The truck lurches over stones and sand, preventing any shut-eye the soldiers were hoping to get on the way to their destination, shoulders bumping and legs bouncing into one another too often for them to complain. Marcus has his head leant against the fabric behind him, eyes closed despite his inability to truly sleep, hands wrapped loosely around the M16, butt resting on the ground in front of him. Lutorious watches him from across the aisle, as if surprised by his laid-back attitude, but having been with Marcus since the beginning of his command, he knows full well he's the most focused soldier in the truck. So Lori doesn't say anything, just shakes his head and goes back to observing the rest of the unit, finding many of them just as nervous as he feels.
Marcus shifts on his seat and opens his eyes, sitting up straight and nodding to Lori to let him know they're close, just as a voice fuzzes through the radio to tell them to make themselves ready. Lori shakes his head, never having understood Marcus' skill with distances.
Esca rolls his ankles against the floor, one hand on the bar skirting the edge of the room as he pushes up to his toes repeatedly, sweat running down his back and causing his hair to stick to his forehead. The radio plays softly in the corner, but Esca warms up to memorized beats, feeling the slide of tights as he raises his foot above his head. He stretches it as far as it will go, and then some, closing his eyes and leaning his full weight onto the bar.
Vaguely aware of the clock ticking away to rehearsal time, Esca bends over to the floor, taught muscles bending with him, but there's no strain to them, hooking his hands behind his ankles. Closing his eyes again, he listens to the tape playing, an old band he hadn't listened to in years, not since he was a kid.
He even smiles a bit at remember every word despite the time, and raises himself back up to stretch backwards instead. The sounds of New York City rumble the studio floor, but being well use to it, Esca continues practicing as if nothing were out of place. And really, what would be?
Marcus' boots hit the sand with a crunch that sends a shiver up his back, but he ignores it to crouch low to the ground, signaling to his disembarking men silently with his hand. Lori follows closely behind him, stern expressions on all of their faces as they take to the ruined city, humid air settling onto their skin in sheens of sweat. Aside from the already near-silent sounds of their boots, the city is quiet. Uniform. Undisturbed.
But something doesn't feel right, a lump of concern twisting in the pit of Marcus' stomach that doesn't let him relax, doesn't let him even consider loosening the tension in his shoulders that keeps him coiled and ready to dive behind any piece of rubble at a moment's notice. Lori seems to share the same sentiment, but he doesn't seem to hear the same suspicious tells of activity that Marcus is only able to focus on.
Marcus is jolting into an upright position and pulling the trigger of his rifle before any of his men have even realized they are not alone, before the enemy soldier can even raise their own gun, so there is only one sound ringing through the ruins, before all hell breaks loose.
The press of the mirror behind him offers a blissful coolness to Esca's heated skin, a towel around his neck as he watches his dance partners warmup on the floor. Esca takes a long swallow of water, tipping back his head so the line of his throat is exposed, relishing in the airconditioning he had not noticed while practicing. He feels his instructor's accusitory gaze on him, as if he should know full well that he should not be pushing himself like he has been doing.
He ignores this, of course, closing his eyes again and leaning his head against the mirror as he closes the cap of his waterbottle. He can feel the weak afternoon sunlight flitting in through the row of frosted windows high on the walls, quite content to remain where he is until he's called to the rehearsal. Despite outward appearences, he does care a great deal about this show, Swan Lake, nostalgia tied into every bit of it from when he was young. He remembers every part of the routine, every step, every dancer, every face that showed to the recital that night.
He remembers Marcus making fun of him for the too-large set of black wings he'd been forced into wearing.
Compared to the utter stillness of their commander before, Marcus falls easily into the battle erupting around them, shouting instructions and signals as if it were just another day at training. Lori watches Marcus for any sign of faltering or weakness, but finding none, he has no choice but to follow his lead, and even that becomes easy with how little distrust there is between the men and their commander.
Marcus can barely feel his fingers or toes as he crouches behind a broken wall, gripping his rifle impossibly tight as he counts to five in his head, before darting up over the wall to shoot another enemy soldier down over the side of the opposite wall. Lori follows suit soon after, and Marcus gets the feeling they'll make it out of this alive. Spurred by this thought, this sureity, he signals for an offensive, waiting until his men have assembaled before darting to charge the building the enemy all seem to be hiding in.
The ground rumbles under their feet, and for a moment, Marcus is unsure whether or not it is from them, but his question is answered soon enough when all shooters in his line of sight disappear, to be replaced with the roaring sound of a tank taking down nearby houses, before showering his men with dust and debris, a spare few dropping to the ground or diving for cover. Marcus feels a surge of pride for the ones that stay standing, but he shouts for a retreat, knowing they could get nowhere without backup, not like this.
Lori reshouts the command, ensuring everyone hears as they all turn heel and start sprinting for the truck they'd arrived in, Lori already calling in for backup, for a plane, for anything. Marcus runs along beside him, glad the tank had not taken the liberty to shoot at them, but he knows it is only a matter of time, that he has to do something or his entire unit will be killed. Eyes catching on a fallen launcher with tank rounds, dropped by of his own soldiers perhaps, Marcus skids to a stop to turn around.
He hears the pleading shouts from his men, begging him to join them, to leave the lost cause alone, but he does not listen, picking up the launcher and arming it before running straight at the tank. He only stops when he's close enough, shooting right for the cockpit. He feels the recoil, feels the heat, feels rather than sees everything that happens in quick succession.
He only gets the satisfaction of seeing the tank topple over before he's flat on his back, knocked to the ground and feet sweapt out from underneath him.
Esca looks to the floor in front of him and pushes himself up to his feet.