DAY 7
2124HRS
It turns out, the greatest skill of a bodyguard is not, as many would expect, the capacity to which they can take bullets or kick ass, or how well they resemble a truck with their musculature.
Oh no, the mark of a true professional is the ability to go hours on end without taking a piss.
After all, you can't just bugger off whenever nature calls and leave your charge as exposed as a flasher's blue balls. A bodyguard, a good one, doesn't ever leave the Principal's side, unless there is another suitable candidate who can babysit within range. Which is tricky for Vade, on the run in a forest or otherwise. Not because there aren't able candidates in her circle; it's just that none of them are willing. Cyrus Sager is infamous in the Hoplite circles for being more of a pain in the ass than advanced prostate cancer. He barely listens to Vade on a good day, let alone a bad one, and with everyone else, his passive-aggressive nasty streak is intensified by about 300%.
See, the kid doesn't hate Vade, despite all they've gone through. Not on what Vade tends to call the 'Sager scale'. If anything, Vade would just say that they've gotten used to each other over time. Two assholes watching each other's back for the sake of not having anyone else to have watch over them.
It means that Vade, half crippled to the point of not being able to put much, if any, weight on her left side at all, has some liberty to cut some slack. Not much, but just enough. She's been with Cyrus long enough now, just over three years, that she can trust him to do more than just get shot at.
During the fight, they had taken to Vade to a facility just north of here. She is certain by this point that it's the Acadamy facility. There really can't be anything else here. They also hadn't made it before Vade had attacked; Vade had to gauge the area before she made her escape, and then, make her escape before they were properly identified by anyone within the walls. There's a trick to it; playing docile before you pounce, and this time, it seems to have paid off. She had stuck around long enough to notice a small little building along the south-eastern wall. It looked like some sort of maintenance building.
It was perfect, in a way. Depending on how safe it was, if they could get to it without being seen, they could sit right under the nose of S.H.I.E.L.D. while they figured out their next move.
Vade has no way of really knowing, but from past experience, she's sure that S.H.I.E.L.D., or whoever the fuck it was who was pursuing them, will be expecting them to move further away from the facility than go near it. It's common sense. Unfortunately for them, common sense is not something Vade tends to excel in, on general principle. It gives Cyrus and her a good opening to try and get a few steps ahead.
Hopefully for the duration, this time; they're both injured, after all. Vade severely, in terms of capabilities. Injured and exhausted, and generally just sick and tired of jumping at shadows and constantly being on their guard. They need somewhere where they won't be disturbed long-term.
That's assuming that they've realised that Vade has been spooked in the first place. By the time she got back to the bodies, almost a three hours later, she found them undisturbed. Nobody had come to collect them, or otherwise ventured anywhere near where the fight happened. It makes her wonder, idly, if the forces stalking them are smaller than she first expected, or in a requirement of as much secrecy when operating as Vade and Cyrus.
At any rate, Vade doesn't want to risk wasting time they no longer have. When night falls and the surrounding forest is surrounded in a thick cover of darkness, she wakes up a grumpy, now near-starving Cyrus to make their next move.
"I've got a cheap pay-as-you-go for emergencies," She explains, half groaning when she moves her leg further out of the hole so climbing out is less of a painful experience as it had been last time. "I don't know if they'll be tracking it, whoever it is, but I've got to contact someone, somewhere. Hopefully with that GOPHER-REV4 tech, we should be able to prevent people from tracking us. Just in case, I'll make the call further away, take it apart and strap it to a grenade dummy. Fire it across the flipping forest."
Cyrus snorts and rolls his eyes. "The simple methods always the best, hn?"
"Hey, fuck you, fruitloops. Not everyone went to Communications Acadamy." Vade grumbles as she leaves the hole, rifle at the ready and scrambling awkwardly to her feet... Or, well, foot, as it were. Once they're out and Cyrus has stretched, Vade slings her rifle over her shoulder with one lazy motion. It might seem borderline on careless, but to Vade, it was a seemingly spontaneous hallmark of muscle memory; the firearm swings over her shoulder on its strap, the length of it deliberately sending it colliding into her shoulderblade, were the magnets on her back secure it in place. "Right. BA check." She says, automatically slipping into her 'do it and no bitching' tone.
Cyrus smirks condescendingly. "Since you asked so nicely." He snipes, swaggering on over like the self-entitled douche he is.
A BA, or BodyArmour, check can look a little like a groping-fest if a person is not professional about it. And Cyrus has this creepy habit of watching Vade unblinkingly while she does it. Still, Vade is qualified (sorta... she has a Master's diploma in Badassery) professional, so she pats him down and readjusts the moulded Kevlar and tightens the straps with only slightly more force than is strictly necessary. This armour, they hadn't come down with; they hadn't had time to get it out of the car before it imploded, but one of the folks who attacked Vade earlier that day was a rough enough size. A bit taller, but since Cyrus is still quite round around the middle, it worked well in their favour. Better to be slightly too long than too tight.
And it was certainly better than nothing. Vade is willing to take anything they can get at this point.
"Armed?" She asks, and he rolls his eyes "Safety on?"
"No, I thought I'd shoot my own balls off for a fucking kick in the interval." He hisses, sarcasm dripping heavier than congealed treacle. Vade raises her eyebrows and smacks a fist into his sternum-shield. Hard. 'Testing the goods', and smiling sweetly when he glares at her sharply.
"No need to get sarky about it, fucknugget."
From what Vade can gauge, it's the same kind of body armour a lot of agents and specialists use while on the field; not the thick, borderline near-spacesuit armour some S.H.I.E.L.D. Military use. Four of the agents who attacked Vade were wearing the military types. Bloody good pieces of equipment, but heavy and cumbersome and downright uncomfortable to anyone who hasn't trained with a set for a longer period of time. The variant Vade had found on the supposed leader of that little strike team had the thinner variant; it was clearly top of the range, but no amount of Kevlar can cover a person all over. That'd be ridiculous, they'd look like Iron Man.
Honestly, Vade would be more comfortable if Cyrus just went around wearing a freakin' motorcycle helmet and a bullet-proof lycra bodysuit everywhere, but... Vade doesn't like reminding him just how abnormal he is (not that he minds that, self-important asshole) for phycological reasons. It's hard to constantly be on the job, and Vade knows how much stress it puts on someone when during the few small times they get some downtime, they're still at a big enough threat that they have to have a bodyguard with them regardless. Her step-father still suffers from it and he's had bodyguards for over ten years now. Still. The motorcycle helmet isn't too necessary. Cyrus is so thickheaded Vade is pretty sure bullets would bounce off his self-satisfied arrogant skull.
Smugness is pretty damn impenetrable.
Cyrus was safer, yes, but he wasn't completely protected. That is where Vade comes in. With her armour, she very nearly was; and while she'd had to forgo the protection on her left leg due to the injury, she was fairly confident that if bullets started flying, the stupid twit would at least be okay.
And this isn't just paranoia, here. Vade has lived long enough in S.H.I.E.L.D. to know that one thing never changes.
The bullets will always, at some point, start flying.
Better wear that helmet, comrade.
After that depressing moment of contemplation, Vade sighs. "Right." She mumbles, slipping one of the handguns she nicked from the dead agents into her hands. "Let's get going, gundaro."
[STALINGRAD]
They stand in the darkness, rifles tucked against their chests.
A moment of silence.
A crackle of the radio.
Franklin rolls his head to each side, stretching the muscles in his neck. "Athos." He half-growls, staring through the door into the night beyond, considering. He turns on his heels once he's certain, regarding the seemingly empty barracks. "Alpha, check."
"Copy. Alpha, Check." Through the radio, the sound of Reg Decker's voice replies almost immediately.
"Bravo, Check."
Daniel Bonaventura. A huffed sigh. "Bravo, check. Captian Crapsack."
Franklin doesn't rise to the bait. "Charlie, Check."
"Charlie, Check." Saide follows up. She's right next to him, Franklin knows, but he has to do this. Just in case.
"Delta?"
"Delta, Check." Rose Matthews confirms.
"Echo."
Finley Powell's voice sounds through his earpiece. "Echo, Check."
"Got the bag?"
"I got the bag."
"Outstanding." Franklin leans up on his toes, stretching his calves. "Foxtrot."
Caesar grumbles through. "Affirmative Six-Actual. Foxtrot, Check."
Franklin nods. Well, that's a quarter of them. "Porthos. Golf, come in."
Cecily Astrof respons a little later than Franklin first expects. "Sorry." She grumbles. "Golf, check."
"S'fine, Golf. Hotel, you copy?"
"Affirmative," Ata-Qadir replies. "Hotel, Check."
"India?"
He can see Kahala's fist fly into the air. "India, Check."
Franklin eyes the backside of his rifle. Anytime now. "Juliett?"
"You made me Juliett on purpose," Will complains. "Well fuck me, Romeo. I copy. Juliett, Check."
"In your dreams," Franklin snips, calmly. "Wadabout you, Kilo? You up for a round?"
Josephine snorts through the radio. "Yeah, right. You guys are disgusting. Kilo here, check."
"Fireteam Aramis." Franklin calls. "Mikey-poo?"
"Affirmative Six-Actual. Mike, Check." Lena calls in.
Franklin rolls his head back. He's bouncing on his toes now. "November?"
"November, checking in."
"Oscar?"
Nanami shifts her feet. "Copy. Oscar, check."
"Papa?"
"Miss your daddykins, pretty boy?"
"Not as much as I miss his sense of humor."
"Well, papa check, tough stuff."
"Outstanding." Franklin smiles. "Quebec?"
A growl through the radio.
Jamie, check.
"Romeo, check?"
"T—.. There's no way I'm shagging Will," Sun-Li blurts out suddenly, and half the room bursts out into nervous, though relieved, laugher. "I mean... I—... Romeo check."
Franklin smirks. "Lima-Six-Actual, check. Full house."
Ceasar throws his chin out at Franklin, rifle pressed up against his shoulder, the barrel pointing up at the roof.
"So what's the play?"
"Fireteam Injury makes their way with Fireteam Supriseparty towards through towards the track. Shell formation. Keep Supriseparty protected at all costs. That's part A. Part B, Fireteam Insult keeps the base protected at all costs. Chances are Squad 12 will want to play it safe; they'll be coming through both doors, if they're as co-ordinated as they've shown. But I expect to see formations, so I'm not worried. Alpha?"
"Check." Reg calls. "Done the math; it's a certainty."
"You heard Erwin Rommel, there. You know the score."
A sharp, high-pitched beep. Then again, and again.
Franklin looks over his shoulder sharply.
"Go, Squad!" He reaches out for Caesar and pulls him forward, slapping him on the shoulder as he passes; each cadet gets a thump on the shoulder as they move out. "Go, Go, Go! Go, Squad, Go! Go, Go, Go, Go!"
[STALINGRAD]
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
The medicine isn't settling. The medicine isn't settling, the pain isn't fading and Agent Vade Decker is pretty sure she's going to die.
Everything is too bright. That was the first warning. Too bright, too white—the corners of her vision was blurring, and as much as Vade knows the warning signs, it never hits a person until it is too late, half the time. She managed to get the gate open. That's the important thing. Looked a lot like a sewer grate, actually; large and circular, but dry. It had a standard electronic lock. Easy.
Almost too easy.
They got a few yards into the pipe. Then Vade fell.
Or she might have fell. Could've noticed what was happening instinctively and dropped to her knees. The vomit came up looking bloody. Vade had just enough time to rip off her helmet before blanching out into the pipe, resisting touching her face as she leaned forwards and watched as the last of it dribbled out from her lips.
"Shit."
Her stomach contracted so violently she had no time to move at all. One second she's kneeling and the next she's only just keeping herself up by one arm, the joint locked at the elbow.
"Shit, Deck?"
And then... Everything, but nothing.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall possess the land.
It's a woman's voice. Vade doesn't hear the words so much as feel them. Inside. Her voice is gritty and worn. Is it...?
Impossible.
How did she find her? When did she get the classification? What the hell is she doing here?
And what's all this crap about the meek inheriting the earth? The meek don't inherit shit. Except beatdowns and bruises. The stupid shits at the Acadamy are proof of that.
Vade coughs. Hard and loud and forceful. Something is grabbing at her wrists.
Vade frowns and gazes at the sea and see clouds. He gazes at the sky and see waves. She looks down to see if she's standing on her head. No, she's right side up. It's this place that's upside down.
Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Southern Comforted, hopefully, 'cause this place is freaky. Not at all what Vade expected.
Mom. For one. Mother.
Her step-father, sure.
Reg. Jesus Christ. Reggie.
Cyrus?
Abigail, Clara and Annabelle. Of course.
Garret. Fuck him. Garret, fucker. Twat. Asshole. Garret.
What was all that hocus-pocus about all will be revealed? The black sun sets into the surf. Psychedelic colors burst from the clouds like fireworks. Vade groans.
Something is shaking. She can feel her neck guard digging into her throat.
Ow.
Going to have a bloody big mark there at this rate.
Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill.
Vade needs a drink. Where's her canteen? It must be here somewhere.
Whitecaps roll across the sky like storm clouds. The silence is deafening. There's not a single sound. Except it's noisy as hell. The noises are muffled. Dings, beeps, murmurs, and squeaks. Rolling over her like a distant thunderstorm. One sound is distinct. Her voice.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
The merciful. Christ. Vade certainly deserves no mercy; never gave it, never expected it.
Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.
Guess that's why she ain't seen Him yet, neh?
Wait a minute. Why is Vade thinking He's a Him? It's a woman's voice she's hearing.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called children of God.
Ha.
Vade looks around for her rifle. Talk about peace, will you, Big Guy? She thinks. Spend a day or two in the real world and get back to me then.
Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice's sake:
Blessed are they that suffer persecution?
"Are you fuckin' shittin' me?"
Vade runs towards the cliff edge and takes one good last look at the noble sea before jumping.
For theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.
LutherHarrySheldonCameronRobertJeffThomas
IanJayDanteJohnChristopherJackAldenMizu
FrankArnoldBillyStephenRichardPaulNic
EugeneMattBrianDrewAlexTimMark
RyanJakeMichaelCarlaAbigal
AnabelleRileyTannerDale
JustinArchieSherman
GregoryAaronSam
MomDadReg
Cyrus
There is a rumor, back in S.H.I.E.L.D., that Agent Vade Decker is something of a nightmare made manifest.
She just doesn't fuckin' die.
They weren't wrong.
"Oi, fucktard. Pass the water."
Cyrus' eyes are bloodshot, and his face is chalk white, but he's smiling and laughing and for the first time in what seems like years, happy. Legitimately happy. And not, as Vade often describes, 'I'm going to eviscerate you with a carrot peeler than sauteé your balls for breakfast' happy, but something genuine.
Vade has no fucking idea why. She feels like shit.
Turns out, taking more than 2mg of S.H.I.E.L.D. modified dihydromorphinone is a... bad idea.
Huh.
Who knew?
[STALINGRAD]
"Let's go, people!"
They pelt it down the road towards the main thorofare, weapons at the ready. Lena is ahead of her, and Sadie follows the dark haired girl across towards their destination. They haven't seen anyone else yet, but in the air, the thunderous roar of gunfire rings through the night. Behind her, the rest of Fireteam Injury follow; Brooks, Astrof and Powell are all pushed in the middle of the collum of marching cadets, like the squishing center of a donut, protected on all sides by a wall of armored bodies.
There's a steady crackling of gunfire coming from the running track. Sadie can see the empty roads, surrounding it illuminated by yellow streetlights.
"Anything comes around that corner that looks more dangerous than a fucking street sweeper, you take it the fuck out." Daniel Bonaventura grumbles.
"Got it in one, DMW." Caesar calls through his mic, chuckling.
"DMW?" Sadie laughs.
Caesar looks over his shoulder. "Dead Man Walkin', ain't that right, Dannie-boy?"
"Hooyah!"
There's activity at the far end of the road, towards where the other barracks are located. There is a moment of intense silence, like the air is getting sucked out of the immediate vicinity, before everything erupts.
"Fuck me," Caesar screams. "Get out of the line of sight, people!"
They don't need the encouragement. The planters are good protection against small-arms fire. They jump behind them just as the ground around them explodes with bullets.
There is a small gap between the two buildings they are sat alongside. Finley looks down into the darkness and nods his head at Brooks and Astrof. "We'll go around."
"Well 'awight there Captain Cute," Daniel growls as he fires overhead. "Just keep yer' head down, now, neh?"
"Eh."
[STALINGRAD]
"I'm splitting off and going for the ditches," Ryan Patel tells Rukiyat. "They can't go after all of us if we split up."
"Who says they're going after us, dipshit?" Rukiyat was resolute. "We go in at once. They won't have many of 'em left by the time Squad 1 is finished with them."
"A dollar says you get shot as soon as you go out there," Ryan mumbled.
Rukiyat snorted. "This is why you and your sister are at the bottom of the standings."
As Ryan rustled away through the bushes, Rukiyat shook his head and brought his troop out into the open.
"They're gonna nail our arses when we try to cross the running track," someone mumbled down the radio.
"Just hope they don't have night vision," someone else whispered.
"Of course they do," Sarah, his second in command said irritably. "How the hell do you think he shot at us earlier?"
Rukiyat didn't get the chance to reply.
'He' shot him between the collarbones as soon as he started running.
[STALINGRAD]
The sniper wasn't a he. Sun-Li and Sadie were lay on their stomachs on top of the curved roof of Squad 6's barracks. Sun-Li had been hoping for a shot at one of Squad 12, and she had been lucky, so far. With a straight shot at Rukiyat' front she'd hoped to get at least three hits. The first in the front would knock him down, the second and third would be aimed at his legs. Then she could radio through to the others and with luck they'd pick him up before he had a chance to run off the pain.
It would take only a few seconds for Jamie to run out of the building and beat on anyone who got too close. Hopefully, those who attacking would assume that he had been left for last. To make it more likely, Will and Frank would run out with him, too.
It left everyone else indoors. Waiting.
Sun-Li grits her teeth with determination, setting her rifle under her and pressing the backside up against her shoulder.
There is a few of them. Sun-Li aims towards the cadet situated well behind the others—a scout, perhaps, or just someone tasked with keeping a lookout from the rear. She adjusts her position for the wind speed, the inevitable drag and the approximate distance on instinct, her right eye squeezing shut as she looks down her rifle's sights. The four in the middle seem to be following the orders of the biggest in the group, likely some form of leader. Big man. The swagger in his walk gives him away, as does the firearm on his back. Sun-Li isn't sure—looks like a semi-automatic from her perceptive. A far better weapon than the crummy assault rifles the rest of them appear to be using.
The leading cadet ambles along the pathway firmly, shoulders swaying. The second and third are left covering him, in some sense. The fourth is situated between the one lagging behind and the trio of cadets s at the front. All of them are dressed in their typical garbs, but only their leader seems to be actually protected. She can see the faint glimmer of the protective plates from here.
A shot between the collarbones then. It would be simple. Easy. Sun-Li can line up that shot pretty quickly and then move onto the others. She already knew that, but it's nice he supposes, to reconsider now and again. To evaluate her options.
Then, they stop. Or at least, the three up front do. One of them appears to be arguing with the big one. Voices become louder, seemingly frustrated. Sun-Li doesn't really care; a distraction is excellent. The mantra runs its course as her shoulder shifted against the butt of her rifle, his finger curling around the trigger.
The weapon gave off a feeling of reliability and encouraged calmness and confidence.
Below, the cadets panic when the big man is brought down hard as the first of Sun-Li's 5.56mms hits home. Saide shoots too, almost in unison with Sun-Li, and one of the ones at the back is taken down, too.
For a simple second, none of them notice and Sun-Li just manages to get the leader in her sights again when there is a reaction. It's a noise of alarm, barely even a shout. better.
She catches the leader on the leg, and he screams out in pain. Suffice to say, that is enough to grab the attention of all of them immediately, shouting and moving for their weapons.
As it turns out, the one with the blood splatter has a sub-machine gun of vague make, but Sun-Li simply works around this development then rather opting to change her plan.
Another cadet comes running across the road between the two barracks' building, one Sun-Li hadn't seen before, one Sun-Li hadn't seen before.
Sadie drops them before the others can even register their presence.
[STALINGRAD]
Tossing his rifle aside, Jamie rolls out of the way as the bullets slam into the wall just above him in retaliation. Drawing his pistol, he scrambles into another half crouch, but this time dashes across the expanse of the ledge and jump drops down to their level. He's too quick for the lesser trained cadet, but one of the attackers tracks him smoothly, firing out a single shot and catching him in the upper shoulder. Jamie yells, gritting his teeth with a frustrated snarl, because hell—it does hurt. Not much, but enough. Yet because he practically lands on one of the tribals below him, he doesn't have the concentration span to focus on anything but finding cover. He's too preoccupied with grabbing the struggling cadet and slamming his forehead into them, stunning long enough to drag them before him as a crude form of human shield.
Bullets hammer into the ground before them and Jamie half jerks backwards, raising his handgun and firing a shot off, though not at the cadet armed with the machine gun—instead, at the cadet running at him with some form of stick.
They're playing dirty. They're playing angry.
Jamie understands angry, though. He understands dirty, too.
The distance is too close for comfort. By the time Jamie has managed to squeeze a shot off, clean through the front of the helmet, they collapse and land just within arm's reach, groaning and holding their head and complaining about brain freeze, of all things.
A couple of bullets hammer into the front of the cadet Jamie was holding, and he curls inwards and shouts at them to stop, that it hurts, but then, then comes the barely audible click of the other cadet's magazine running dry and pushing the one he held away from him, Jamie sends a bullet straight into his lower back, before going after the one with the machine gun. The remaining cadet can't get their magazine in fast enough, so they discard it, running at Jamie.
They met with heavy impact. The cadet's hard, compact ribs slammed up against Jamie's face, but since his coat was drawn right against his chest, the cadet couldn't get a good hold of the fabric and his hands slipped. Jamie slid away, being the shorter one, he grabbed the cadet's hair and pulled, bringing their face down onto his knee. Blood flowed, but he did not allow them to stagger backwards. Instead, he kept his grip and drug them down, onto the ground and just hammered into them.
Their eyes meet for a second.
Only a second.
Jamie brings his foot backwards and kicks the cadet as hard as he can in the ribs. Once, twice. Their arms go to protect them. Jamie walks around and goes for their back.
Nan would not approve of harming an opponent when they're down.
Jamie kicks them in the back of the head.
Get up. He thinks. Go on, I dare you.
Another kick to the back of the neck and they uncurl; he goes for the stomach.
"God, what the heck are you doing!?" Franklin screams.
Another kick. Then another, and another. This time he hits them in the face. Blood springs from their already busted nose and over their face. Another boot to the mouth then. Another kick in the chest.
Franklin and Will just manage to pull him away when the cadet stops moving.
There's nothing. Jamie just sort of stands there, watching as blood trickles down their face. Twitching. Fuming.
Franklin looks at him and turns his head just as shouting comes out from their barracks.
[STALINGRAD]
It's an odd sensation; she can say that much, at least. Odd, because it's scary and exciting, all at once.
Ata Qadir Koyi has brothers. Six, all older, all stronger. She fought them in Syria before the war. She fought them and won. She hated it, but she won. She made Papa proud. His little champion.
Every movement is like a jolt of electricity, and she anticipates the first encounter. It's a she, one of the cadets who attacks their barracks, and she leaps in, quick as lighting, a jab connecting full on with Ata's cheek. Her nerves scream in pain, but clearing up the jittery haze, making the world unbelievably clear. Every sense heightened to the borderline of pain. The first punch hurts the most; after that, it seems minimal. Until the adrenaline wears thin, that is.
The beast that lurks within Ata, within all of them, leaps forward and pounds it's knuckles into her skull, throwing it's knee into her chest. Every blow exchanged is a thrill, every shock of pain a pleasure in its own right. Sweat drips from her face, pours down her back.
Chaos has erupted in the barracks. She watches as Reg Decker lands a kick under the chin of a cadet twice his size.
Ata will admit that Leanne Deadpan is a formidable opponent. A difficulty to overcome. A threat to be eliminated. Though she is determined to change the outcome as she moves for her, grabbing the other cadet's head and throwing it into her knee, throwing her whole weight on top of her when Leanne dropped like a rock. She grapples for dominance through the blow that sends her body into a frenzy, forcing them to thrash against one of the nearby bunks, rattling it and causing the fighting cadets to frenzy at the sound
Reg Decker gets knocked to the floor and struggles to get up. Nakano Nanami comes out of nowhere with a hockey stick to his defense.
Leanne's fist connects with Ata's ribs effectively a couple times before she gets the sense to nail her temple, sending little sparks of light into Ata's vision. She manages to pull away in a blur of motion, throwing her elbow just below her eye. The skin splits neatly, spewing in blood. The sight wretches painful memories in her, a brother, the sun burning harsh behind him, and the need to beat them back come through her fists.
Ata tries, too desperately, to throw too much power behind her fists, ultimately making them lag, and Leanne sends her reeling.
She watches as Daniel shouts words to her, the fighting still in her ears. Ata throws her foot into her torso, getting a jab to the abdomen. Leanne takes a few more nicely placed shots before time dies down to a slow crawl, her fist zeroing in on Ata's jaw. She ducks down, jabbing at her lower ribs, about where the floating ones are, feeling it give with a dull crack. She pushes down heavily with her left foot, bringing her right fist into an uppercut into the bigger cadet's chin, effectively shutting her body down. I jump back and watch her body crumple into the mat.
Ata jumps back and watches her body crumple down onto the floor.
Around them, all of them, shocked silence radiates.
"What the fuck was that?" Reg whispers.
Daniel growls and presses a hand up against his bloody mouth. He spits against the ground.
"That, kid," he groans. "Was not an assignment. That was a damn tag-teaming, no-fooling, beating."
[STALINGRAD]
Finley never changed much. Of course, he did make slight alterations in his personality, little tweaks here and there. He had remained egotistical, never the less, but dropped the habit of being loud and obnoxious, instead choosing to continue his remaining years at high school a little more on the quiet side.
This was due to his sudden changes in interests; he'd long since grown tired of constantly bidding for enough attention to be in the spotlight 24/7, and figured it'd be much easier if he'd just keep in mind that he was smarter and better than everyone else in the first place, therefore they didn't deserve to hear his voice as much as he was displaying it. That way he could get more done.
Finley was... very good at chemistry. Immensely good. Brilliant.
So was the makeshift bomb in his rucksack.
Nothing dangerous, of course.
But rememberable.
Oh yes, this will be rememberable.
"Help me up," He gasps, out of breath from the run. Gracie nods her head and kneels down, cupping her hands together.
"Time to shine, little man!" She laughs. "Christ, listen to it out there; it sounds like a war zone."
"That's cause it is, it's madness."
"This gonna happen all the time?"
"Might do,"
"Sweet!"
Finley crawls along the corrugated iron roof towards the ceiling window, the one that lets natural light in so they don't have to have lights on during the day.
"You okay there, kid? We gotta bounce quick, before anyone notices were here. You need help?" It's Cecily. Finely just about manages not to smile.
Yes, they'll remember this. Those cadets who tried to trip him, hurt him.
For the first time in years, Finley Powell has a group of people willing to help him without a second thought.
And now, he's going to repay them. For all the beatings they took for him.
"No, I'm fine." He whispers as he slips his backpack off, sliding it onto the roof beside him.
One.
Two...
He presses down on the realise inside the backpack, and hears the faint hissing; without wasting any time he rips open the top of the window by the latch, throwing it wildly and sending it over against the other side with a loud crash and smashing glass. He pushes the backpack in, looking down on a small crowd of surprised faces.
"Enjoy!" he shouts.
It takes them three seconds to realise what Finley had thrown in.
And suffice to say, when they get a whiff of some of the most horrid smelling substances known to man, they won't be going back in that barracks for a long, long time.
Cicily wraps an arm around his neck when they run off, rifles in hand.
"I think we're gonna' keep you," she laughs.
"Well," Finley smirks. "There's always more where that came from."
"I do hope so, dude, I really do hope so."
[STALINGRAD]
Bloodied and bruised, Squad 6 stand in front of Agent Azoulayn. The man holds a clip board, and he pauses for a moment or two, grimacing.
"I think we need to work on our self-defence," he mutters quietly. "Y'all look like a bunch of abused fruit on the January sale."
A sigh.
"Congratulations, Squad 6, on your victory."
[STALINGRAD]
When Reg gets the call, he runs. He runs regardless on whenever he was supposed to be having any tact.
He sees her first, leaning against a tree and he very nearly bursts out crying. He doesn't. But he very nearly does.
Instead, he opens his dumb mouth as soon as he's within conversation distance.
"You look like shit," he greets.
And she does. She's pale as hell and her eyes are bloodshot and there is a crusting of blood at the corner of his mouth, but she's still his sister and she's not dead and Jesus Christ Reg feels like he's about to explode.
Agent Vade Decker raises her eyebrows.
"Are you blind?" She smirks. "I'm fucking gorgeous."
[STALINGRAD]
OMGsorryforthelateuploadbutit'slike5:40inthemorningandI'llupdatetheauthor'snotelater,mmnkay?
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