who protected him to the end, screaming their false glories as they died where he should have. The poor bastards who stood between me and him.
They were men of honour. Brave men who knew nothing of fear, or cowardice – Who knew only of respect. Of heroism. They were soldiers. And he exploited every one of them. They won't be forgotten. I won't let him forget.
With a final crack of thunder, the rain stops. The shearing gust that assaulted my entire form just moments ago subsides to a dull breeze and for the first time, I hear what he's saying.
"Join me, Snake." He reaches a hand out as though he's God himself offering salvation.
It takes a lot to prevent the overwhelming disgust from forming on my face. I want to let it through, I want to let it take over – My rage would be a powerful weapon.
Powerful, but clumsy. A voice from the past reminds me.
My expression retains its apathy and I bury the fury deep, throwing it amid the rest of the untapped reservoir of pure hatred. Enough for a hundred lifetimes. It's all there, and there it'll stay until I need it.
I draw my USP from the thigh-mounted holster, eject the magazine and rip the top slide back, propelling a single .45 round somewhere into the mud. For a split-second, he's startled – He thinks I'm going to shoot. He's wrong. A bullet's too good for him. The pistol finds it's way back to the holster. In my hand, my knife takes it's place.
Finally he understands.
His movements mirror my own – He rids his Colt .45 of all rounds, holsters it and draws his own knife. The confident smirk that I've come to equate with his persona gives way to a contorted snarl that would send tremors along the spine of Lucifer himself.
Lightning cracks. Thunder rolls. The storm returns with all it's might.
He lunges.
Clink!
The blades clash in the darkness.
Flash!
The lightning illuminates his malicious expression, I stare into his eyes. I can't help it.
I'm still trying to make sense of what I saw when he comes in for the second attack.
Clink!
The knives rebound off each other as I parry the attack – I know what comes next. It's reflex. Instinct.
Flash!
In the millisecond exposure, my eyes fall upon the sight I hoped I wouldn't see. He's there, on his knees. Clutching a fatal wound. It was a clean hit, a textbook move. Guard and stab.
It's dark again. I can't see him, but I hear – I hear him slump to the ground, dead. Mission completed.
But it's not that easy.
His eyes, I saw it in his eyes - An untapped reservoir of pure hatred. Enough for a hundred lifetimes. They were the eyes of a determined man, doing what he could in spite of adversity – Not a disgruntled soldier looking for validation.
They lied to me.
Epilogue
When I got back they called me a hero.
Real heroes die face down in the mud of a foreign land. Their existence denied by the country they so passionately loved and so dutifully served. Their actions, their deeds, their selflessness – The world will never know.
I killed a man, a hero, and for that they gave me the Silver Star. It would be my biggest regret that out there, amid the chaos of that day, I didn't listen to what he had to say.
Goodbye, Big Boss.