Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum
By Portrait of a Scribe
"The trees they do grow high, my love,
The leaves they do grow green,
And the time is gone and past, my love
That you and I have seen . . ."
-Traditional English Folksong, "The Trees They Do Grow High"
Chapter 37.
2046 A.D. - RRTS Barracks, Twentynine Palms, California - 2000 hours
Tank shakily pulled herself up from the floor of the bathroom and flushed the toilet before rinsing her mouth out. She spat a few times to make sure that she had no more water in her mouth- it could go down the throat into the stomach and induce more vomiting- and then she left the room and left the infirmary, popping a piece of crystallized ginger into her mouth as she headed downstairs.
They were going on leave. The transporter would be there in just a little while to pick them up and take them all to the airport, if they wanted. As it was, most of the men were in the barracks getting ready to leave.
Tank's eyes immediately landed on Reaper as she descended the stairs into the squad bay, and then she looked around to observe the rest of the unit.
Reaper was stuffing a t-shirt into his seabag where he stood next to his new cot, his face unnaturally blank. He had been moved to it just a week or so before when somebody had dropped a ladder on his old one and taken the whole thing down. He looked remarkably surly.
Tank knew it was because of the psych-tech.
Mac and Destroyer were lined up in the aisle between the cots. Mac was pitching oranges the length of the room to Destroyer, who was "up to bat", so to speak. The tall African-American's teeth were bared in a ferocious expression. As Tank set foot on the cement floor, Destroyer swung and hit their latest victim, sending the orange down the aisle as a disintegrating ground ball.
Tank shook her head as it left a trail of juice in its wake.
A brief glance to Reaper told her that her husband was pondering voicing a complaint. When he finished packing a second later and went over to the gun-cleaning table in the alcove in the corner, Tank knew that he didn't feel like being a hard-ass tonight.
Let Sarge deal with it, his brooding expression read. Tank sighed and withdrew her gaze from him again.
Then she rolled her eyes as she caught sight of the cardboard cutout of a naked woman wearing a catcher's mask. Portman had brought it back after their last mission. The next ball was whiffed, and hit the cutout with a wet smack. Where it hit, Tank couldn't see, but she had a good indication.
Portman was pacing next to his bunk, grumbling about transporters. Even as Tank watched, he stopped and leaned over his pack. Tank guessed, correctly, that he was checking to make sure he had remembered his condoms.
Probably for the third or fourth time, too.
Duke was lounging on his rack, an old handheld video game in his hands and a cigarette wedged between his lips. He was mumbling quietly to the screen, and Tank couldn't make out his words over the sound of the radio.
Goat was praying at his own bedside. After the mission at the methane fields, he had changed. The second he had gotten out of the shower, cleaned up from the blood and sweat of the mission, he had gone over to his locker. Tank had been appalled when he had withdrawn a bloodied canvas bag filled with human scalps. She had been somewhat relieved when he removed it from the room.
Still, she had run into the bathroom to vomit, after that.
Since that day, Goat had been doing a lot of praying. Tank didn't know whether he was shaken by the mission itself or something that'd happened during it. However, he had finally begun to wear the crucifix Tank had gotten him a few years back. In fact, she never saw him without it, lately.
Movement to her right caught her eye, and she turned to look at it.
It was somebody new- Jumper's replacement, she realized with a jolt. He must have just gotten there, probably while she had been in the infirmary bathroom puking her guts out. He was long-limbed and gangly, probably no more than nineteen years old, about six-two, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds. His buzz-cut hair was brown- it would be curly if grown out- and his eyes were green.
He was sweeping the floor with an old-fashioned broom, probably given to him by Duke in Tank's absence. He looked lost and miserable. It was this new kid who Tank approached after her study had been concluded.
"Hey," she said after clearing her throat. The kid looked up, startled, and Tank was suddenly aware of every pair of eyes in the room landing on her. Tank glanced around with a raised eyebrow.
"As you were," she drawled. "I can introduce myself without your help."
There was a small smile from Goat, and Duke laughed slightly before everybody went back to their previous activities. Tank shook her head and turned back to the kid with a smile.
"I'm Sergeant Amanda Grimm," she said, holding out her hand for the young man to shake. "You can call me Tank."
The kid smiled hesitantly as he shook her hand. "Private First Class Mark Dantalian."
"Nice to meet you," Tank said. She eyed him. "You look like a nice kid. How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
Tank nodded. "I'm twenty-six."
She glanced around the barracks. "Have they introduced themselves to you, yet?"
Mark hesitated, and then shook his head. Tank rolled her eyes and sighed before sitting down on his bunk.
"Mind if I sit here? Thanks," she said, ignoring the questioning glance he shot her. She pointed to each squad member in turn.
"That's Portman," she said. "Corporal Dean Portman, age thirty-three. We just call him Portman."
Next came Goat, and then Destroyer. "Corporal Eric Fantom, codename Goat. Age thirty-five. And there's Corporal Roark Gannon, a.k.a. Destroyer, age thirty."
Tank glanced over at Mark as she pointed to Mac and Duke. "That's Mac, and that's Duke, or Lance Corporal Gregory Schofield, age twenty-seven."
Mark cast her another inquiring look.
"Why 'Mac'?" he asked. Tank smiled.
"'Cause none of the idiots who nicknamed him could pronounce his name when he came," she said dryly, "even after he told it to them. He also likes Big Macs and baseball."
"What's his real name?"
Tank smirked. "Lance Corporal Katsuhiko Kumanosuke Takaashi," she replied, "age twenty-seven."
Mark stared at her for a second, dumbfounded. Then he shook his head and went back to his sweeping.
"I shouldn't have asked," he muttered. Tank chuckled.
"Don't worry," she said. "I can only pronounce his name because I took a semester's worth of cram school Japanese when I was on leave a few years back."
Then she pointed to Reaper. "And last, but not least, is Staff Sergeant John Grimm, age twenty-six."
Mark blinked, the broom pausing as he stilled. He scrutinized Tank for a second, and then he looked at Reaper.
"Are you two brother and sister?" he asked incredulously. Tank shuddered.
"Heavens, no!" she exclaimed, and then held up her left hand for Mark to observe. His eyebrows shot up.
"Married?" he asked, and Tank made a hushing motion with her hands.
"Yeah, but we don't generally make it too terribly obvious," she said, eyes twinkling. "Y'see, most of the guys here don't like the fact that we can occasionally sneak out for a little 'alone time' and they have to wait until furlough."
Mark blushed slightly with a quiet, nervous chuckle. Then he quieted as Tank's smile faded.
"At least, we used to be able to," she murmured, her eyes taking on a faraway glaze as her thoughts drifted to her cancer. Tank absently rubbed her stomach with her right hand, feeling the deep ache in it acutely. Mark's observant eyes caught the motion.
"Are you pregnant?" he blurted. The whole room quieted but for the sound of the radio, until Tank burst out laughing.
"Fuck no!" she gasped, doubling over with her mirth. A moment later, she straightened up, wiping a tear from her eye.
"God, I haven't laughed that hard in forever!" she chuckled. "You should've seen the look on your face!"
Then she calmed again and looked up at the recruit with a smile, though her eyes were solemn.
"I have terminal pancreatic cancer," she explained quietly. "Most of the time I'm in too much pain to stand straight, let alone do anything of that nature. I can't carry a child, and I probably never will."
"...Oh," Mark said, voice subdued. "I'm sorry for bringing it up."
Tank smiled, but it was forced. "You get used to it after a while. I don't anticipate dealing with it for too much longer, anyway."
You could have heard a pin drop, had the radio been off.
There was a second there where none of the squad made any motions at all, all of them except Reaper staring at Tank, and Tank staring at Mark. A small, warm smile was on her face and a well of bottomless sadness was in her eyes as she studied him.
Then there came the rattle of machinery, and Tank glanced over at Reaper to see that he had begun to clean his guns again. She knew then that she should never have even allowed the conversation to take that direction.
"So, how 'bout them Cards?" she asked, directing the question to Mac. Mac snorted, and the tension in the room immediately diffused.
"The Cards suck, this year," he scoffed. "The Red Sox are doing much better."
He pitched again, Destroyer swung, and the orange hit the wall above Tank's bunk to land with a wet squish on top of her seabag. Tank squawked and leapt up, darting over to scoop the fruit off of her bunk before the juice soaked into her things.
"What the fuck, guys?" she demanded, but her eyes were dancing with mirth. "Don't you have better things to do than make my junk smell nice?"
Mac just grinned, and Destroyer smirked a little bit.
"I don't fucking believe this shit," Portman growled from where he was pacing. He had totally ignored her.
Tank looked over at him, watched him glare at his watch before he turned the scathing look to the clock on the wall.
"Six months without a weekend, and the fuckin' transporter's five minutes late!" he complained. "That's five minutes R 'n' R I ain't never gonna get back!"
"Relax, baby," Duke said, briefly glancing up at Portman from his game- creatively called 'Galaxian'. Duke winked at the blond man. "We're on vacation."
Tank shook her head as Portman scowled, stuck his hands in his pockets, and walked over to peer over Duke's shoulder at the screen of the handheld. Duke didn't even look up, his thumbs twiddling on the game's buttons.
"Why d'you play those fuckin' stupid games?" Portman asked, his too-smooth voice derisive. "They're old!"
Duke, unruffled by the proximity, shot down another digital enemy with practiced ease. "You ever play chess, Portman? Some games'll never die, and this game was layered, man."
Portman snorted and walked away while Duke went back to muttering at the screen, challenging the invaders to up the ante.
Tank shook her head and remained silent while Mac tested the weight of another orange in his hand.
"Where're you going, 'Stroyer?" Mac asked as Destroyer made a couple of practice swings.
Destroyer grinned. "Grover Island, surfin'. I'm tellin' you, man, their weather is crazy. Thirty-foot breakers!"
Tank chuckled and inhaled deeply through her nose, taking a seat on the side of her bunk. The barracks' normal scent of sweat, leather, and boot-black had been temporarily replaced by the smell of aftershave and hair gel... not to mention fresh orange juice. It was an interesting combination, Tank silently mused.
"Where you goin', Portman?" she heard Destroyer ask. Tank regretted the question as soon as she saw the dreamy leer come over Portman's face.
"I'm goin' down to El Honto," he said, sounding like he was really looking forward to whatever it was he was going to say. "I'm gonna lock myself in a motel room with a bottle of tequila-"
He held his hand out about level with his mid-chest, and Tank inwardly groaned, knowing what was coming.
"-and three she-boys!"
She shuddered as he finished the sentence with a satisfied growl, seeing Destroyer grimace.
"You're sick, man," Duke stated, glancing up at Portman from the handheld. Tank groaned audibly.
"Sicker than I am," she deadpanned, "and I'm pretty damn fuckin' sick."
Mac pitched again, Destroyer swung, and the orange angled like a meteor across the barracks to smack wetly into the wall just above Duke's head. Duke didn't even flinch. Tank just stared at the orange when it stuck to the wall.
"Dude, that just ain't right," she said, pointing to the orange. Duke, Destroyer, and Mac followed her gaze, as did Mark, and then laughed.
"What ain't right is that we're still waiting for the fuckin' transporter," groused Portman.
"Quit whining and suck it up, you fuckin' pussy," Tank retorted without missing a beat. "You'll get your damned sodomy soon enough."
Another orange went sailing across the room and narrowly missed Goat's left ear. He caught it just before it whooshed past his head, not even looking up from his Bible. However, his ice-blue eyes landed on Portman in a chilling glare.
"I'm sick of your filth, Portman," Goat intoned quietly. Portman's face twisted into an expression that was more sneer than grin.
"He speaks," Portman mused as Destroyer tossed Mac another orange.
"So, Kid, where you goin'?" Duke asked. He didn't look up. The Kid paused in his brooming. Everyone except Reaper looked over at him, and the Kid cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Me?" he asked. Tank raised her eyebrows, prompting him to reply to the question. "Oh... I gotta stay here."
Portman made a bogus sound of sympathy.
"Oh. Oh, that's tragic," he drawled. "Grunt's been here, like, ninety seconds. He ain't never been in rotation."
Tank shook her head at Portman's apathy while Destroyer fished another orange out of the bag and tossed it over to Mac.
"Sorry, Kid," Destroyer said, his bass voice only slightly sympathetic, "you don't get R 'n' R until you've at least been shot at."
"My heart fuckin' bleeds for you," Portman said, head ducked low as he shot the Kid a glare. "Sweep up, you fuckin' pussy."
Tank snorted. "That's my line."
Duke clucked his tongue in disapproval of Portman's derision. "This kid was the best marksman in his entire division," he defended good-naturedly. "Don't listen to him, Kid."
"We're all glad to have you here," Tank continued reassuringly. A moment passed.
"Now sweep up, you fuckin' pussy," Duke added, not looking up from his game.
Tank almost fell off her bunk with her roaring mirth, hearing everyone else laugh, as well, even Mark. Okay, so not everybody.
Reaper hadn't laughed since the last assignment and the subsequent 'treatments'.
Tank gazed over at her husband with some sadness, watching his brooding expression as he sat at the cleaning table and assembled and disassembled a light machine gun so fast his fingers blurred. Tank heard Mark give a low, admiring whistle.
"How fast, sir?" the Kid asked.
"Not fast enough," was Reaper's reply, and Tank suddenly knew that he was dwelling on the memories that the therapy had dug up. She watched in silence as he reassembled the weapon, his fingers seeming to have a life of their own.
"Looks damn fast to me, sir," the Kid said. Tank watched Reaper look over at Mark.
"Call me John, Kid," he instructed, his voice blunt. "I work for a living, just like you."
Mark smiled uncertainly. Reaper detected the hesitation. "Give it time, Kid. You'll get it."
There was a pause, only the sound of the radio and the broom in the barracks. Tank finally tossed the orange in her hand at Mac, who caught it with a faint grin and promptly decided that this victim needed a little more wailing on.
It splattered gloriously against the back wall a few seconds later.
"Nice," Tank chuckled. "That almost looked like what a human head does when I hit it with a shot from my rifle."
Destroyer raised his eyebrows at her, and he and Mac exchanged glances.
"Tank, girl," Destroyer said after a second, "your sniper rifle is the reason why we named you Tank."
"That motherfucker's a fuckin' cannon," Portman put in with a suggestive leer. "And don't you put it to good use..."
"Go fuck yourself, Portman," Tank drawled, leaning back to lounge on her bunk. "Before I decide to shove my KA-BAR up your ass and do it for you."
"Ouch," Portman hissed, affecting injury. Tank rolled her eyes, and Destroyer chose that moment to change the subject.
"What 'bout you, Reaper?" he asked, raising his bass voice so that Reaper could hear him in the alcove. "Where you going?"
Reaper didn't answer.
Everyone in the room turned to look at him. They all knew about the psych-tech and the memory therapy. They'd picked up on his mood, anyway- couldn't miss it.
You felt the burn of Reaper's bad mood like a tanning light on a bad sunburn... and Tank knew bad sunburns better than most.
Duke actually glanced up from his game, this time.
"Yeah, what's it gonna be, Reaps?" he asked. Tank smirked slightly when she saw Reaper faintly roll his eyes at the hated moniker. "An armed conflict someplace quiet?"
"Little relaxing jungle warfare?" Portman chimed in.
"Or you gonna stay here cleanin' your piece, doing push-ups?" Duke teased with a grin. Reaper paused, and then glanced at the Kid with a wink as the elder Marine picked up his rifle.
"Well you know, Duke, I thought maybe I'd drop by your mom's house, wait in line."
Tank choked on air and actually fell off her bunk this time, while the others all laughed, save for Duke and Reaper, who just stared each other down. After a few seconds, Mark noticed her convulsing on the floor. Thinking that she was having a seizure of some kind, he hurriedly came over to her and put a hand to her neck, feeling for her pulse.
Tank brushed him away, laughing so hard that she couldn't breathe.
"'M fine," she wheezed, and then she continued laughing.
When she finally calmed a moment later, she was gasping for air, the occasional chuckle escaping her. She caught Reaper's gaze as she pulled herself back up onto her bunk with a little help from the Kid, and grinned whole-heartedly at her husband for the first time in what seemed like months.
Maybe the last few months of her life wouldn't be so bad, after all.
Then she heard the ring of boots on the stairs, and looked up to see Sarge descending the stairwell.
Then again, maybe she wouldn't have a few more months to live.
Tank sighed, and sat up on her bunk with a faint wince as her stomach ached. Then she watched as Sarge reached the bottom of the stairs and took one step out into the barracks. The laughter in the room ceased immediately as everybody looked at him with a mixture of dread and anticipation.
Tank heard Portman utter a muffled oath.
Something in Sarge's expression and posture clued the rest of them in to what Tank already knew was coming.
"Listen up," Sarge said, his deep voice just audible over the radio. Goat got up and flipped it off so that they could hear him better.
"Leave is canceled," Sarge announced. Tank sighed, and got to her feet with another wince, already heading for the locker room. She briefly saluted Sarge as she passed him, and he nodded in return before turning back to the men.
Tank almost, almost laughed at the expressions of amazement, disgust, and wry resignation on their faces.
Really, she inwardly mused, directing the thoughts to the rest of them, you should have expected something like this to happen.
She heard Duke laugh as she entered the locker room and started stripping out of the civvies she had been wearing. Her sensitive ears caught the ensuing conversation as first her jacket, then her tank top, and then her capris and sandals were set onto the bench in front of her locker.
"You got a problem, Duke?" Sarge asked.
"Me, Sarge?" Duke asked innocently. Tank smirked when she detected the sunny smile in her friend's voice. "Hell, no. I love my job."
A moment passed as Tank wordlessly donned her tank top and dance leggings.
"Whassup, Sarge?" she finally heard Destroyer ask.
"We got us a game. Kid, you're up."
Tank heard a faint clank, and deduced that Mark had leaned his broom against a locker.
"You're in the RRTS now, son," Sarge continued. Then his volume went up to about half his capability. "And what do we do in the RRTS?"
Tank knew what Sarge was waiting for, but she said nothing as the rest of the squad, save Goat, immediately responded: "Pray for war!"
Tank had been praying along different lines... more for a quick death and forgiveness than for war.
Then again, maybe this was better, she mused. Reaper hadn't been himself since the South America mission with the methane fields. She knew he'd been doubting himself and his abilities. Tank mused that he'd probably been concerned about being a so-called 'loose cannon' in the civilian community. Probably worried he'd cause a mess if he got drunk or something, knowing him.
"Fall in," she heard Sarge command, and with a sigh, Tank moved over to the corner of the locker room with the examination table and computer.
As the rest of the squad filed in behind her with various expressions of displeasure etched into their faces, Tank booted up the computer and grabbed her stethoscope, preparing to examine the first man in line. It was then that she noticed that Reaper hadn't come in with them. Tank frowned in confusion, but then brushed it off as Portman stepped up to the plate.
The examinations went quickly, and they all cleared out, even Sarge, who came in a little bit late.
The Kid was the last one in line before Tank, and even he checked out alright. Then Tank looked up for Reaper.
He was... not present.
Tank's brow furrowed in concern, and she looked over at Sarge. "Sarge? Where's Reaper?"
"Reaper won't be joining us for this mission," Sarge intoned. Tank paused, and then swallowed.
"Oh," she said. "Well, you all checked out clean. Better go suit up."
Sarge nodded.
"You heard the woman!" he barked. "Suit up!"
Tank took a deep, shaky breath as she dazedly turned to the computer and entered her own stats. As she stepped onto the scale, she heard the rest of the team exit the room through the other door, which led straight up to the landing pad.
She had really wanted Reaper to be there when she died... now it looked like he wouldn't.
It was as she turned to enter in her weight- now a meager one-hundred fifteen pounds- that a hand landed on her shoulder, startling her so that she yelped and spun around.
When she saw who it was, she sighed with relief, still shaking slightly.
"Reaper!" she exhaled. "How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?"
Reaper shrugged, and there was something in his eyes that Tank couldn't name. "At least a lifetime more."
She shook her head in exasperation, and then gestured to the examination table. "Well, are you coming or not?"
"Yeah," he replied distractedly, hopping up on the table. Tank heaved a breath, putting her hands on her hips and eyeing him sternly.
"John," she started. "We got a game. It's gonna be balls-out, hard-core tough. You won't have time to think when we're on the mission."
She paused, staring into his distant hazel gaze. "I don't know what the fuck's got you so distracted, John, but I'm not gonna clear you for this mission if you're gonna try to go through it with a fogged head."
They were silent for a moment, and then Reaper slowly focused on her again.
"We're going to Olduvai," he said quietly. Tank froze for an instant, and then she reached for his hand.
"You sure you wanna do this?" she whispered. Reaper stared at their entwined hands for a moment, and then he raised his eyebrows slightly in a resigned expression.
"Yeah," he breathed. Tank stared at him for a second, and then she pulled away, reaching for her stethoscope.
"Okay," she murmured.
She was done with the examination in under five minutes.
"Suit up, love," she whispered, shutting down the computer. She soon joined her husband at the lockers and they suited up in silence.
As Tank strapped her submachine gun to her thigh like she always did, a sudden burst of pain from her stomach caused her to moan, and her knees gave out from the sheer agony. Reaper caught her before she could bash her head against the locker, and he lowered her to the floor, his eyes wide as he gazed down at her.
Tank could do little more than gasp through the flare-up until it finally eased a moment later.
"You okay?" Reaper asked quietly. Tank nodded, a bead of sweat sliding down her forehead.
"Fine," she wheezed. Reaper frowned at her in concern.
"Maybe you should sit this one out," he murmured. Tank took a deep breath, and then shook her head.
"No, I need to go," she said, her voice a quiet rasp. She groaned and staggered to her feet again. "This'll be my last mission, Reaper. 'M gonna give it my all."
Tank gasped when she managed to stand upright again, and then she finished tamping down the velcro on her vest. A hand on her shoulder drew her attention to Reaper's grim face.
"Don't be a deathseeker, Tank," he pleaded quietly. "I want as much time with you as I can steal."
Tank smiled shakily, and slammed her locker closed after grabbing her medical pouch.
"I know," she whispered. Then they dashed out of the locker bay, up the stairs to the helipad. Tank saw Sarge glance out before he withdrew again, and knew that he was getting ready to lift off, with or without her and Reaper.
Reaper overtook her with ease, dashing forward to stop the liftoff. Tank was grateful for him in that moment, for the simple fact that he was there and that he could help support her.
Tank caught up to them and clambered into the chopper. She caught Sarge's slightly concerned glance and smiled faintly in response to it as she walked up to her assault rifle and pressed her thumb to the green pad on the handle.
"RRTS Special Ops clearance verified. Handle ID: Tank."
As the assault rifle spoke to her, she lifted it down and cocked it, making sure that it was working properly.
Perfect.
"Come to momma, baby," she purred as she also took down her sniper rifle. She caught Mark ogling it as she laid it across her lap.
Tank smirked at him when he met her gaze.
"RRTS Special Ops clearance verified. Handle ID: Reaper."
Reaper sat down next to her and glanced into her eyes. Tank smiled at him and focused on loading her rifle.
"Take us up!" Sarge called. Tank absently strapped herself in.
The chopper lifted off, carrying them toward the Ark Facility in Papoose Lake, Nevada.
"You know, Kid, it's funny." Tank glanced over to see Portman leaning conspiratorially toward Mark. "Couple of days ago I told Sarge I could use a little pussy. Next day, he brought you onto the team."
Tank scowled at the slight, but the chink of a loading rifle next to her brought her attention over to her husband.
"Don't give me an excuse, Portman," Reaper called over the noise of the chopper. His glare was sub-zero as he turned it on Portman. "No one here'll miss you."
Tank smirked slightly and continued with her task.
A few minutes into the flight, Tank finished loading her sniper rifle, and laid it across her lap with her assault rifle. Then she sat back, reached into her vest, and pulled out a pack of Wrigley's Doublemint chewing gum.
"I got gum," she announced as the chopper hit a little bit of turbulence. "Anybody want some?"
Sarge chuckled and grinned at her, leaning forward to take a piece.
"Deja vu, much?" he asked. Tank smiled, but it was subdued.
"Yeah," she said. "'Cept this time I'm probably gonna be the one in Hound and Indian's position."
Sarge frowned slightly, but he nodded in understanding.
Tank wasn't going to come back from this mission alive.
That was all there was to it.
Tank turned to Reaper and offered him a stick. He took one with a pained expression, his eyes tight with sorrow. Tank quirked an eyebrow questioningly, wordlessly asking him if he was okay.
Reaper just shrugged and turned away as he stuck the piece of gum in his mouth.
Destroyer already had a piece in his mouth. Mac accepted, as did Goat, Mark, and Duke. Portman stared at her hand for a second.
"Last time you're gonna offer me a piece, innit?" It was more of a statement. Tank smiled at him, and it was tired and sad. She gave him an Air Force salute.
"'Fraid it is, partner," she said nonchalantly. "Last pack, anyway. There's a stick for you and a stick for me. Figured I'd try to share."
Portman scoffed, but took one of them nonetheless. Tank smiled knowingly as he unwrapped it and stuck the gum in his mouth with a grimace.
Then she unwrapped her own piece, the last in the pack. She put it in her mouth, and bit down with relish, leaning her head back against the back of her seat.
A few minutes passed in silence, and Tank gradually centered herself, calming herself before the game.
Then she heard Sarge get up, and opened her eyes, completely calm, ignoring the ache in her belly as she bent forward for a better view.
"Look in!" Sarge shouted. Everybody's attention focused on him as he slapped a memory stick into the drive of the briefing console on the bulkhead. "This is what we've got from Simcom."
He turned the volume all the way up so that they could hear over the racket made by the chopper blades, the comm chatter from up front, and the sound of the wind outside.
The screen flashed, and Tank watched as the face of an elderly man appeared on the VDU. Tank thought he looked a bit... rat-like.
"This is Doctor Carmack at Classified Research, Olduvai, ID 6627," the man said. "We've had a level-five breach, implementing quarantine procedures now!"
Tank scrutinized the screen carefully, taking in everything. Doctor Carmack seemed terrified, and he kept glancing over his shoulder at something either off-screen, or...
Behind that blast door past his left ear, Tank realized, her eyes narrowing. There came the sound of a distant pounding, and she realized with a jolt that the door was caving in.
"I repeat, implement level-five breach quarantine procedures now!" he said. He glanced over his shoulder again, and Tank heard a horrible screeching sound that was barely audible over the racket of the chopper. She saw the door over the doctor's shoulder buckle, and then tear open.
Tank glimpsed a huge, dark, hulking silhouette in the doorway before the picture dissolved into snowy static.
She was barely aware of the men exchanging glances around her, her wide eyes still fixed on the screen. Tank only snapped out of her stupor when Sarge spoke again.
"We got a quarantine procedure on Olduvai," he said.
Thank you, Captain Obvious...
"They sent that message before the research team stopped responding to communications."
"Olduvai...?" Portman mused. Sarge nodded at him.
"Three and a half hours ago," he said. "UAC has shut down the lab. We go up there, locate the team, eliminate the threat, and secure the facility."
Tank opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by Mark.
"What threat?" he asked. Tank could have slapped herself.
"Goes like this, see," Duke said, leaning over Goat to talk to Mark. "If it's tryin' to kill you, it's a threat."
Tank really did slap herself, this time.
Shaking her head and lowering her hand, she turned to Sarge, her expression serious. "Sarge."
Sarge looked over at her and gave her his full attention when he saw the grave look in her eye. "What is it?"
Tank noticed that none of the others were paying attention, but brushed it off.
"Sarge, did you see what was happening over Carmack's shoulder?" she asked. Sarge blinked.
"I was a bit more focused on his face, Tank," he deadpanned.
"Something tore through that door behind him," Tank stated solemnly, frowning. "I saw its silhouette before the camera cut out."
She paused, a disturbing thought making its way through her head. "It didn't have any tools, Sarge, nothing that could have cut through that door... except its own brute strength."
Sarge sat back again, looking at her as though in a new light. "What're you saying, Tank?"
Tank took a deep breath, and glanced at the bulkhead again. "Sarge, I'm not so sure that what we're going to be dealing with is even human."
Sarge recoiled in surprise before he chuckled and shook his head.
"What? Like an alien?" he asked, and then shook his head again. "Tank, be serious."
"I am being serious, Sarge!" she hissed. Why wasn't he listening to her? "I'm being more serious than I have been in years! I saw something on that disc, something ripped through the door and it didn't do it with anything other than its bare hands!"
But Sarge just brushed her off with a shake of the head, and Tank gave up on trying to make her point. She heaved an exasperated breath and sat back to rest.
Several long moments passed, Tank lost in her thoughts.
Then she suddenly realized something, and opened her eyes to look over at Mark.
"Hey, Mark," she called over the noise of the chopper. Mark looked up at her.
"Yeah?" he returned. Tank nodded at the handheld semiautomatics that he had laid across his lap.
"What's your ID?" she asked. Mark rolled his eyes.
"She called me 'The Kid'," he replied. Tank smiled and closed her eyes again. She rested her head back against the wall of the chopper and settled in for the remainder of the ride.
However, a quiet question from Sarge caught her attention. Tank kept her eyes closed, giving them their privacy.
"How long's it been?"
There was a distinct pause. Then, to her surprise, Reaper was the one who answered, his voice barely audible to her above the racket of the chopper.
"Ten years."
"You sure she's even still there?" Sarge was being persistent, this time.
Tank could almost feel the ice in Reaper's voice when he replied, "You gotta face your demons sometime."
A chill ran down her spine at that statement, and then-
A flash, a vision of falling, screaming men, falling onto rocks, onto a mountainside, blood splattering the stones, ice shattering, people screaming, crimson streaking over her face, hands, body, slicking back her hair-
Tank jerked upright with a gasp, wide-eyed and blind as her chest heaved.
"I want this spit and polish, no bullshit!" Sarge was saying. As he continued to bark out orders, Tank felt Reaper lay a hand on her arm, and she looked over at him, her eyes unseeing.
"Tank?"
"Nuane?" His voice like soft animal skins, richer than honey, deeper than the depths of the sea, his hair such a pale color, nut-brown instead of black, his haunting eyes as green as the summer grass-
"Tank!"
"Two wolves are fighting in every man's heart. One is love, the other is hate."
"Which one wins?"
"The one you feed the most."
"Tank! Snap out of it!"
A clang of stone against metal, she screamed his name, watched him fall, and then suddenly something grabbed her, a rough voice saying something in a language she didn't understand, and suddenly there was a shower of blood and he was standing over her, the dragon-man's head clutched in his strong fingers-
A harsh slap turned her face to the side, and Tank sucked in a breath, her chest heaving. Two hands turned her back to face Reaper, who was looking into her face with worry in his eyes.
His face was carefully expressionless, but she could see the profound worry and love in his green eyes as he stared at her, threw the coat around her shoulders, and explained to her what he knew about the dragon-men, their home, and their ignorance-
"Tank, what is it? What do you see?"
"I see death," Tank whispered. "I see death... by ice and by sword and by fall..."
"If you dream of death, there will be life..."
"There's darkness, and traps that spring from above and below..."
"And if you dream of life, there will be death..."
"It's the memories," she breathed, her eyes still wide and unseeing even as Reaper peered into her own brandy-brown gaze.
"What's going on?" Sarge demanded. Tank gradually became dimly aware of the fact that he was standing to her right.
"I don't know," Reaper murmured, and Tank closed her eyes, allowing the memories to come.
"During the Siberia mission she just started seeing these images," she heard Reaper explain. "Visions, almost, 'cause they weren't hers, and she says they're too real to be imagined."
A tiny baby, laying in her arms, pale hair and skin and eyes just like his father-
"A child," Tank breathed. Reaper's voice halted at the sound.
He staggered into the camp, bloody, broken, and she barely had time to catch him as his knees gave out, and they simply held each other for a while, glad that they were alive-
"Blood, broken bones..."
A single blow from his sword removed the man's head from his body, and then another swing parted another dragon-man from his arm-
"Shorn limbs, heads rolling..."
She was sliding, and she couldn't stop, and she was falling, falling, until he caught her and pulled her to safety-
"I'm falling off of a mountainside..."
And then he was walking away, clothed in skins, his hair blowing in the wind and the shield of a dragon-man strapped to his back along with the metal sword that he had always possessed, and somehow, she knew that he would never return-
"Abandonment..."
A huge figure, larger than any human she had ever seen, towered over her, its flesh bare, rotting and corded, its eyes beady, the fangs in its barely-humanoid face arrow-sharp and shining, and then something cut through its neck and he picked her and her baby up and they ran, ran, ran-
Tank sucked in a sharp breath and blinked rapidly as the images suddenly stopped coming, and she suddenly found herself staring into Reaper's hazel eyes. Those green, beautiful, haunting eyes that she remembered as easily in her ages-old recollections as she did in the ones of her recent past.
"You called me Nuane," Tank whispered. Reaper frowned.
"What?" he asked. "What are you talking about? I didn't say anything."
"I saw you," she breathed. "Long hair, pale like the nuts we gathered in the summer, green eyes like the grass. Called me Nuane. You were... You were Ghost, because you were lighter in color than the rest of us, but darker in heart..."
Realization crossed Reaper's face. "You're talking from the visions."
"Visions?" Tank asked, dazed. "Memories. Memories, buried in my blood since eons long past. Monsters, attackers from above and from below. Dream of life, there'll be death, dream of death, there will be life..."
And then suddenly it was like somebody lifted a veil from her eyes, and she knew even as she broke free from the stupor she had been engulfed in.
"John?" she queried, seeing him staring at her. "John? What's wrong? What happened?"
Reaper blinked a few times, and Tank looked around to see everybody staring at her as though she had just grown another head.
Tank frowned and pulled away from Reaper, unbuckling her harness and standing up so that she could put her hands on her hips.
"What?" she asked, feeling the jolt as the chopper set down. "Do I have something on my second head?"
The Kid blinked at her. "Second-?"
Tank gave an inarticulate cry of exasperation, tossing her hands into the air. "Never mind!"
She turned and picked up her guns to sling the sniper rifle across her chest as she braced the assault rifle against her shoulder.
"C'mon, ya pussies, we got a game to play!" she exclaimed. The men exchanged glances before they followed behind her.
Tank was the first one out of the chopper, followed by Reaper and Portman and then the rest of them all the way down to Sarge. The icy glow of the prop wash was accented by the cold bite of the air, and Tank's breath steamed as she fell into formation with the rest of the men, Goat to her right and emptiness to her left.
There was nothing out there save the landing lights and the distant sparkle of the city's skyline.
A second passed, and then two, and suddenly Tank became aware of a rumbling beneath her feet.
"What-?" she gasped, and then cut herself off when a block of solid steel rose out of the ground before them, illuminated. It reached almost twenty feet up from what, just seconds ago, had been an empty field.
"Holy shit," Tank heard the Kid blurt.
"Double-time!" Sarge barked. "We're movin' out!"
Tank managed to get her thoughts together in time to follow Goat out in formation toward the structure, which split in half as they approached to reveal an elevator leading below the surface.
Tank swallowed as they entered the elevator, feeling suddenly nervous. They had to wait a second as the Kid caught up. Tank looked away from him, toward Reaper, as he and Portman entered the shaft with the rest of them after securing the door.
"You hesitate, people die," Sarge said to the Kid behind her. Tank could almost feel the tension as the Kid nodded.
The doors eased shut, and the elevator dropped, like a body falling from a cliffside.
Tank closed her eyes against that image as they shot downwards, fourteen levels, thirteen, twelve...
Disclaimer: I don't own Doom or any affiliated items, characters, or locations.
This chapter is brought to you by my WORKING INTERNET CONNECTION. Ergh. Last week, my internet crashed for the majority of the week, and so I was unable to post this chapter (ironically, one of my longer chapters despite its one-section status). I AM SO SORRY FOR THAT. At any rate, here's this chapter (much of the dialogue was taken verbatim from both the book and movie), and next, we arrive at Olduvai. I do hope you all won't kill me, but really, it makes no difference either way. I finished this story months ago, and really, the only reason why things aren't coming on time lately is because of either my own forgetfulness/laziness or because of my faulty internet connection.
Ahem. Rant over.
On another note, I'm estimating this story to end at around chapter 41 or 42, depending on how I divide up the chapters. Yes, Olduvai is going to go quickly…
A huge thank you goes to those of you who reviewed the last chapter: angel19872006, Hime4life, and Crye 4 Me. You guys are awesome, and your reviews really made my week. Hugs to you all!
Next chapter should be posted 8-16-10, if all goes well.
-Portrait of a Scribe