Title: Hands For War
Genre: Horror/Hurt/Comfort
Rating: T
Set: Pre-manga, a couple of weeks after Miles' transferral to Briggs
(Note: Miles doesn't speak English very well yet.)
The boy was so cold. Arms wrapped around himself, he shivered in the thick clothing he possessed, teeth chattering, eyes furrowed, determined to keep his heart beating. Yet no matter how heated his determination was, no matter how his anger kept his limbs working, Sergeant Miles wasn't immortal. The chill nipped at his flesh, sucked at his soul, but he clung to whatever little sanity he had left.
It was past midnight, sometime early in the morning, but he would never be able to tell. Fort Briggs, the North, was a place where the Devil came to play. To cackle, tease and mock the weak fools who forced their tired limbs up the countless mountains. Attempting to prove their worth- attempting to prove they weren't human.
The snow was so bright. Even sheltered by a cave, it shone, almost blinding him. Although it resembled such beauty, power and magnificence, Miles could only loathe the white powder. The snow was his own enemy, constantly challenging him. A boy who had spent his entire childhood under a scorching sun, he wouldn't last long in the North. Briggs soldiers were amazed he could still stand on two legs.
Yet the bite would soon attack, snap at his fragile bones, make him break, vomit blood and finally surrender.
Beauty never reflected how merciful one could be. To Miles, beauty was evil. Men fooled themselves to believe beauty meant good, that beauty meant success, and that beauty meant weakness. Miles wasn't a fool. Beauty and horror were the same. Behind the white mask, the blue horizon, there was a beast. An ugly, furious beast.
Miles inhaled sharply. A bullet was lodged into his side, blood seeping through his military jacket- a uniform he wore with shame. A uniform which poisoned his already burnt flesh. They recognised him as a traitor, a coward, a man incapable of standing for his own country, his own men and people. They recognised him as an Ishvalan. An Ishvalan who saluted to Amestrian soldiers; murderers.
And he could only scream internally.
The other recruits had forfeited. After three days, they couldn't continue. The cold was too much, they were too weak, their lungs gave out and their limbs snapped.
Yet the Ishvalan, a man only capable of enduring warmth, kept his eyes forwards. If it weren't his strength which kept him going, it was his fury. His obsession to prove that, yes, he was so much better than anyone who dared confront him. The mocks, the taunts, the bullying- Miles couldn't survive backing away.
However, the one person he wanted to prove to never opened her mouth to silence him, to make him feel like a fool. And it infuriated him. She. A creature, foul creature, who shouldn't even speak to him, let alone command him.
It was the seventh day. Someone had shot Miles. Who, he wasn't so sure. It could have been a Briggs soldier, but even their dislike to him didn't go this far. Clearly whoever shot him recognised him as a Briggs man, an enemy.
After walking for so long, Miles needed to rest, to sleep. Healing his wound wouldn't be possible though. He didn't have any medical equipment on him.
While he dozed, he heard his transceiver struggle to pick up a signal. And then:
'Sergeant Miles, come in.'
Miles didn't respond. His eyes remained locked to the silent world outside, the gentle snowflakes meeting the already white ground. An emptiness. The sky was so dark, so dark and blue, so empty.
Minutes passed, hours even. Miles didn't move. His heart pounded furiously against his ribcage, threatening to burst.
'Miles, do you copy?' It was a man. Miles didn't recognise the voice, nor did he care.
Then there was a different voice, stronger, powerful: 'Anthony, we don't have time to play games here. At least have the decency to inform me you're still alive.'
'I am,' he responded slowly, heart pace quickening a little more.
'Good. State your location.'
Miles pressed down on his wound. 'Somewhere high.' Away from the world.
'We heard shooting. Are you injured?'
For a moment, Miles mistook his commanding officer's tone for concern. Then he chuckled. 'Does it matter?'
'If you don't care about your own life, then neither do I.'
'I have been shot.'
A pause.
'Then reach the finish line before it's too late.'
He shouldn't have done it. The boy should never have reached the end. They believed he wasn't capable, wasn't strong enough. They believed he was weak, and pathetic, full of vengeance and nothing else. A lost boy, wanting his mummy back. A lost man, wanting his wife back. A lost father, wanting his son back.
A lost cause.
Of course Miles didn't reach the end. He had lost too much blood, the chill was too much, the climb was too much. He wasn't that far away, but everything was gone, everything. There was nothing left for him. There was nothing for him to reach.
Nothing.
Miles collapsed, falling onto his front, allowing the snow to bury him. Then he struggled to stand, his shaking knees breaking under his weight, his eyes straining tears from the freeze, his infected wound throbbing for mercy. He was going to die.
But he was dead ever since his wife breathed her last.
Miles couldn't go on, at least for tonight. Leaning against a rock, Miles slipped down to sit, breathing in and out heavily. The agony his wound caused was unbearable. It stung, sliced at his body, his heart, his insane mind. And he was all alone.
Was this how it would be? Would he pass on like this? By climbing a mountain and being shot from a War that wasn't his own?
His entire life was a War, and there was never a second when the bullet didn't ring.
Footsteps.
… footsteps…
Someone was approaching him.
Groaning, Miles found his pistol and aimed at his intruder, his body lopsided when he attempted to find his balance.
Blood poured down his side, following the river of dried, red liquid to the beautiful snow.
And that was what he saw: snow, blue. A whiteness that reflected the snow he stood and bled on, and a blue which reflected the sky, the beautiful, empty sky. Heartless sky.
Beauty.
The Devil was beautiful.
Miles dropped the pistol and fell to his knees.
'I knew you were close.'
He didn't look at her, expecting her to laugh and cackle, play the game again.
But she didn't.
The creature knelt down before him, opened her small bag and revealed medical equipment. For him. To heal him.
Miles laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. It was full of spite. Oh how much he hated her. 'You don't have hands for healing!' He spat. 'Your hands covered in blood!' Miles whacked the bandages out of her hand. 'Don't dare heal me. I've lost everything because of you- because of them.'
The sky became enveloped in a black cloud. A black cloud of death, of anger, of impatience, of loyalty. 'I am not them. My hands will always drip with blood, but don't you dare act innocent. You only exist out of anger, out of hatred, out of murder. So, tell me, who's really the monster here?'
'I've been called monster my whole life.' A cruel smile curled at his lips. 'What you say means nothing to me.'
'Likewise.' The woman grabbed the bandages. 'But even monsters can show a little mercy sometimes. Let me treat you, Anthony.'
'Miles. It's Miles.'
She didn't know. She didn't know the horrors that name cast upon him. The fact he was named after his father- a coward, a man he loathed with a furious passion.
But he knew she would understand.
'Miles. Show me your wound.'
Even though he trembled from the cold, Miles slowly peeled off his top, his injury burning. The woman came closer, dabbed the wound with alcohol. It stung, but he didn't do anything. The sting was numb; he couldn't feel it. There were much worse pains he had suffered.
When she pried the bullet out, Miles still felt nothing. Just a throbbing anger.
He trailed his eyes over to the pistol laying in the snow, there, ready to use. Miles swallowed, scrunched his eyes closed, and turned away.
That was when he allowed the tears to fall. They trickled down his rough cheek, melted the white snow, made the beauty around him dissolve.
Olivier looked at him.
It was her eyes: they would always be an empty, hollow sky. But, right now, he discovered mercy, a sense of innocence, of humanity. Of beauty.
His turned his own eyes, red - anger, lust, hatred - away.
She said nothing. Obviously, Miles didn't want her to witness the tears, the fact he still had a little bit of sanity left. The fact he still felt, needed, missed, longed for. She had never felt so relieved in her life.
'Done.'
Miles wiped away the stray tears and finally turned around to examine his wound. The blood was gone, the bullet gone, the pain gone. He inhaled deeply, and faced his commanding officer. Her eyes were the sky again. Finding her feet, Olivier looked down at him.
'I expect you to join us shortly, Miles.'
Without a word, Olivier walked away and vanished from sight. Miles picked up his clothes and tugged them on, realising his heart was still beating, but normally. Anger no longer flooded his veins, anger no longer burned in his irises.
There was still a nothingness.
But it felt good.
'Yes ma'am.'
Holding the warm mug of coffee in between his palms, Captain Buccaneer couldn't help feel confused. After all this time, his commanding officer was still merciful towards a man who had attempted to harm her, kill her, make her life a living Hell.
Cocking a brow, he swivelled around to face Olivier who had just returned. Shrugging off her military jacket, Olivier remained silent. It was Buccaneer who spoke first.
'I take it he's still breathin'.'
Olivier didn't respond. Instead she brushed past him, heading for her office.
'Did your plan work?'
She stopped, sighed. 'Yes. You'll be surprised how much exercise can melt away one's fury. Anyway I'm not paying you to lounge around. Get your ass to work.'