A/N: my laptop is dead right now, but i've really been wanting to write and upload again, so ... i decided to write short little ficlets on my ipad. :sparkles: drop a word or five, if you'd like — if i get inspired, i just might use it.
please lemme' know what you guys think. love u.
01. OBLITERATE.
This wasn't sober behavior. Nor was it sailor behavior. There was no honor in what Trent was so savagely doing. And certainly no courage.
Trent Sawyer drove his knee harder into the tango's sternum, pressing the lanky, yellow-toothed man deeper into the viscous mud. He could feel bones splintering under his weight — and, God help him, he enjoyed every slow second of it. Trent raised the stock of his AK-47 high over his head and brought it down with all the strength that he could muster to smash the tango's skull in a little further.
Crunch. Splatter. Crunch. Splatter. Crunch. Blood sprayed Trent's face and wet his skin like rainwater. He grunted with effort as he smashed and smashed and smashed again.
From a medical standpoint, Trent knew that he'd mortally wounded the man. Truly, God himself would struggle to heal the injuries inflicted (And after this display, God would probably struggle to forgive Trent, too).
But the tango could still feel, and Trent wanted the bastard to suffer. He wanted to feel the reverberation of this tango's bones crunching in the palms of his hands, and up through the tendons in his arms. If he were going to sleep tonight, Trent needed to see brain matter.
His own rage rattled him. Clay wasn't hurt that badly. Just a through-and-through gunshot wound that a few stitches would take care of and a grade two concussion. Did the tango's crime really warrant such animalistic punishment? Before Trent wandered out into the evening, Clay had been cracking jokes.
The South American air sweltered around Trent, suffocating and humid. It was like breathing through a damn sponge. Above him, the gunmetal sky rumbled ominously. A storm was coming, no doubt. And so was Death and his scythe.
Trent wondered: What would his sweet Darcy Anne think if she saw him like this? And their precious baby girls? He and Darcy spent well over a decade trying to conceive. Would she regret that choice if she were standing beside him now? Trent imagined the terror on all their faces, the absolute revulsion, and he imagined them cowering in fear of him.
He raised the stock of his gun and brought it down again. And again. And again. A slick mess of mud and sweat and blood trickled down his face—
Hmm. Face. The tango didn't have one of those anymore. Trent had thoroughly obliterated him. And he kept on. And on. And on. Trent didn't stop until he felt Jason grab him by the shoulder and haul him off.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Jason half-whispered, half-shouted. "What in the hell is wrong with you, Trent? Have you lost your goddamn mind? Get the hell back to base! And when we get back to Virginia, you better march your ass to an A.A. meeting!"
A muscle ticked in Trent's jaw. "Yessir, Bossman."