Argh, another long wait between updates. But this time it was the site's fault. They decided to be all error-y and stuff. Unimpressedness ensued.
Funny story: About three minutes before I went to upload this new chapter, I got this super special awesome idea for changing it all around, but then I realized I wouldn't be able to update for another two weeks (at least) and the idea was promptly nix'd.
So here: have the original, un-messed-around-with version. Rejoice? Rejoice!
Chapter Nine: A Kick In The Teeth
His frag had blown a bloody chunk out of the Reaver's side, but that didn't stop it from whirling around and trying to sink its teeth into him. He tumbled to the side and felt the fangs streak past him. Rolling onto one knee, the Gear unloaded a clip into the Reaver, then ducked as one of the six lethal claws screamed over his head. At least the Reaver was rider-less; he had enough problems with the teeth and claws without having to worry about dodging bullets and rockets.
But they had run, and that was all that mattered. As long as he could keep this bastard distracted from them until they got to safety, they'd be okay. His own life was insignificant now, secondary to that of a woman and a child. They were counting on him, and he wouldn't let them down.
"You want some of this? Come on, let's go!"
An ear-splitting screech erupted from the Reaver's fanged maw, and it lunged forward. But Marcus was too quick, and he dove to the side again, towards one of the beast's grotesque legs. Before the Reaver could strike again, the soldier revved his chainsaw bayonet and hacked into the leg, throwing all his weight into it. The sinewy limb held for a second, then shredded into red, stringy gore as it gave way to the screaming blades of the chainsaw. Marcus pulled his Lancer from the obliterated leg, but he had to think to fast as another leg swung at him.
He jumped away, but this time, the Reaver beat him. In an instant, the sergeant was sent crashing into the pavement as a claw caught him full in the side.
The air was blasted from his lungs as he hit the concrete. He tried to pull himself to his feet, but he buckled as he discovered that his whole left side suddenly wasn't obeying his brain's commands. His hand shot to his side, where the Reaver had caught him, and pressed against the gashed armour. His senses couldn't pick up anything yet, but he knew what blood felt like.
Get up. You're not done yet.
The Reaver roared from behind him, and the ground shook as it maneuvered its massive bulk. With a growl of pain and frustration, Marcus willed his body to comply and forced himself to unstable feet.
He was up for less than a second before he was struck back down by another of the Reaver's claws.
Anya heard the cry and spun around. They had run almost a full block from the station, but she could still see the crumpled form of Marcus in the middle of the street, the Reaver looming over him, poised to deliver the final blow.
"NO!" she shrieked. Instinctively, the woman opened fire on the Reaver with her pistol. The rounds were slow and weak, but Anya had been trained in sharp shooting, and she aimed each bullet for the monster's eyes.
It hissed and growled, writhing to get away from the new source of pain and protect its sensitive eyes. Then, it turned in full to Anya and Jackie. Slowed by its obliterated leg, it began to spider-crawl towards them.
"Anya!" Jackie screamed, yanking on her godmother's arm.
Anya looked desperately to the child. "I can't just leave him!"
The asphalt began to shake.
Run, Anya. Don't be so stupid.
He could hear Anya's Snub shots, and Jackie's frantic cries. The Reaver was turning now, leaving him.
No. No. Don't do this. I'm not fucking worth it. Run.
He could feel everything keenly now; thick waves of agony assaulted him, made his vision blurry. Warm blood coated his armour and the cement around him, keeping out the wintery chill. As he watched the Reaver step over the gas pumps, he wondered distantly if this is what Carlos had felt like.
Anya...
She slammed clip after clip into her gun, but it seemed to have no effect. She was alight with fear and anger; all she wanted to do was charge back and frag-tag the beast herself. But the Reaver was almost out of the station's front, and she knew she had a responsibility. Snatching Jackie's hand, she backed away, ready to run.
Then, there was a single gunshot; the two girls were staggered back as a fiery explosion consumed the Reaver. Pulpy bits and pieces went flying in all directions, and the monstrous roars were drowned out by the rushing of Imulsion-fueled flames.
Anya was stunned for only a moment, then she began to sprint back to the motionless body on the ground.
He had done it. Somehow, he had shot the gas pump under the Reaver and blown it straight to hell. He was down, and still, he'd saved them.
She just prayed that it wasn't too late to repay the favour.
Anya reached the face-down hero, a Boltok pistol held loosely in his hand, and fell to her knees beside him. She was horrified to find herself in a puddle of blood, and began to shake as she turned his heavy mass over.
He groaned, and Anya clapped a hand to her mouth. His entire left side, from his hip to his floating ribs, was a gory mess of twisted metal armour and shredded muscle. She realized, with a tiny gasp, that the Reaver's claw had actually shattered inside the wound; there were shards of fragmented claw lodged inside Marcus's blood-slicked flesh.
"Oh, God, Marcus..."
The sergeant coughed and looked up at Anya.
"You're okay." he growled weakly, as if anything less than that would have been unacceptable.
"We're fine, Marcus." Anya said breathlessly, pressing her hands to the injury in an attempt to staunch the blood. "But you..."
There was the sound of running footsteps, and Jackie appeared at Anya's side. Her face paled when she glimpsed the gaping wound; she slowly kneeled beside Marcus and tucked her hands under her chin.
"Is he...?" The child looked up at Anya, not wanting to finish her question. Anya set her face into a mask of grim determination.
"He's going to be fine." Her words were firm, but felt like they were being spoken by someone else. She held Marcus's wavering gaze. "Got that?"
He groaned. Anya took a deep breath. Her mind flew back to the medical training she'd received in Basic. She had to stop the bleeding first, but she couldn't do that while there were bits of Reaver claw in the wound. Remembering that they'd packed a basic med kit in their supplies, Anya kept one hand on the injury and rifled through one of their packs, eventually yanking out the familiar red metal case. Popping open the lid, she was confronted with a vast array of the various medical supplies; there were syringes, tourniquets, stitching wire, and wads of gauze. The wound was located on his torso, so the tourniquet was useless, but the gauze just might work. Hurrying, she grabbed all the gauze and looked to Jackie.
"Jacqueline, listen to me," she said evenly to the wide-eyed girl. "We need to stop the bleeding. In a few seconds, I'm going to pull the biggest pieces out of the cut, and you need to press the gauze to the wound as fast and as hard as you can, okay?"
Jackie looked uncertainly at the white cloth in Anya' outstretched hand. "Won't...won't that hurt him?"
"Yes, it will. But if you don't, then he'll bleed out, and I think that's far worse than a little hurting."
Hands trembling, Jackie took the gauze and hovered over Marcus's torn up side. His eyes were hooded now; Anya put her hand to his cheek and shook him gently.
"Stay with me, Marcus." she commanded in her most Helena-like voice. "If I have to go through with this, then so do you."
She received a grunt of response, and the lieutenant glanced at Jackie.
"Ready?"
The girl, face still the picture of fearful bewilderment, gave a shaky nod, and Anya put her hands on the largest of the jutting claws fragments.
"One. Two...Three."
In one fluid movement, Anya yanked out the shards, and Jackie practically leapt onto Marcus as she smothered the gushing wound with the gauze. The sergeant's cry of pain echoed through the empty street; the acrid scent of copper assaulted Anya's senses.
"Okay, okay..." Inhaling deeply again, Anya tossed the fragments and grabbed some tape from the med kit. Awkwardly, she taped the mass of bloody gauze to that it would stay wedged between Marcus's torn armour and his exposed muscle. When the makeshift dressing was secure, Jackie pulled her red-stained hands away and let them fall limply into her lap.
"W-what now?"
Anya touched Marcus's hand, willing him to stay awake.
"We need to get him somewhere he can rest. Somewhere safe." The lieutenant's eyes darted around the street, searching for a place to drag her sergeant. They would have to stay the night, if not for a couple of days, until Marcus could walk again. He was tough, she knew, but right now, he was down for the count.
"What about over there?" Jackie asked quietly, pointing towards a stable-looking restaurant. Not caring much about the particulars of where they stayed, Anya nodded and handed the med kit to her goddaughter.
"Take this," she said, then leaned over to face Marcus. His cyan eyes were glazed over, but he was still conscious.
"We're going to get you into that building over there, so just sit tight and..." Anya stopped short as she wondered how she was actually going to get all two hundred-fifty pounds of Marcus's bulk into the restaurant. There was no way he could walk; they'd have to somehow drag him.
"Jackie, help me get Marcus into the restaurant."
Metal med kit clutched to her chest, Jackie glanced warily at Marcus's huge body, then shuffled to join Anya by his side.
"Grab that shoulder plate..." Anya ordered, wrapping her cold fingers around the metal straps that held Marcus's armour together. "There...now pull, Jackie. Keep going. And mind the grenades..."
Together, the two girls managed to half-drag, half-carry the barely-there sergeant to the fancy, frosted glass doors of the restaurant. Anya cracked the doors open and peered inside, Snub probing the darkness.
It was a large, open space, with the majority of the hardwood floor filled up with chairs and tables. There was a high-counter bar littered with glasses and bottles to the left of the main floor, and a grandiose fireplace that graced the far right wall. Surprisingly, there was little evidence of the apocalyptic horrors the city had suffered outside, with most of the furniture and glassware relatively undisturbed.
"Looks clear." the lieutenant whispered. Working fast, they pulled Marcus inside and positioned the sergeant on the floor near the fireplace, ignoring his resulting grunts of pain. Immediately, Anya dropped to Marcus's side and pressed a hand to the reddening gauze.
"Alright...okay. Jackie? Bring me the med kit, please."
The youth obediently dropped the kit at Anya's feet. Anya popped open the case, then looked up at Jackie. Her goddaughter was blank-faced, her eyes wide, and her shoulders still quavering ever-so-slightly. Anya remembered Marcus's foolproof calm-down tactics, and glanced about the elegant restaurant.
"Jacqueline, I'd like you to start moving these tables around. Barricade the doors and windows, please." The lieutenant managed to scrap up a small smile for the girl, and her head bobbed in a tiny nod before she rushed off to carry out Anya's request.
With the young one taken care of, Anya returned her attention to her ailing sergeant. To her surprise, he had woken up a bit, but his jaw was still clenched; the unmistakable sign of suppressed agony. Eyelids flickering slightly, he gazed up at Anya.
"How...agh...how bad?"
Anya frowned. "I...I don't know. Here, let me see..."
Working her gloved fingers as gently as she could, she felt around the edge of the taped gauze, trying to feel out the extent of the injury. The razor-sharp Reaver claw had ripped right through Marcus's armour, slicing through the thick metal plating, down through his chainmail under-armour, and into the flesh that lay beneath. But other than that, Anya couldn't divine anything else about the damage.
"Marcus, we have to get you out of your armour."
The soldier screwed his eyes shut, as if surrendering. "Whatever you gotta do."
Anya's lips pressed into a thin line, and she reached around to Marcus's sides. She began with the plating on his arms, unclipping the straps that held the protective metal tight to his chainmailed muscles. The armour clattered to the floor; she set to work freeing Marcus's torso from the main plating. Within seconds, her hands had found all of the numerous clips and buckles, and she carefully pulled the casing, as well as the gauze taping, away from his injured body. She ensured the actual gauze was still in place--the last thing she wanted was to start the flood of blood flow again.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she marveled distantly about how big his tightly muscled body was, even without the armour. But then she reminded herself that she had a life to save, and focused on the task at hand. All that remained between her and the wound was the chainmail bodysuit; the lieutenant reached for the zipper that ran horizontally along Marcus's collarbone then down his right side, but stopped short and lifted her eyes to him.
But he was off in his own world, fending off waves of pain, barely even paying attention to her.
Of course he's not paying attention. You're not a schoolgirl; don't get all shy now.
Refocusing once again, the woman unzipped the under-armour and peeled it back over the sergeant's shoulders, chest, and abdomen, revealing the scarred skin and heavy muscles underneath. Slowly, she removed the gauze.
The bleeding had slowed, thank God, and without all the ripped armour obscuring her view, Anya could clearly see the damage that had been done. The sergeant's left oblique was slit from hip to rib, but a moment's scrutiny made Anya realize that it wasn't as bad as she'd initially thought. Before, with all the blood and broken armour, the wound had looked ragged and nasty, but it turned out that the claw's sharpness had been a good thing; the injury was--luckily--just a series of clean lacerations. Anya also concluded that the blow must have been glancing, because the slashes, while broad, went no deeper than the muscle. The lieutenant touched the edge of the torn flesh, and Marcus inhaled sharply, the naked muscles of his stomach tightening beneath her hand.
Of course, just because the wound wasn't going to kill him, didn't mean that it didn't smart like a bitch.
"You must have a guardian angel, Marcus," Anya rummaged around in the med kit, head shaking in mild disbelief. "Because you somehow managed to avoid cutting up anything important."
The sergeant let his head fall back to the mahogany floor. "Doesn't feel like it."
"Well, you are practically skinned on your whole left side..." Anya finally found what she was looking for--a curved needle and spool of suture thread--and pulled it out.
Marcus locked a sideways stare onto the tools.
"You know how to suture?"
His gruff tone told her that it was more a prompt for reassurance than a real question. She threaded the needle and brought it to bear.
"My mother taught me how to sew."
Despite his pain, Marcus shot her his you've-got-to-be-shitting-me stare.
"You're going to knit me back together."
Anya closed her eyes and pursed her lips, then turned and pointed to Jackie, who was still busy dragging as many tables as she could against the front doors.
"See that scarf?" Anya said with superhuman patience. "That is knitting. This---" She held the gleaming needle in full view. "---Is stitching. Now please shut up."
Evidently defeated, the man shut his eyes and reclined fully on the floor, hands balled into fists at his sides. Anya leaned forward, about to make the first stitch, then suddenly thought of something.
"Jackie." The lieutenant craned her neck around. "Could you find me a bottle of alcohol?"
The girl stacked a final chair onto her barricade and spun around.
"...Where?"
"Try the bar."
Marcus cracked his eyes slightly.
"Yes, Marcus." Anya answered his unspoken question. "For you."
Jackie was quick to obey Anya's command, and she soon appeared at Anya's side with an open bottle of vodka in her little hands.
Anya took the thick-glassed bottle from Jackie and twisted out the cork with a dull pop. "You're favourite." she said as she offered the booze to Marcus, who gripped it and washed back several mouthfuls.
"Great." Anya was quick to snatch the bottle from the sergeant's weakened grasp. "Now, try not to scream."
Marcus didn't even get a chance to inquire before Anya tipped the bottle over his open wound and allowed the alcohol to slosh over the shredded sinews.
The sergeant slammed his fists into the wooden floorboards and growled through clenched teeth as vodka and blood mixed together and pooled beneath him. Anya set the bottle back by the med kit and leaned forward, crescent-moon needle in hand. She had to close the wound up now, before it could get infected and make things just that much worse. The lieutenant was about to put needle to skin before she remembered that she had an eleven-year-old girl standing over her shoulder. The girl was scarred enough; she didn't need to watch a man get laced up like a shoe on top of it all.
"Jackie, how's that barrier coming?"
Anya didn't get an articulate response, but by the way the youth whirled and left, eyes glazed, Anya could tell that Jackie didn't have an aversion to sitting this one out.
The woman turned back to the wound and, crystalline eyes hardened with determination, finally pushed the needle into the skin and made the first knot.
* * * * * * * *
Sweat dropped off her brow; she pulled one bloody hand from her work to brush a stray golden hair out of her eyes.
The whole of Marcus's side looked like the laced front of a combat boot, with the slender gashes almost completely sewn up with the stitching thread. It wouldn't win any medical awards, and Anya was sure that the doctors back in Belphe would have a conniption fit when they saw her amateur suture, but it would do the job until they could get the man to a real hospital.
But even as she stitched him up, Anya knew that Marcus was not in a good place. For the entirety of the past two hours, the sergeant had remained silent and motionless on the floor, eyes screwed shut. The only signs of life were the twitching of his jaw and the erratic rise and fall of his chest as his lungs wrung out jerky breaths. Every fifteen minutes or so, Anya would look up from the stitches to tentatively ask him how he was holding up. He'd manage a mildly reassuring grunt, then retreat back into whatever trance he'd created to combat the pain.
Anya wished she could work faster. Her medical training, as well as her supplies, was extremely limited, and while she'd been sewing as fast as she could, she was still taking far too long. Jackie had helped Anya strike a small fire in the ornate fireplace, then, frazzled from the chaos of her first day of rescue, curled up in a cushy waiting chair and fallen asleep. Smoky rays of setting sunlight filtered through the windows of the restaurant, reminding Anya that time was still passing, and that it would not be long before she would have to get ready for an all-night watch duty. Marcus had to be closed up by then, or else Anya ran the risk of being caught unawares by an attack in the middle of the night.
Her back ached, and her knees were numb from kneeling at the sergeant's side for so long, but she knew she had to pick up the pace. The woman pushed the diabolical shred of pointed iron through Marcus's torn skin one more time, but her stiff fingers slipped and grazed the raw muscle inside the red trench of the wound. Marcus hissed through his teeth, and Anya quickly withdrew her offending hand.
"God, Marcus, I'm sorry..."
She stared at him, brows knitted with concern. His skin, slick with beads of fevered sweat, gleamed in the fading sunlight and the glow of the fire. His veins throbbed as they worked overtime to make up for lost blood; every muscle, every sinew in his body was tight as a drum. She'd forced almost a full bottle of vodka down his throat, but it only wore so much of the edge off--he needed a real sedative.
She found herself wishing that he would just pass out already. His pain threshold was mercilessly high, and while his body was being pushed well past its limits, it would not allow him the luxury of blissful unconsciousness. He was, literally, too damn tough for his own good.
Her stiff fingers went back to stitching. Other than the occasional grunt from Marcus, the restaurant was almost entirely silent; this gave Anya the uncomfortably convenient opportunity to think about things. There was a lot racing through her mind--is Marcus going to be okay? How are we going to get to Delta now? Are we going get through the night alone? What's happening back in Belphe?--but there was something that, at the moment, dominated all else.
"Marcus?" Anya called quietly, not holding out much hope for a response.
"Marcus...I'm so sorry."
He didn't say anything. He probably couldn't even hear her--for all she knew, she was talking to herself. But she had to get this off her chest and off her conscience, even if it was to a partially drunk, nigh-unconscious audience.
"I didn't mean to say the things I did to you. I know that doesn't mean anything, but it...I was so wrong. I don't know why I snapped like that. You didn't deserve it. I mean, you...you've done so much for me. For us. Hell, you practically carried me across this city for Jackie. And I thank you by biting your head off...No, worse than that. And now...and now with this...if something worse had happened..."
She trailed off, forced to fight off an unforeseen wave of emotion that had risen up inside her.
"I wouldn't want that to be the last thing said between us."
Her voice sounded oddly loud inside the empty space of the restaurant, and when she finished speaking, her words seemed to plummet to the wooden floor with a near-audible leaden thud. Marcus showed no signs of having heard her; she inhaled slowly through her nose and bent her head over her steadily working hands.
"I'm terrified, Marcus." Her voice fell as soft as a cat's footfalls. "The world is ending, and now I have a kid...You were right; how can I possibly give Jacqueline the life she deserves? I just...I..."
Anya couldn't even give words to the uncertainty that gripped her. She felt as though she was trapped by the encroaching instability that threatened to swallow up the whole world right now. She was tired, hungry, and hurt; all this and more pressed in on her, and she found herself suppressing the tears that stung in the back of her throat.
Then, the muscles below her fingers shifted, and she felt a comforting warmth touch her hand. She looked up; Marcus was gazing at her, his eyes reduced to cat-like slits, and his hand was resting weakly over hers, his enormous, calloused fingers curling weakly around her smaller, delicate ones.
"Anya...we're all scared." he whispered hoarsely. "It's alright."
At first, she was stunned by the sergeant's gentle outreach, but then she remembered who she was dealing with. On the outside, Marcus was brutal and gruff, but ever since the battle of Aspho Fields, when so much was lost by so many, Anya had known that, beneath all the scars, there was a less severe man. And then, just to still her inexplicably racing heart, Anya firmly reminded herself that the sergeant was probably drunk from the special mix of vodka and white hot agony.
Perhaps it was that pain and alcohol, but for some reason, Marcus did not loosen his grasp on Anya. Brows raised, the lieutenant scanned his grimacing face--she saw that he was barely staying with her.
And then a breathless groan escaped his lips, and the hand on Anya's went limp.
"Marcus?" Anya whispered, her heart instantly in her throat. Did she overlook something before? Had a shard of claw been embedded in something more critical than just muscle? Her mind and heart raced as she curled her fingers around his hand. It was cold and clammy.
"Marcus? Oh, please, no. Can you hear me? Marcus."
There was panic in her voice, but she didn't care. Leaning over his prone form, she pressed a shaking hand to his neck.
She was met with the faint, but steady, rhythm of a pulse.
The woman almost collapsed on top of him, so massive was her relief. She placed her palms flat against the wooden floorboards and let her head hang low. So the pain had finally proven too great for Marcus Fenix, and he'd passed out. Anya was happy for him; now she could finish his stitch job without driving him mad.
Resting back on her haunches, Anya smoothed her hair back out of her eyes and took a deep breath. Once she'd steadied herself, she reached for the dropped needle.
Just a couple more stitches, and then the all-night watch--Anya's second in a row--would begin.
* * * * * * * *
Ten Years After E-Day
Her hands were trembling.
That made her angry. Why was she so damn fragile? She needed to be strong--he needed her to be strong--and here she was, barely even able to press the button on the remote. Why was this affecting her like this?
Because you don't know what you're going to do without him.
She shook her head, pushing the thought away. Even her mind was messed up right now. Her eyes darted around her small apartment, searching for a visual distraction, and her gaze finally fell on the green digits on the alarm clock on the side table.
Five minutes after five. She swore silently; she was late. Forcing her hands to function, she pressed the power button on the remote and pulled her knees up on the couch.
The television was already set to the channel she needed: Ephyra City Watch. It was the only thing she watched anymore, partially because, since E-Day, it was one of the only surviving broadcasts, but also because the news they'd been covering for the last week was all too critical for her. The screen was filled with the stark image of a hollow-cheeked woman sitting at a desk in a cold news room. Hovering over the woman's shoulder was a graphic design of a pair of handcuffs superimposed on the Crimson Omen--the grim symbol of the COG's army forces.
"---unsure about the outcome." the woman finished the broken sentence just as the television tuned in. "Either way, today will be a defining day for the Gears of the city: after many long hours in court-martial, we have been told that the panel of officers is now coming to their verdict for the trial of Corporal Marcus Fenix."
In her apartment, the woman gave an involuntary shudder and turned up the volume on the old television.
"Twelve years ago, Fenix was awarded the Embry Star--the highest honour for a Gear--for his exceptional performance in the pivotal battle now known as Aspho Fields. So, the city was shocked when the celebrated war veteran, now thirty-one, was arrested for being AWOL during the close-to-home battle in the East Barricade Academy. Our field reporter and corresponding attorney-at-law, Travis Langel, is on scene at the Ephyra High Court of Justice to discuss the charges, as well as the pending decision of the Court. Travis?"
The screen blinked, then opened up to a tall, lanky man standing on the steps of an extravagant, yet hard-looking building. He nodded politely and brought his grey mic up to the thin line of his mouth.
"Thanks, Vivian. Despite the cloud-covered sky and the inevitable rain, the air here can only be described as electric. Since eight o'clock this morning, the panel has been working through the controversial charges laid against Corporal Fenix. The jury seems to have reached their verdict, and so we can only wait until they release it to the public."
At this, the screen switched to the familiar split-screen, with Vivian's face floating in a box on the left, and Travis's in the right. Vivian's gaunt visage contorted into a mask of feigned concern.
"So, Travis, everyone knows that the corporal was charged with dereliction of duty and failing to obey orders, but that charge has since escalated to the far more serious charge of treason. Could you explain that in laymen's terms, and what it will mean for Fenix?"
There was the obligatory pause in communication before the message was relayed to Travis. Again, he nodded, then began to recite, like a professor reading from a dusty old textbook, the legal complexities that the Corporal faced.
At home, curled up on her couch, the woman closed her blue eyes. She knew all too well what Marcus faced. For the past few weeks, words like 'treason' and 'trial' had become a part of her daily vocabulary, and were coming to shape her life.
AWOL. Away without leave; abandoning your post when you were needed. It was a crime of cowardice, and the minimum sentence was ten years. But that wasn't even the worst of it: in addition to the dereliction of duty charge, Colonel Hoffman had decided to press treason charges.
If there was anything the COG hated more than a coward, it was a traitor. If the jury found Marcus guilty, he would be executed--sentenced to death by lethal injection.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. That wouldn't happen; he had the public on his side, and Dom was going to testify in his favour. There was evidence, and witnesses. No, it wouldn't happen. It couldn't happen...
"Now, it's been reported that Fenix feels his premature departure from his post was necessary, even though his actions cost the COG to lose much of the East Quarter, as well as many soldiers. What's the word on that?"
"Well, Vivian, as you know, the law is very complicated, but Fenix has claimed that his desertion was to save his father, renowned scientist Adam Fenix. According to Marcus Fenix and his witness, Dominic Santiago, Adam Fenix sent his son an SOS, which then prompted the corporal to abandon his post in an attempt to rescue his father. Sadly, Adam Fenix, who had been attacked during a Locust raid on his laboratory, was dead before his son could reach him."
Vivian, patiently listening the whole time, raised her over-plucked brows. "That sounds like a heartbreaking story, but does the panel believe it?"
Back in her apartment, the woman dug her nails into the soft fabric of the couch.
That bitch. How could she say that, as if Marcus just made the whole thing up? How could she possibly know what it is to lose a parent like that? To have their blood on your helpless hands?
"We won't know exactly what the jury thinks until the verdict is released..." Someone off-camera murmured something indistinct to Travis, and he offered them his trademark nod before turning back to the camera.
"And that might come sooner than you think, Vivian: I've just been informed that the members of the court-martial are leaving the building..."
The reporter turned around to face the building behind him just as a small group of neat-looking men and women in trim suits emerged from the gilded double doors. A mob of press and reporters swarmed the wide stairs below the group, and the camera zoomed in on the faces of the people.
She saw him, and her heart began to hammer against her ribs. He looked terrible; his hair, free from his bandana, was plastered to his head with sweat, and the orange cloth of his prison coveralls was stretched tight over his tense muscles. His arms were pulled back and handcuffed; behind him, two massive law enforcers had a firm grip on each of his shoulders.
How dare they? She scathed inwardly. How dare they treat him like a common criminal? He was so much more of a man than they could ever hope to be--hell, he was a fucking hero. They called him a coward, but he took bullet after bullet so that they didn't have to, so that their kids didn't have to. And how did they repay him? By chaining him up like a dog and throwing him to the rabid media.
The press were yipping and barking at the members of the panel, demanding to know Fenix's fate. She gazed at his tired face, searching for some kind of hint as to what the verdict had been, but as always, his hard features gave nothing away.
A man in a sharp black suit stepped out from the group atop the stairs. The field of medals on his chest glinted as he held out his hand to quiet the bloodthirsty crowd. Once they had silenced their nattering and extended their mics and recorders desperately out to him, the man clasped his hands delicately in front of him and spoke.
"After much discussion and heated debate," he sang. "We, the jury, have found Corporal Marcus Fenix guilty of desertion, cowardice, and treason."
Her heart literally stopped. It was like everything had suddenly turned to lead. That was it. He was guilty. They had ignored the evidence and nailed him with everything. Bastards. Marcus was going to die.
"However," The man's voice cut through the responding din from the crowd. "Upon reviewing Corporal Fenix's two exemplary tours of duty, the jury has elected to forgo the death penalty. Instead, Fenix will serve a minimum sentence of forty years, without parole, in the Jacinto Maximum Security Prison."
Travis--weedy, smarmy Travis--turned to the camera and began chatting excitedly to Vivian as if he'd just heard that his favourite Thrashball team had scored.
The woman couldn't hear the television anymore. Her blood was crashing in her ears, and tears burned in the back of her throat.
Forty years. It might as well have been a life sentence; the prison would probably be overrun by the Locust before he saw the sun again. Hell, all of mankind might be extinct by them. He would be trapped in his tiny cell, listening as the Wretches clattered through the vents just above his head; nowhere to go, no way to fight back.
Shit, Marcus, shit...
Through blurry eyes, she watched as the camera hobbled alongside the members of the court, Marcus trudging along with them. In an instant, he turned to look at the camera, and she felt his piercing blue eyes bore right through her.
The men behind him grabbed his arms, and he was forced away into an armoured vehicle.
Her hands were numb. Unfeeling, she turned off the television. Outside, the rain spattered gently against the window panes. She sank back into the couch, and reached for the sacred object she'd placed so carefully on the cushion beside her.
Clutching the worn fabric for all it was worth, the woman began to cry silently into the bandana that he'd asked her to keep safe.
Hyper's first Post-Script AN!
So...Drama Llama, eh? But seriously, I'm actually pretty nervy about this chapter. It focuses on two things I'm never happy with: Serious physical injury and delicate Gears canon. So if there was ever a time to give me your opinions on how I can improve, this would be it!