Author's note (12/29/09):
Many thanks to those who've patiently been keeping up with this story: Drake Hellion, Katimnai, Johnny Hellion, Necaberint, Pdiggins and others.
I've been trying to shorten my chapters somewhat, and in order to do that, I've split what would have been chapter 9 into two parts. It still might be obscenely long, but breaking a habit is a time-consuming process!
On another note, I was kinda bummed out by the fact that our xbox pulled a Microsoft and crashed on us recently. We didn't have the RRoD issue, but we did have an E74 error which – thankfully – is covered by the warranty. I'm currently exhibiting Gears of War withdrawal symptoms, so I've been spending a little more time writing; in order to feed the habit.
Anyways...thanks a bunch to those who put up with the story. I know it can get tedious at times, so I really appreciate the time you take to read and review.
The following day
Dusk brought with it a menacing rain that evening.
With heavy, pounding fingers, it drummed on and around the APC, muting all inane chatter within. Anything worth saying needed to be decibels louder, and had the mood inside the APC been more jovial, perhaps they would have been more compliant towards the effort of shouting. But the dark, cold weather mirrored their moods; casting wet blankets on any sparks of optimism that had the spunk to materialize.
Grove had been driving the bulky vehicle in silence for about two hours now. Even Velko, who tended to get his sordid kicks through provocations of their driver, was quiet. He slept, his arms folded across his chest, head leaning against the interior wall. Or perhaps he just pretended to be asleep.
Baird sat opposite him, his eyes roving over his lancer. He'd detached part of the ammunition casing for cleaning, and this late-in-the-day inspection left the blond private irritable, seeing as how the metal covering refused to fit neatly back into place. Closer scrutiny revealed the obstruction to be a splinter lodged inside the casing's frame, sizeable enough to refuse to budge – despite the colourful epithets that spilled from Baird's mouth.
Dom lay one seat away from Baird; deafened to his colleague's current irascibility. Neither sleep nor a lancer occupied Dom's thoughts. Instead, a worn scrap of thick paper, a fading photograph, was held tenderly between thumb and forefinger. Images more than the motionless couple in the picture danced through his mind; the happy merging with the sad, the past merging with the future. He was well aware that such thoughts could lead to aberrations of sanity, but to deny them seemed more unnatural than ever. At times, his memory would tug him back to what he'd seen on Orsa; Maria, or whoever the hell that was who resembled her so. And during these times, he would peer askance at Marcus, wondering if the Sergeant had seen how madly that sight had affected him. And if Marcus had, Dom pondered as to whether this had reduced his opinion of him.
But Marcus gave little indication in either direction. Instead, he remained fixed in his seat; an immutable scowl plastered across his weather-worn face, frigid blue eyes staring at the metal-plated floor. Apart from the ill mood had blanketed his visage, little else could be gathered and assembled into sense.
This bothered the man, seated across from Marcus, the most of all.
Luton Jones, more commonly known as Jonesy amongst his friends back at camp, tried to hide his frustrated, fidgety fingers from curious eyes. His wet blond hair had been slicked back from the rain, and he'd left his collar turned up, even within the humid interior. His face bordered on gauntness, the cheeks only just beginning hollow inwards. Although he was middle-aged, his grey eyes seemed older, and his right eyelid drooped lower than his left, adding to an appearance of heavy sedation or constant exhaustion. He was neither, of course. He had earned the disfigurement through battle. In height, he was almost comparable to Dom. He did, however, differ substantially from him in build. To be more exact, in that aspect, he differed from Owens, Grove and all of Delta squad.
Survival out in the wild neck of the woods that Jonesy called home meant conservation on many fronts. Rationing precious stashes of food was a more-than-familiar concept. Preserving energy was another. The two in conjunction had worked to reduce him to a leaner man; his metabolism was near-efficient, and he was composed of slender muscle and very little body fat. In contrast, the well-fed Gears (especially during the duration of their stay on Orsa), had consumed protein-based meals on a daily basis, and their muscles had had the luxury of beefing up – as some of them liked to joke – into the bulkier profiles that were well-recognized amongst Gears and civvies alike.
But such distinctions were the least of Jonesy's concerns that evening. Aside from Baird – who lay seated on his right – Jonesy was the most observant of the small group, especially when it came to the nuances of emotion. He hadn't had the benefit of acquainting himself with Delta Squad, as Velko, Grove and Owens had. But then again, he'd initially been averse to it, and could only blame himself. The evening's excursion, not to mention Owens' strict orders, had now given him an opportunity to familiarize himself with these newcomers.
And Marcus had proved the toughest challenge by far.
Jonesy had deduced that Dom was an easy-going chap. Of course, he'd been marred by the loss of a loved one, but in these times, who hadn't? The only difference, and one of the things that made Dom actually likeable, was that the Corporal hadn't a single chip on his shoulders. There was cynicism, but no acidity. There was sadness, but no depression. There was optimism, but no overabundance of zeal. In short, he was the one who made the rookies, the greenhorns, the interlopers, feel comfortable, he helped them settle in. What was there not to like?
And then there was Baird. He had proved to be Dom's antithesis. Baird's wit, being the only polite term Jonesy could utilize without getting more colourful, was caustic and acerbic. Best of all, people who believed that Baird never meant what he said, only exhibited their naivety. Baird certainly – and wholeheartedly – was very deliberate with such abrasive remarks, and did in fact take pride in this off-putting form of satire. And Jonesy had discovered that it would have been easier to dislike the cocksure soldier more than he already had if Baird really was thick in the head, and if his overconfidence was merely his way of overcompensating for his lack of character. But the fact of the matter was that Clever Clogs was precisely that: very good at what he did. There was no disputing that.
Amidst all of this, however, lay a little relief. Baird was more or less predictable. When it came to camaraderie and the perils therein, the Gear didn't have a thick enough hide to withstand criticism. He wasn't liable to break down in tears, oh no, not Baird, but he was quick to retaliate with cutting retorts of his own. Regardless of rank. And his oversized ego, being the double-edged sword that it was, meant that whatever Baird set out to do, he set out to do well and to the best of his ability. Jonesy had figured that very little that Baird did could emerge out of left field, and stun him.
But Marcus was altogether a different kettle of fish.
It was as if the hardened Sergeant had chosen to permanently brand himself with a sullen cantankerousness. At times, he was excessively gruff when he didn't need to be, and then later on, he would inconsistently display kindness – even if such actions were indirect. From the little that Jonesy had heard from his own companions back at camp, Marcus Fenix had been instrumental in detonating the lightmass bomb near Timgad. And recently, he'd helped warn Jacinto of the Locust Queen's plans to sink the plateau, and had orchestrated the flooding of the Locust hollow. These were medal-worthy jobs; Marcus' accomplishments obviously merited more than just a few honorary titles, but here he was, coated in patches of sweat and dirt, worn and contemplative – a duty-ridden sergeant leading two of his men on an evening operation. Instead of issuing directives, he was taking them. If Jonesy was a betting kind of man, he'd have staked his life on the fact that Marcus had been playing the same role for many years; more years than Jonesy could count on his fingers alone.
So what gives, Jonesy wondered? You're a bit of an enigma, aren't you, Sergeant? Why're you sticking your neck out for the COG on some wild goose chase, when you could've easily demanded a promotion and have stayed away from the battlefront altogether? What's your stake in all of this?
But the truths to such questions lay far short of Jonesy's grasp, and stood on some indistinguishable precipice, threatening to jump if he came close.
There would be no answers tonight.
18 hours ago
Jonesy had curled up asleep against the wall, a rug of some sort serving as a blanket, while his head rested on a folded piece of cloth. Mae was seated on the only chair in the room, weary yet attentive to her injured charge that lay in the bed next to her. She had taken the man's pulse ten times in the past hour; shutting her eyes as she felt for faint throbs in his wrist through her calloused fingers. The near-mutilated body had been fighting, fighting, fighting. It had wrestled with brutality, trauma, infection, pain. And now, recognizing that it was in safe hands, its tenacity seemed to ebb, the lub-dub of its heart reduced to an unhealthy, faint pitter-patter.
It isn't fair, thought Mae, to have come so far only to quit. The body owed the soul more than that.
She had wanted to tell the man this – but after having been awake for a mere fifteen minutes, he had slipped into deep unconsciousness once again. There were moments when she strongly believed that talking, the very sound of speech – even if it was one-sided, was powerful enough to bring the soul back from the thresholds of the afterlife. And that it was almost a rope of sorts; the only line that was tethered to the boat that carried away one's being. She'd believed that she would only have to tug at it persistently for it to be dragged back to familiar shores.
This night, however, the thief of faith had not only absconded with this man's hope, but hers as well. It had left her feeling hollow, dry, and so very used. But she was anchored by his side, with whatever remnants of confidence acting as flickering candles in the mounting darkness.
She hadn't even heard the cabin door creak open, and only looked up with mild curiousity as Owens strode quietly next to her. He gazed gravely at the damaged man, and placed a reassuring hand on Mae's shoulder.
Without looking at her, he spoke with quiet calm. "Meds working any?"
She shook her head.
"Mae, is he even responding to the penicillin?"
"I – well, I think he's gonna need something stronger. I've got him on some morphine, though. Which reminds me – we're down our last stash. I gave him some about an hour ago; it seemed to steady his breathing. But if I give him anymore...well, you know what'll happen. Not to mention that this stuff's precious."
"Use whatever you need." directed the man. "If we run out we can always get some more."
"How? Are the Locust opening up pharmacies now?"
He couldn't help but smile at the remark. "No...Pike says we might be able to make some of our own."
At this, Mae let out a dry chuckle. "Are you thinking of growing a poppy field, Nick? Harvest them for opium?"
"Maybe. Pike was saying something about mandrake roots. Said that it has similar effects. Didn't wanna ask him how he knew about this – I'm too afraid to. Giving him free reign to grow and create that kind of narcotic might mean that we'd be the happiest survivors to date though. Or maybe he thinks we can get the Locust hooked on it instead."
"That's not a half bad idea," grinned Mae.
At that instant, a soft – yet agonizing – groan ensued, evaporating the little humourous banter that remained. The sound appeared to heave out pain, only to inhale it back in again. Owens and Mae both turned their heads towards the source: the distraught man. Part of them anticipated wakefulness, while the other part was reluctant to fall prey to false hope. Apart from a subtle stirring of one of his wounded hands, however, he reverted to his motionless state; eyes shut, thoughts wandering through realms beyond their reach. Perhaps it was a blessing that consciousness eluded him.
After about a minute, Owens cast his eyes down; his countenance drawn and grave. "I'm only gonna ask this once, and don't hold back on me now. Is he gonna make it? Because if he isn't, just – just don't say anything."
A heavy silence followed.
Owens went on. "If...if we had more meds, would he be able to recover?"
"I don't know," came our Mae's hoarse voice. "Even if we had every antibiotic and painkiller at our disposal, and he died anyway, would it be that much of a consolation to you?"
"Yes," responded the man, "when you get to where I'm at, you'll take any consolation you can get."
"When you get to where I'm at?" repeated Mae, bitterness spreading over her face. "What makes you think I've never suffered loss? Or do you think I'm so cold as to be lacking in heart?"
Owens winced, recognizing the impact of his loose words too late in the day. "I'm sorry. I don't – I don't know what made me say it. I didn't mean any of it."
Her face softened, and she covered it with her hand. "It's alright. I've been walking on hot coals all night. Short fuse. You know." She went silent again and her body quivered.
It took him a second to realize that she was crying. "Mae," spoke Owens as he knelt beside her. "We did – we're doing everything we can for him. It's better for him that it ends here rather than with the Locust. Now animals – they're good at dying alone, but we aren't. It's a terrifying, lonely business. He's in good hands. And I'm sure he knows it."
"He spoke, you know," said Mae, trying to swallow back a sob. She brushed away her tears roughly in an attempt to regain her composure. "Well, he groaned more than he spoke. He looked at me and Jonesy."
"What did he say?"
"He asked for a pen and paper. Jonesy brought them for him. I have it – " she paused, eager for the distraction, and rummaged underneath her chair amidst the medicinal paraphernalia, bringing out a sheet, " – here. He scribbled nonsense for a while; maybe he was trying to make his fingers work. The top part's illegible." She handed the leaf of paper to Owens and talked as he proceeded to read it. "The next couple bits I can make out, but very little of it makes sense."
The script certainly was haphazard. Of the letters that actually constructed words, sat wide gaps in between, making sentences difficult to decipher. And sometimes phrases moved up, and sometimes they moved down. There were even fractions of words that had overlapped. He'd stared at it for a solid five minutes before he spoke up. His blood ran cold at the text he had discerned.
"Banshee," whispered Owens.
Mae turned to him wearily, a confused expression on her face.
"Banshee came...and took the girls away. For bread," continued the old general.
The woman grimaced in distaste. Given another time and place, the words could have almost been humorous. But neither one of them was laughing now. "Delirium," she said, "he must've been delirious."
Owens looked up from the paper. "If you'd told me this yesterday, I'd have been inclined to agree with you."
"But not today?" ventured Mae tentatively.
"Not today."
"I hate to ask you this; but why?"
Owens swallowed. "There was a Locust. He was different from the rest. We saw him back at Tyro this evening."
"And you think he's this – "
" – banshee?" interjected the General, "Yes, I do." And then, as if he'd just remembered something, he pointed towards the wounded man. "Did you happen to notice his ears?"
She paused, trying to filter out relevant memories from obscurities that had been wrought by her tired mind. "Now that you mention it, yes, there's some dried blood on the outer part – look here," she gestured towards the man's right ear. Even in the weak lamplight, Owens was able to recognize the solidified, darkened hue of coagulated blood. Mae carried on. "I used to be just a nurse, Nick, not a doctor. I'd imagined that the bleeding must've been part of the...torture. The wounds have obviously clotted; there were more important injuries I had to tend to, so I dismissed it. You think it's something else?"
"I know it's something else. When this...banshee screams, he's liable to bust a few eardrums. Seems to me that this Locust's living up to its namesake," he rubbed his right ear, the painful memory still raw and visceral.
Mae's hands began to grow cold and clammy. She lowered her voice, "And what does taking women – the girls – have anything to do with this Locust?"
"Now that – I don't know."
"You had better damn well figure it out, 'cos I don't like the sound of that. Not one bit." She placed her hands back in her lap, and fidgeted, trying to track sense from the injured man's scattered phrases. She wanted to believe that they were the product of a mind that was rapidly losing its grip on sanity; one that had indiscriminately interlinked memories from the past and the present. In fact, she'd very nearly convinced herself of this before Owens had analyzed the words himself and had shot that notion to hell.
"Maybe that part of his writings was induced by the fever," muttered Owens, noticing the effects the man's babbling scrawls were having on Mae. Panicking in the midst of danger was bad enough, but panicking without a reason to was worse still. He chastened himself. Should've kept these thoughts to myself.
"It's a little too late for that, Nick," said Mae, with an uncanny mix of telepathy and severity. "And don't you try to keep anything from me. What else does the note say?"
He inhaled deeply and held out the note for the woman to see, pointing at specific portions of text. "Look here, see these three Os? I thought they were a bunch of zeros...something random – something he couldn't help doing. But then here they are again at the bottom of the page."
"Those aren't zeros," murmured Mae, "they're...letters. This one's a D. This is an O, and so's the third. 'DOO'? What on earth does that mean?"
"Not 'DOO', it's 'DOC'." corrected the older man. "The way he writes his Cs – it's the same. His Os are different."
"Well, I'm glad that one of us is a handwriting expert," said a sarcastic Mae. "This poor man wasn't exactly in the most stable of conditions when he wrote this. Okay, so he remembered the Locust you mentioned. Doesn't mean everything else he says is fact, though. If you ask me, this analysis is subjective at best. We shouldn't jump to conclusions yet. And – and even if he's right, what on earth does DOC mean? Document? Doctor? Is it an abbreviation?"
Owens' shoulders drooped and he thrust one hand in his pocket; the scrutinized note hanging dejectedly by his side in the other. "Damned if I know," and then, in retrospect, "Huh. Maybe that's what we all are. Damned."
Mae rose from her seat and placed tired hands at her hips. All this speculation seemed to rub her the wrong way – it had manipulated her emotions in a manner that never suited her practical nature. "Don't be silly. Until we know for certain, we can't tell the others. Right?"
"We can't dismiss everything in this note, Mae,"
"You do what you think is best, Nicolas," she scowled at him, "but all I'm saying is that this camp is gonna get a hell of a lot more unruly if they know. And then – if they take in everything the wrong way, they'll want to move, they'll panic. We don't need that. I don't need that. We've lost enough as it is."
Owens gave a reluctant nod. "I'll keep a lid on it," he promised, "but I've got to do a little investigating of my own. I'll have to tell Grove at least. And if I find that there's some truth to the matter, well then – "
" – the truth will out." finished Mae. "Fair enough."
She walked with the General back to the door of the cabin, and shut it behind him after he left. As she turned back to the unconscious man in her care, her eyes watered. But she valiantly quelled her anguish and resumed her duties by his side.
14 Hours ago
"Yo man, we've got to get you away from scrapbooking. It ain't right."
Seated on a felled log, Baird raised his eyes from the reading material in his lap, and fixed a stare on the hefty Gear before returning to his book.
"My momma used to say that a picture's worth a thousand words – never knew what she meant until now," chuckled Cole. He sat down beside his friend and snatched the book away from him. "Ma-an! You know you gonna get nightmares from this stuff, right? What's this supposed to be? Locust teeth?"
The blond man thrust a hand out to tug his notes back into his possession, but Cole held it away from him; trying to study the photographs and writings within. As his companion attempted to pull his sleeve, Cole swatted loosely at him, yanking his arm back.
"Whatchu doin' with photos of Locust teeth, huh?"
"Dammit, Cole! Just give it back!" insisted Baird, as he stretched his arms forward for another try.
The scene seemed placid enough. Dawn had just recently approached, and the dew sat fresh on the grass; waiting to disperse into the air come the late morning heat. The one oddity amidst the picturesque setting was the pair of bickering men, who were squabbling only as brothers could. Within moments, the larger of the two had broken into guffaws of laughter, and had leapt off the log, book in hand as his irritated companion lunged after him.
"Big babies," muttered the girl from the window of her cabin. But she was smiling. Her elbow rested on the wide windowsill, and she cupped her chin in her hand, eyes fixed on the unfolding brawl.
"What?" came a voice from behind her.
She turned a head a fraction and spoke. "Those two Gears. Cole and that other guy. Y'know, the one who thinks I was after his stuff the other day." She returned to gazing through the window.
"That would be Baird," Velko remarked, as he approached the girl's side and peered out with her. "Looks like Cole's giving him some exercise."
"He looks familiar..."
"Who? Baird?"
"Nah...the other one. Cole."
Velko grinned. "You mean you don't recognize him?"
She stared at him, giving him a quizzical look. "Should I?"
He laughed. "Yeah. You should."
She tried to scowl, but the frown twisted upwards as her face broke into a grin. She couldn't help it. "Alright already! Tell me – who is he?"
"Nope. Figure it out yourself." Velko turned towards his bunk and lay down in it.
Frustrated, she searched for the nearest item within her reach, which happened to be box of matches, and flung it at him.
"Hey - hey!" he cried out, chuckling, "Temper, temper, Wildcat!"
"Who is he? C'mon!" She leapt to his side and punched him playfully in the arm.
"Okay, okay! He used to play thrash-ball," said Velko as he gave her a pseudo-petulant stare and rubbed his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut, and crooned loudly, like a sports announcer for a boxing match. "Number eighty-threeeee! The Cole Train!"
"No way! Is it really him? Oh my god, I can't believe it's him! And this whole time – I had no idea!" She hit him in the arm again.
"Stop with the hitting already. So what're you gonna do? Run out there and get his autograph?" Velko winked at her and grinned. "Maybe you can auction it. Maybe deep down, the Locust are avid thrash-ball fans, and they'd let us win the war if we gave 'em Cole."
"I wish. My dad worshipped the Train. He wouldn't miss a game. It drove mom nuts." She flopped on the floor beside his bed and twiddled her fingers, preoccupied.
Velko drew his knees up and played with a tattered rubber ball, all the while studying the young girl's animated visage. These moments were few and far between. She had unwittingly retreated back into who she used to be, and possibly who she should have been – a fifteen year old kid. She should be with people her age, she should be interested in boys, slumber parties, best friends, books, movies, rebellion; she should've been everything that she wasn't now.
The brief instances where she would wander into happiness almost inevitably shrunk, and by then, all paths led back to thoughts of war and death and grief. He could see it in her face now; a withering smile, a tightening of her brows and the hardening of her eyes. If he could, he'd always tried to prolong a pleasant memory – he'd try to stretch it out for what it was worth.
He turned to a side and propped himself up onto one elbow. "Did your dad go to any of the games?"
She looked ahead of her, eyes twinkling at recollections. "Yeah – about twice or thrice. I don't think mom liked it much. This one time, he lied to her and said that he was helping out at a shelter or something. Mom had this thing for public service. She said that everyone owed humanity something, and that we owed them more because we were pretty well off. Anyway, so dad made up this excuse to go to a game. It was a great excuse too, she didn't even ask him many questions about it.
"But then that evening, she drove down to the shelter after work to help him out, and he wasn't there. She got so worried. Called the police and everything! And then – then dad got home after she got off the phone with the cops, and she listened to him lie about how he'd helped out at the shelter, and she went berserk. Guess that part isn't quite funny. Before, they used to fight, but I think...after this happened, they fought more often. Until dad left, that is." At this, her head drooped slightly, and she grew quiet.
Velko reached out and brushed a loose strand of blonde hair from her face. "You miss him?"
"The thing is, he could sometimes be a real asshole, y'know? When he got his paycheck, he'd go to the liquor store across the street and buy himself a couple. I'm not even talking about the cheap stuff – he bought booze, but it was quality booze. And then we had the second mortgage on the house – he'd taken it out himself, and he couldn't pay it, so there were times when we were months late. Mom had to work overtime to cover the payments.
"There was also the time when mom suspected him of having a bit on the side. I don't even want to go there." She paused, turning glum. "But he was my dad, you know? I – I loved him. He drank, but he wasn't mean. At least, he was never mean to me. He's the one who started calling me Wildcat. He said that I reminded him of mom before he married her."
"Did you ever hear from him? You know, after..." asked Velko.
"He sent mom the child support checks. Was never late with those. He never sent me any letters, though. But after E-Day? Checks stopped coming – obviously."
"Do you ever wonder...?"
"...if he's alive? Yeah. Of course I do. Wouldn't you?"
Velko stuttered for a moment, as if caught off guard. "I uh – yeah, I guess I would."
She turned to him, serious; brows knotted together. "You never told me what happened to your parents."
"There's not much to tell. They died when I was four. My aunt took care of me."
"Don't you miss them?"
He sighed. "I suppose I miss the thought of having parents; I guess I felt cheated out of something that lots of people had. But I can't say that I miss them specifically."
"The heart can't long for an attachment that it never had in the first place," murmured the girl. "Mom used to say the same thing about her parents. They died in a car accident when she was little." She paused, and let out a breath. "Velko?"
"Yeah?"
"Can we talk about something else? Please?"
He gave a short, dry laugh. "Yeah, we can."
"Are you gonna leave again today?"
Velko gave the girl a knowing look. "I thought we were gonna talk about something light,"
"Just – just answer this one question. It's been on my mind."
"If I need to, then I will. You know what I have to do, Janey. I can't leave them if they're still alive. I'm obligated to find them."
She frowned and averted her gaze. "There are Gears here, now. They can find your missing team, can't they?"
"I'm a Gear too, kiddo. And...they were like my family. I can't let them go that easy. There's things you have to do, there are some things that won't leave you alone. You can't avoid them. I'd never forgive myself if I turned my back on Tom and Susie. They had families too. And if this war ends, and I come back without news, and I don't know what happened, what am I gonna tell their families? I couldn't face them."
Janey looked at the man, her eyes pleading and earnest. "You have a family here as well. There's...stuff here that can keep you going, you know,"
It was Velko's turn to look away. Emotions were sticky; they adhered to things, people, places. He'd always thought of himself as cold, especially after the medical operations and the changes he'd made to his body. Even the metal that resided within him seem to contribute to this new persona. But as always, unforeseeable events had overshadowed schemes, and had decimated man's fragile plans.
He'd allied himself with Owens for the sake of resources and aid. It was the logical choice to make. An alliance didn't necessarily imply that emotional attachment was part of the deal, and that certainty was what kept him going; it kept him focused. But a vulnerability that had been exposed by this fifteen-year-old creature had somehow managed to steer him off course. At the very least, it had made him think twice about his loyalties to his missing friends.
And it was just that – this hesitation, this trepidation that irked him. It made him feel like a traitor.
"If it were you who was missing," he began, "instead of them, would you like me to give up on you too?"
Janey narrowed her eyes. He was backing her into a corner again. She wasn't sure if she liked it. "If it had been a while – yeah, I'd want you to get on with your life." The words seemed to slur together, the mild incoherence betraying her reluctant answer.
"Liar, liar," said Velko quietly.
"I'm not lying," she shot back. "I wouldn't give up the living for the dead."
"I can't leave them." he said, finally. It was the way in which he had said it; it was the severity of his tone that had reached out and slammed the book shut on the topic.
The young girl stayed silent for a spell. And when she spoke, it was clear that she'd caught on. "If you leave again, who's coming with you? Where will you be going?"
"I don't know who's coming along," replied Velko, "and as for where we're going – I've got a hunch we're headed for West Montevado." said the man as he recalled his conversation with Marcus the night before.
"What's in West Montevado?"
"Beats me," lied Velko. Perhaps, he thought, the less I talk about it, the less concerned she would be.
"Are those Gears going with you? Is Owens going?"
"Those aren't my decisions to make."
Janey redirected her gaze towards the window and bit her lower lip. "Ever since they got here, things have started to change. In some ways it's nice, y'know? But I don't think I'm as flexible as I used to be. I want so many things to go back to the way they were. I know, I know. Having extra pairs of hands is great, and we could use the extra weapons...but what if the Locust tracked them back here? Pike says that wherever a Gear goes, trouble is sure to follow."
Velk scoffed. "He would say that. Did it ever occur to you that it's the other way around? That Gears go wherever there's trouble?"
"No...I never thought of it that way." She turned to him with a jerk of the head, and looked at him quizzically. "Are you defending them? I thought you couldn't stand them – especially that one guy – the one who looks like a washed-out rock star."
He laughed, unable to help himself. "Marcus? Marcus Fenix? Ha – he'll get a kick out of that line; if he had a sense of humour."
"Don't change the subject. I thought he got on your nerves."
He pointed a finger at himself, incredulous. "Me? When did I ever tell you that?"
Janey turned her head to a side and rolled her eyes. "You don't need to tell me things for me to know them. Jeez. What kinda asswipe do you take me for?"
Velko shook his head. Looks like a woman's intuition blossomed at a young age along with her wit. Lucky me. "Cut the sass," he snapped. "And anyway, what's the big deal? So me and him don't get along. So what?"
She gave him a cynical look from the corner of her eyes. One that seemed knowing and guilty at the same time. "I saw you guys duke it out last night."
The man groaned, shifting his position so that he was now leaning against the wall. He threw his head backwards with a deliberate and audible thunk.
She went on. "I thought you could take him, but looks to me that he creamed you pretty good. For a washed-out rock star."
"Just stay out of my fucking business."
"He's got it in it for you, Sebastian. If you get landed with him on tonight's run, he ain't gonna watch your back. I can feel it."
He sat forward, reached out and grabbed her chin, turning it towards him. The action wasn't particularly forceful, but neither was it gentle. If anything, it felt cold. "Listen to me, Jane. This run? Doing it is my decision. Not Owens', not Grove's, and it sure as hell isn't yours. And Marcus Fenix may be the scum of the earth, but he isn't going to let us bleed out. You know how I know? Because we're scum of the same sort. And I would never let anyone who isn't fucking Locust bleed out either." And then, without another word, he swung his legs off his bunk and stormed out of the cabin.
The girl remained seated, a little breathless. "Sebastian Velko, you're a fucking asshole," she muttered. "The biggest fucking asshole on the planet."
10 hours ago
"So what do you think?"
Marcus studied the grey eyes that peered out at him from underneath bushy brows. He looked away, glancing again at the poorly-scrawled note before letting out a heavy breath. "He's spot on with the banshee line," he grumbled. "I got no clue what he means about bread, though."
Owens nodded, eager to hear the younger man's interpretation of these written claims. "Yeah? What about 'DOC'? What do you think's up with that?"
"Could be doctor..."
"That's what Mae said too. Which reminds me, breathe a word of this to her and I'll lock you up in solitary."
Marcus grimaced, recollecting the term of his own imprisonment by the COG, but the reflex went by unnoticed.
"The thing is, Fenix, this note here has got my feathers ruffled, and to say the least – that's an understatement." admitted the General. "I'd like nothing more than to dismiss it, but the decades I've spent fighting in wars won't allow me to do that. Intel – solid or no – needs to be confirmed. I'm just at a loss as to how to go about it."
Marcus' mouth turned downwards into a familiar scowl. He rested one hand against the hull of the APC and brought up the piece of paper to eye-level. He'd looked through it a dozen times, and already – these repetitive observations had become a habit. But this time, he seemed to gaze through the man's handwriting, and into thoughts of his own. His mind led him into the maze that had been New Hope, and within such memories, he listened to echoes of the intercom reverberate across the facility's walls – the voice that had been that of Dr. Samson's. Now, it was obvious that the dying man couldn't have specifically been referring to Dr. Samson, but the possibility that he was in fact alluding to a physician nagged at him.
"I'm gonna need the APC." said Marcus suddenly, so out of the blue that Owens merely stared back at him, wordless.
The older man had managed to find his voice, however, because he quickly spoke, "What the hell for?"
"We need to get to West Montevado. I got a hunch that whatever's out there has some answers for us."
Owens shook his head. "No way. That's the only operating vehicle we've got here."
"What about the jeep by Grove's cabin?" Marcus jerked his thumb behind him.
"That thing?" said Owens, incredulous, "It's a clunker. It's Grove's pet project. He's been working on it for two months. No. No dice. You can't take the APC."
Nonplussed, Marcus held up an alternative offer. "Then let me talk with the prisoner."
"You can't,"
"Why not?"
"Because he died a couple hours ago, Fenix."
The Sergeant shut his eyes. Without opening them, he insisted, "I need that APC, General." He placed emphasis on the older man's title. He didn't intend to flatter or stroke the General's ego, but rather, he sought to show him respect, and that his request bore more urgency than insolence. And Marcus wanted to remind him, more than anything, that he was still a Gear.
Owens' lips tightened.
"I understand if you don't trust us with it," Marcus added, "you can tag along if you want."
The General placed his hands on his hips, and shook his head in disbelief. "You've got some nerve," he admitted, with a grudging smile. "Okay. So what the hell's in West Montevado that's got you in a tizzy?"
Marcus paused. "Have you spoken with Velko?"
Owens knitted his brows together and indicated that he hadn't.
Maybe this wasn't the time to divulge family secrets, thought Marcus to himself. There was time enough for that later, and the truth would sound better coming from the source itself. "I've got some intel...about a military hospital out there. We've put a couple pieces together that might suggest that there's information to be had."
"Information regarding what?"
"This note – for starters. Other than that – we don't know."
"Come on, Fenix," urged Owens, finally starting to get irritated, "gimme a little credit. I'm not a complete imbecile. Look. You're asking me for a more-than-heavy favour here. Quid pro quo, Sergeant."
Marcus sighed as his shoulders drooped, and relented. "Before Jacinto went under, Command directed us to a military installation – well, it was more of a research facility. We initially thought the COG kept POWs there. Now...we're not so sure."
"I hate to ask why..." murmured Owens, despite his curiousity.
"There were these stasis tanks – they had life support tubes. And they had some crap in 'em."
Owens froze for several moments, his gaze unwavering, and he blinked once during that span. "Crap? As in crap that could think?"
"Crap that could think and run and kill."
"I'm guessing that this uh – fully operational crap was organic, and not human...."
"You would be guessing right, General."
In the distance, Owens saw Pike and Grove lift equipment towards one of the wooden cabins. Pike's hand lost its grip on the object and he dropped it with a thud, inciting a flare and flurry of curses on Grove's part. Jonesy, who had seen the pair struggle with their load, came to their assistance.
From the opposite side of the clearing, Mae had finally emerged from the cabin in which she had tended to the injured man. She wiped her hands on her trousers, and stood on the cabin's porch, blinking in the strong afternoon sunlight. Absently and inadvertently, Owens found himself wondering about what she'd done with the empty morphine bottles, the bloodied sheets and the worn bandages.
" – all I know, General." came Marcus' gruff voice, as it sliced through Owens' efforts at distraction.
"What?"
"That's all I know," repeated the Sergeant. "So I'm thinking, that if we're lucky, maybe this hospital in Montevado might have some references, names, that we can use to piece things together."
"I've heard of St. Luke's, Fenix," said Owens, thoughts descending back into the now. "I'll guarantee you that it's abandoned too. And it's just a hospital. Military or otherwise, what makes you think that there are going to be records that'll tattle about what went on at this other facility you mentioned? I've had my share of dalliances with confidential operations, and I've met the people who orchestrate them. They're a tight-lipped bunch and they're wily enough to keep their work the same way. The chances of you finding loose info of that sort is slim – at best."
"Can't cut it 'less you try it." Marcus issued, eyeing him slyly. "Isn't that what you used to say?"
"That was another time."
"But you're still the same person,"
"Says who? You?" Owens snorted. "You're hardly fit to judge. Look," his face softened, "I've got a different sort of family to take care of now." He nodded into the distance, where Pike, Grove and Jonesy were unloading more equipment. The girl, Janey, now walked alongside them. "I can't abandon them. But...I can't leave you hanging either."
"What're you saying?"
"Take the APC. But Velko, Grove and Jonesy are gonna go with you to make sure you bring it back in one piece. And I want one of your men to stay back here – as collateral."
Marcus grinned.
"Now get gone, get you and your team prepped for this evening." The old man scowled, before turning around and muttering to himself, "I've somehow gotta explain how I've got myself into this mess. Mae'll have my head, that's for sure."
