Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum
By Portrait of a Scribe

"I remember falling, I remember marching like a one-man army through the blaze. I know I'm coughing, I believe in something, I don't want to remember falling for your lies."
--Our Lady Peace, 'One-Man Army'

Chapter 24.

2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 0900 hours

Thump, thump, th-thump.

Her feet pounded against the ground in a rhythmic beat, carrying her as fast and as far as they could. Sweat and rainwater streamed into her eyes, half-blinding her.

The first obstacle appeared.

She leapt over the hip-high log as easily as an Olympic hurdler. Her feet hit the ground again, and she continued without breaking stride. Behind her, she could hear her pursuers' heavy breaths over the sound of her own gasping. They were catching up.

The second obstacle appeared, a wall to climb. Three ropes hung down its face, swaying with the slight breeze.

She made it at a dead sprint, leaping, grabbing the center rope. Her body impacted with a jarring thud on the wooden surface, but she was too well-trained, too used to such things, to allow it to slow her pace. She got her feet between her and the wall and began to climb, using her strong arms and legs to reverse-belay her up the wall.

By the time she slung herself over the top to climb down the other side, her hands, legs, arms, and shoulders were all burning with fatigue. Then came another sprint to the third obstacle.

She hurled herself prone to pull herself through the thick mud underneath a low net. It was hard going, slowed her dramatically, but she trooped through it determinedly. She wouldn't give up. Several yards into the obstacle, she heard several wet squelches and splashes behind her. She put on another burst of speed.

Then she was free, scrambling to her feet and breaking into another sprint.

Her lungs burned and her chest heaved. She felt sick to her stomach. Her limbs shook with exhaustion and strain. But she couldn't stop, for to stop would be to fail. To stop would be to get caught.

The fourth obstacle neared. She centered herself in preparation for it.

Then she reached it, and jumped to the first of a series of poles, anchored in a pit full of mud and water. She wobbled a bit at first until she gained her balance. She jumped to the second pole, then the third, then the fourth.

The poles were slick and wet, however, and while her boots had good traction, they were far from perfect. Her right foot slid off of the edge of the pole, and she pitched forward with a shocked gasp. She instinctively threw her hands out in front of her, and she caught herself on the top of the wooden beam. Her teeth clacked together as her chin impacted with the flat top of the pole. Its rough surface gored the flesh of her chin.

For several seconds, she hung there, struggling not to fall.

Then she managed, with quaking arms and a burst of adrenaline, to pull herself up onto the top of the pole and jump to the sixth, seventh, and eighth logs, before she finally made it to land again.

No time for a breather, though. Her pursuers were hot on her tail.

Shaking sweat, rainwater, and mud out of her eyes, she loped along to the fifth and final obstacle.

A rope was strung horizontally between two platforms, a good thirty feet above the ground and probably forty-five feet long. Another rope led up to the top of the platform it was connected to; she knew that a third rope would take her back to the ground on the other side.

Her breath came in quick gasps as she hurled herself up the rope that would take her to the platform. When she got to the top, she rolled upright, grabbed onto the long rope with aching hands, and swung her legs up. She crossed her legs and feet around the rope, hooking her ankles around each other. Then she began to make her way to the other side.

Now, if there was one thing that she absolutely hated about this course, it was the rope shimmy. Why, one might ask? Because there was no safety net, only a thirty-foot drop to the ground below, and a sudden, injuring stop at the bottom.

Needless to say, she had never fallen.

Her hands, though sweaty and exhausted, were sure of each placement. Her legs, though they wanted to give out from fatigue, were strong in their grip. She made it three-quarters of the way across the rope without incident.

Then her left leg, which had held up remarkably well through all the strain, exploded with agony. She yelped with surprise, her hands slipping and her legs' grip weakening. At the last possible second she managed to hang on with her hands, and hooked her right knee across the rope. Chest heaving, she released her left leg so that it hung by the ankle.

Unfortunately, her black jumpsuit hid anything that might have shown where she had been injured. However, she could feel that the burning pain was centralized in her calf.

Swearing under her breath, she pushed the pain to the back of her mind and turned her attention to completing the course. Then she could collapse with exhaustion and examine her wound. Gritting her teeth, she reaffirmed her grip on the rope and began to pull herself along again.

It was difficult to do without the use of her left leg, but she made it across just as the first of her pursuers made it halfway across the rope. Then, panting, she limped to the other side of the platform, grabbed the rope that would take her to the ground, and began to belay herself down. She made sure to keep her left leg as still as possible.

Five feet from the ground, her right foot slipped again on the rain-slick wood. Her hands, aching madly from gripping the rope so hard, finally stopped responding.

She fell.

She didn't even have the time to cry out before her rear end hit the soft, muddy ground with a thud and a burst of searing pain. Her butt was shortly followed by her torso and head. She stared up at the sky, unseeing, for a moment, dazed as she was by the impact. Then she shook herself and gingerly sat up.

When a shot of pain exploded from between her legs and from her tailbone, she knew without a doubt that she had busted something.

However, her tailbone seemed as though it had just been bruised, not broken. She could still walk, maybe even run.

She did just that.

It was a struggle just to get to her feet, but she managed it, using the wall for support. Then she jogged off with slow, tender movements, glimpsing the brown hair of one of her pursuers cresting the wall as she went. The pain didn't fade as she moved, but it became more easy for her to bear, and luckily didn't intensify.

Tank jogged past the white-marked trees that symbolized the end of the course.

Then she hobbled over to a tree, her hand on her lower back, and sagged to the ground, her legs no longer able to support her through the pain and fatigue.

Reaper, Goat, Jumper, Portman, Hellraiser, Destroyer, Mac, and Sarge joined Tank a minute later, in that order.

Reaper immediately collapsed next to her, his chest heaving, and the rest of them did similarly around the sides of the trail. None of them spoke for several moments, all too winded to do more than try to catch their breath. Sarge, however, was the first to speak.

"Well done, men," he panted out after awhile. "Tank, where the hell did you learn to run like that?"

Tank gave Sarge a shaky grin. "I had friends in cross country during high school."

Then her leg and butt gave a throb, and she hissed, wincing. Tank carefully bent over, pulling her pants' leg out of her boot and rolling it up so that she could see her stitched wound.

The stitches were intact, but the strain she had put on it showed. Redness permeated the still-raw scar underneath the black thread. Tank could tell that it would be stinging for a while.

"Didn't tear the stitches," she replied to Sarge's inquiring look. Then she winced again as she reached forward to roll her pants' leg back down.

"Bruised my tailbone pretty bad on that last stretch, though," Tank admitted, leaning back against the tree with a quiet groan. She grimaced, and reached behind her to gently massage the area above her tailbone.

Reaper winced with sympathy. "That sucks."

Tank sighed, then looked over at him with a wry smile. "No shit, Sherlock."

She didn't mention to them the pain she had felt between her legs. She had a hunch of what had happened, and would take care of that herself. Tank couldn't help the resigned, lamenting sigh that escaped her lips. None of them commented on the exhalation, though, doubtlessly thinking that she was just in pain.

They rested for about ten minutes before getting up and beginning to make their way back to where they'd left the Humvee. Tank gratefully allowed Reaper to draw her arm over his shoulders and support her as she gingerly limped along.

Five minutes into their walk, Tank noticed Jumper glancing at her, as well as the broad smirk on the younger soldier's face. Tank frowned.

"Something funny, Jumper?" she asked, keeping her tone light and pain-free. Tank watched as Jumper's grin widened, and the red-haired man turned to talk to the brunette, walking backwards as he did so.

"You're walking like you just got kicked in the balls," Jumper said with a snicker. Tank blinked at Jumper for a moment as Portman, Mac, Hellraiser, and Jumper laughed. Even Reaper cracked a grin.

Then Tank started chuckling, too.

"You have to admit," Reaper said after a moment of this. Tank looked over at him as he continued. "She did pretty fucking well for a cripple."

Tank felt her cheeks heat. "I didn't do that well."

"Better than the rest of us," Sarge called from the front of the group. Tank's gaze landed on her CO.

"How so?" she asked.

"You made the twenty-mile obstacle course in under an hour and still finished before the rest of us," he replied. "For a cripple, that's pretty damn good."

Tank winced as her leg and tailbone painfully reminded her of the price she had paid for getting first place. "Yeah, and a bruised tailbone and a raw wound to show for it."

Tank gasped as Reaper jostled her slightly, and looked over at him with a slight frown. "What?"

"Just accept the fucking compliment and get it over with," he growled at her, but Tank could see his eyes twinkling.

She scowled at him.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" It was more of an accusation. Reaper affected a flawless 'innocent' look.

"Who? Me?" Tank rolled her eyes, carefully stepping over an exposed root.

"Who else? Big-foot?" She shook her head.

"Oh, oh!" Hellraiser finally chimed in with his own two cents. "I know, I know! It's the yeti! No, it's a werewolf! Oh, oh! No, it's gotta be Dracula!"

Tank chuckled. "Shut the fuck up, Hellraiser."

Still laughing, they finished the hike and piled into the Humvee. In three minutes, they were on the road, heading back to the barracks.

Ten minutes later, they all trooped inside the barracks. Tank immediately steered toward the kitchen, while the rest of them headed downstairs in the direction of the gym area.

"Tank." It was Sarge. Tank looked over her shoulder at him, hunched over with her hand on her lower back. She was half-in and half-out of the kitchen door.

"Yeah, Sarge?" He levelled a raised eyebrow at her.

"Where do you think you're going, Marine?" he inquired, crossing his arms. Tank winced.

"To ice my ass, sir," she replied with a groan, absently rubbing her lower back.

Sarge shook his head. "Whatever," he said. "Just come downstairs when you're finished. We need to work on getting that leg of yours back up to strength."

Tank flashed him a half-hearted salute. "Sir."

Sarge nodded, and then headed down the stairs after the rest of the men. Once she was alone, Tank hobbled into the kitchen.

It didn't take her long to find an ice pack in the freezer, next to the few medical supplies they kept that had to be frozen. Tank grabbed it, and then pressed it to her tailbone with a faint hiss of discomfort. Then she headed back out of the kitchen again and, after checking that the coast was clear, she ducked into the infirmary again. She immediately headed for the restroom.

She shut the door behind her decisively, and then set the ice pack down on the sink and went about removing her flak vest and unzipping her jumpsuit. It pooled around her booted feet with a wet squelch, soaked with rainwater and mud. Tank grimaced, and pulled her dance shorts, also drenched, down around her ankles. They were shortly followed by her modest white panties, and she seated herself on the toilet.

The crotch of her underwear was splotched with blood.

Tank felt a sense of disappointed numbness settle over her, and she swallowed to wet her throat. She had just finished her period the week before, so the blood was not from her menstrual cycle. No, this was from her fall earlier. This was why she had felt the pain between her legs.

The impact had broken her hymen.

Sighing, Tank wadded up a few sheets of toilet paper and stuck them in her panties before she got up again, pulling her clothes back on.

"You know," she said to the silence, desperate for something to break the suddenly stifling air. "Somehow I always figured that even with all the training and stuff my hymen would remain intact until I lost my virginity."

She heaved another sigh, zipping up the last few inches of her jumpsuit. Then she pulled on her flak vest, zipping it up, too.

"Guess God had other plans," she muttered, slightly disgruntled. Then she flushed the toilet, washed her hands, grabbed the ice pack, and headed out for the locker room, the cold pack pressed firmly to her backside.

Really, how disappointing.

2041 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 1900 hours

"I can't believe it's November third, already."

The quiet admission brought Tank's attention over to Reaper where he was lounging on her bunk, a book laying, pages down, on his thigh. His hazel gaze was distant as he stared listlessly at the wall to his right. She smiled faintly.

Approximately four months had passed since they'd begun dating, meaning that almost seven months had passed since they'd been reunited.

Since she had almost died during the Venezuela mission two months previous, Tank had been on three other missions.

The first had entailed RRTS Six being called to Vietnam. They'd infiltrated a military base, recovered a set of plans for nuclear weapons, and blown the place to kingdom come. The only casualties had been a few scrapes and bruises, but most of them were unharmed.

The second mission had landed them in northern Russia, in the Siberian region. It had been a search and destroy mission, to take out an ammo dump after confirming that it had housed a slew of nuclear missiles. Hellraiser had sustained a badly broken arm and Jumper had fractured his right femur, but they'd been the only casualties and Tank had been able to tend to them on the fly with little difficulty.

The last task had taken place just over the past week, and had only involved two RRTS members. Tank and Reaper had undertaken the operation, sneaking deep into enemy territory in Iraq. They'd traveled for two days in order to stake out a canyon through which a caravan would be passing carrying several high-ranking members of a terrorist organization. The objective was to take out these men.

Tank's aim had not faltered.

The mission hadn't left them unscathed, however. Though the Iraqis had neither seen nor harmed them, the harsh desert environment and the need to stay totally still for long periods of time had depleted them. By the time that they made it back to the rendezvous point a full week after the mission started, both Tank and Reaper were dehydrated, suffering greatly from heat exhaustion, and so weak from severe sunburn and lack of nourishment that neither could really move.

The experience had scarred them for life. Tank never wanted to feel that thirsty ever again. She could tell that Reaper felt similarly.

"I hear you," she murmured in reply to his statement. She looked back down at her game of solitaire and slowly flipped another card over, wincing as her abused, reddened skin cracked. She and Reaper were both as red as lobsters in the best of places, and in the worst places, they were blistering and cracking.

Hellraiser had had a lot of fun teasing them about their new colors after they'd been treated for second-degree burns.

Jumper and Mac hadn't helped when they only encouraged him.

"Before you know it, it'll be Christmas," Reaper continued quietly. Tank finally turned her full attention to him. The sounds of the rest of the squad's recreational time gradually filtered out until she was focused only on her boyfriend.

"What's bothering you, Reaper?" she asked. Reaper shrugged, but Tank thought she saw him slip a hand into his pocket.

"It's almost Thanksgiving, again," he murmured. Tank fell silent, the significance lost on her for a moment. Then it dawned on her what he was talking about, and her brow creased faintly before she slowly reached up and grasped his hand lightly.

"I'll be with you, this year," she softly assured him. He finally looked over at her.

"It's hard to believe they've already been gone eleven years," he whispered. Tank nodded, lightly squeezing his hand.

"I know," she murmured. "I know."

They lapsed into silence, but didn't break eye contact. Again, Tank thought she saw him fiddle with something in his pocket, but she brushed it off and reluctantly went back to her game of solitaire.

"How are your burns doing?" Tank looked back up at him.

"Well enough," she replied. "They're more itchy than anything, right now. You?"

Reaper winced.

"I've got blisters in places I didn't know I had," he muttered, disgruntled. "Somehow, I don't think I'll be surprised if I get diagnosed with melanoma in the next year or so."

Tank smiled thinly. "Don't talk like that, please. It's bad enough that we face death in action. I don't even want to think about dying from cancer, right now."

Reaper sighed. "And which one of us is supposed to be the realist, again?"

Tank grinned. "I am, of course. I just don't want to think about it right now."

"Whatever," Reaper groused, but he gave her a good-natured smile nonetheless. Tank chuckled.

"So we have tomorrow off, if all goes well," she ventured after a second of silence. "What're you planning on doing?"

Reaper stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, and then shrugged. "I don't really know."

Tank smiled. "I have an idea."

"Yeah?" Reaper raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his girlfriend. "What's that?"

Tank cackled in an evil manner, causing Reaper to recoil slightly with unease.

"You'll see," she responded. Reaper groaned.

"Should I or should I not dread this newest diabolical scheme of yours?"

Tank raised her eyebrows. "Have you been talking to my sister recently?"

Reaper blinked. "No. Why?"

"Because you're starting to sound like her."

Reaper just grinned.

Disclaimer: Don't own Doom.

IIIII LIIIIIVEEE!!! Ahem. Anyway, if you couldn't tell, I'm back, at least for the moment until some other tragedy occurs. I now have a brand-spanking-new power cord (Finally! Phew.), but now my battery's deciding to kick out on me. On the upside, I can still function as long as it's plugged in, and I'm hopefully going to be getting Windows 7 soon, so I'm going to have a lot of fun with that.

On another note, this update is a day early because today's my 20th birthday and I wanted to give you guys a present as well.

Thank you all SO MUCH for your patience during my hiatus, and I hope to hear from you all. That INCLUDES those people who have this story on their story alert system! You and I both know who you are! *gives non-reviewing readers the evil eye*

And a big thank you goes to those people who reviewed chapter 23 (24, if you're counting the prologue). These include Steff7 and CaffeineKid. And another thank you goes out to those reviewers who sent me words of support after I made the announcement of my hiatus. These include Sam Kallberg, Steff7, and KageOkami-Kogo. You guys are all awesome. Your words meant a lot to me when I read them in my e-mails (off of a public computer, blegh). Thank you all so much for all of your encouragement!

The Tank/Reaper action will pick up a bit more in the next chapter (in a manner of speaking, that is). That much I can promise!

As another aside: Who all on here is a fan of Capcom games? Meaning Street Fighter, Onimusha, Sonic the Hedgehog...? And who's a fan of Final Fantasy?

Next chapter should be posted 2-15-10.

-Portrait of a Scribe