The sunlight peeked through the evergreen, snow-covered canopies of the forest, giving the surrounding areas this cold blue and warm orange hue. While it certainly did nothing to improve upon the freezing temperatures, it did give off a more calming sensation when coupled with the quiet sight of nature that surrounded them. Even with most of the animals currently spending their time in hibernation, some still roamed around the area, taking cautionary interest in the two figures currently sitting on a chopped tree stump.
A Kuranta had his face trained on a Sarkazian male, more precisely, on his mask - that continued to exhale more of his foggy breathing. His polarized, reflective visor had some frozen ice particles forming around its edges, as did the edges of his rebreather's metal frames, giving an indication at how long he'd stayed outdoors and exposed to the weather. Lesser signs included some light shivering that conitnued to shake his body ever so slightly after every few seconds.
"So... your mask," He began, his index finger curling outwards to point at his semi-frozen rebreather. "...That thing brand new?"
The Sarkaz instinctively placed his gloved hand on the cold, rigid surface of the metal frames covering his face. "...I guess. Miss Warfarin told me that I need to have this with me from now on. Something about my blood not properly circulating oxygen or what not," He tapped the small oxygen tank situated on his waist as if to put emphasis on his statement, which to be fair, the Kuranta only just now noticed that the tube on his rebreather was connected to.
His expression seemed to harden at his response. "...Then it's all the more reason for you to just stay inside," His could see his own face being reflected off his visor, to which it was also reflected back thanks to his pair of glasses. "Your posture is a mess, your grip is wrong, and you're not pacing your breathing cycle. You look both sick and tired," He added in a matter-of-fact tone. "Did you even tell Warfarin or anyone about this little outting?"
The masked head shook a no. "...I didn't," Came the Sarkazian's answer. "I just want to get myself back up to speed as soon as possible."
"The only thing you're getting yourself into is your own grave," The harsh tone in his voice returned, which caused the hooded male to snap his mouth shut once more. "As I've said, you're not proving anything to anyone by forcing yourself. And besides, who the hell goes hunting with a damn handgun anway? Your crossbow'd work better when it comes to this kind of activity - it's called hunting for a reason. Much more quieter than a firearm and produces a cleaner kill."
"Please stop trying to lump it all on me," He leaned forward and crossed the both of his arms and legs, his voice having an irritated edge to it, despite its neutrality. " And I don't have my crossbow with me anymore remember, you were the one who told me to sell it so I can afford this thing."
"...Oh yeah... I forgot," The Kuranta admitted plainly, rubbing the back of his neck, receiving a long stare coming from the expressionless rebreather of the Sarkaz. "Either way, you said that you wanted to talk to about something?"
He nodded, seemingly forgetting about the topic of their conversation just now. "...That's right. I want to ask you about a few tips when it comes to deploying with the Initiative."
"Tips about... going on missions with the Initiative...?"
The other male then seemed to be careful with his movements for the next few seconds, he leaned forward in his own tree stump. The Sarkaz merely watched as the one with the glasses hardened his molded hands, his muscles going tense and rigid, to which the masked man merely responded with a tilt of his head, giving his non-verbal gesture of confusion regarding his sudden, strange movements. But he was patient, and he kept his silence, just like every other occassion.
"...Warfarin's gonna kill me if she finds out about this," He shot the Sarkaz one apologetic grin, earning him that same, blank stare from the other male.
Before he promptly launched himself forward with a large step off from his feet. Despite his rather heavy gear of his own heavy articles of clothing and his personal armored plate carrier, the man carried himself with ludicruous speed as he also spread his hands open to his sides, ready to pounce the target right in front of him. Even if he barely had any time to even process or react to the incoming Kuranta, the Sarkazian reflexively kicked himself off from the tree stump, stepping back and kicking the snow off the ground. His own arms were raised clumsily, as if it's a futile effort to defend himself.
Left hand over his torso, right hand pulled back. It was not a sign that he's trying to counter or return the attack, he was merely trying to protect his body - and that reaction was only thanks to his fight or flight reflexes, to which the latter seemed to come out on top over the other. The Kuranta saw this reaction, and feeling that he saw enough, he stopped his advance by once again anchoring his feet on the snow, then he lowered his hands - this prompted the hooded male to do the same.
"...Dad?" He asked cautiously, his face hidden, yet his voice faintly carried this tone of alarm and concern. "...What were you trying to do?"
The Kuranta was still silent, observing the lightly shaky stance of the Sarkaz, then the quickened breathing pace through the amount of fog that exited from his rebreather's port. He hummed thoughtfully after seeing the hooded, masked one's response. But instead of giving his answer, his large, impossing frame moved again - this time he bent his knees forward, and his shoulders slouched forward as his whole body followed to the ground. He then used his crouched position to give an incredible momentum to himself, his dominant hand opened up into a clawing position.
Once again, surprised at the man's behavior, the Sarkazian made an attempt to defend himself, at least he tried to, by once again trying to cover his vital points, his prostethic limb was raised to protect his torso, while his right moved over to shield his face - which proved to be a rather poor decision, as his attacker launched himself from below, driving his open, dominant palm in full force, aimed straight for his own dominant hand.
His right hand was then promptly slapped upwards from the force, and he could feel a vice, hard grip on his wrist afterwards, preventing him from immediately retaliating. As he looked down, he saw an eyeful of open palm, ready to either strike or grab him by the chin. He tried to break free or pull his right hand back to his control, but as expected from a Defender-class Operator, his strength was unmatched to the mere shooter.
He did try to dodge the approaching hand by tilting his head slightly to the left, which in turn made the arm fly pass his hood, but not before it twisted back to snake it around his neck from the back. Surprised by this development, the Sarkaz made the decision to use his legs to try and shift his weight, while his prosthetic made the move to pry the deathly grip on his neck - which resulted in a rather useless, almost comical attempt of him merely smacking his hand repeatedly against the ungodly mass of muscles - and even when receiving the harsh blows, his attacker showed no signs of backing down.
For his futility, the shooter was rewards with his right arm being harshly pulled back down by the wrist, but not just that, the Defender then stepped forward, taking the arm and swinging it to the Sarkaz's back. His muscles and bones protested in return, the hot, searing sensation continued to burn through his skin as he was essentially ragdolled and toyed around by the huge Kuranta. The motion made the shooter sick, and he could even feel slowly losing his footing.
To which the Defender finished the job by delivering a harsh swipe from his own leg, right on his own boots, sending the Sniper-class Operator flying upwards. His visor met the skies and then a large hand that pummeled his mask and its master down to the soft, pillowy snow down below. Thanks to the hard materials of his rebreather, the blow itself was greatly cushioned, although the Sarkaz could still feel that nauseating feeling and the concussion as a result from the seemingly never-ending flurry of attacks.
He could then feel something heavy sitting right on his stomach, and true to the sensation, he saw the Kuranta basically mounting his body and pinning the Sniper to the ground, preventing him from escape. His expression hard and unreadable, the Defender then seized the tube that was secured on the right side of his face, feeding his mask with oxygen, and began to pull, much to the horror of the victim. There was some few metallic creaks and some bolts snapping out from their position as the tube was wrestled free from its socket, leaving the Sniper to gasp for air.
With his fight or flight system now fully engaged, the Sarkazian Operator jerked a few times on the ground, trying to flail his tightly secured limps as his breathing began to destabilize, desperate to get any kind of air to his lungs. His movement began to slow down until it finally stopped, which prompted the Kuranta to finally fasten the tube back to his now damaged rebreathing, allowing the hooded male to finally taste the sweet, precious oxygen once more - before the Defender stepped off from pinning the other Operator on the ground.
He gasped once again, this time greedily gulping the air whilst his hands massaged his torso now that he was free to move. The Kuranta maintained that same unreadable look as he observed his victim, cold, shaky air repeatedly blew out from his unstable and trembling frame. His head then shook a few times, clearly disapproving of something, either of the Sniper's performance or himself, before he offered his hand the hooded male, who'd already sat up.
The Sarkaz couldn't help but to warily eye the open palm, especially after all the assault he'd received. Whatever the bigger Kuranta tried on him, he was being serious about it - should he continue with his attack, he'd probably be dead by now. The masked one decided not to involve himself with anything physical with the Defender anymore, and he opted to instead calm his body, his senses, his nerves down, letting the chilly air above and fluffy snow below to pierce through his bones to compress the flaring pain - the most of which was felt on his wrists, his neck, and his stomach.
"...Just what the hell are you doing, dad?"
The Kuranta heard the still-sitting Sarkaz question, once again, his own eyes meeting the same emotionless, expressionless surface of his mask, which now had some new light dents and bumps on it, after only a brief skirmish that'd just commenced. The oxygen-feeding tube was only loosely secured to the port, needing the extra assistance of his hand to even hold the frail connection together. His voice was just as steady as ever, but he could feel the distrust, maybe hurt and even fear coming off from it.
"Something that'll make Warfarin kill me later, that's for sure," The larger defender answered, maybe a bit too easily. "...Does it hurt?"
Just as he questioned that, he could see the hooded male flinch in his position. "Were you... actually trying to kill me?"
"You wanted some tips on how the Initiative operates in the field, I'm giving you a taste of that," His tone unchanged - being just as cool and maybe a bit hard - he gave his answer. "...So, does it hurt?"
"...A bit, sir, yes," The Sarkaz used his prosthetic to hold his dominant wrist. If he were to pull on his sleeve, he could probably expect a nasty red mark around it as a result from the pressure exerted on it. The Kuranta's expression stayed the same, as if he's unsatisfied with his answer - however, he himself offered nothing more to say to him, merely returning his sharp look with his own, unseen one behind his damaged rebreather.
"Can you still stand?" He then asked another question. "You still good to operate your weapon?"
Answering to that inquiry, the other male tried to flick his other joints, commanding them to move and let him feel their response. "Yes, sir."
"Then that's lesson one. Get your ass up," The Kuranta came back instantly, there was an edge in his speech, probably after seeing that the Sniper made no attempt to stand. Not waiting for another second before he pulled the hooded one up onto his feet anyway. "I know that this really isn't the time for you to get back to action, but if the pain is bearable, then you can fight, and if you can still fight, then tune the pain out - think of it as an illusion. Get a grip."
...Yeah. He's right. I need to get a grip on myself.
I have slow down first though - let my senses reconnect themselves. First comes the sense of smell, with my nose picking up this stench of burnt steel and also the filtered desert air as well as the pure oxygen that's probably still pumping in from my mask - all not too pleasant, but to be honest, it's currently the least of my worries. Next, the sense of touch - I can still feel my arms and legs responding to my commands by shifting slightly from their position, and with this, also comes this stinging feeling of something poking against my face - like something's being dented in - most likely my mask.
My sense of taste is rather irrelevant considering the situation, and the fact that I haven't eaten anything for a while, but swallowing my saliva works - I think. Tasteless, as expected - but I guess that's enough proof that my tongue is still functioning. I hope so, at least. The next two senses are the most important ones that I need to get back as soon as possible, starting with my hearing, I can somewhat pick up the distant echoes of... chatter, coming from different directions - more than one person was with me. Then comes something akin of an explosion - or rather, explosions - also sounding too close to my ears to be comfortable. This one sounds a much more familiar - not too loud to be an explosive, not too faint to be a simple toy either. Gunfires.
And finally, my eyes come back online, with me trying to snap them open immediately, only to see flashes and blurs as well as unfocused, floating blobs coming into my vision. It looks like I opened them way too quickly. Fortunately, it doesn't take long for them to finally refocus themselves into the nearest image to my face. A mixture of pale amber orbs, gray lines, and fair dots raligned themselves to one resembling a face, one that I think belongs to a Penguin Logistics Operator, one of two that's attached to this team for the time being.
...Oh yeah. I think this weird blob right here is supposed to be Miss Texas.
I figure I should probably speak up and try to confirm the identity of the still slowly-focusing blob, but my jaw seems to be stiff and hard to articulate, and if I had to guess, it's probably also thanks to the indents or damage done to the rebreather. I should try to sit up instead, I force the rest of my limbs to move - and my prosthetics are the first ones to respond, some of them whirring into the position I want them in, to slowly support my weight and pull myself back to a sitting position.
My memory seems to be intact for the time being - so, I think I got hit by one of the attack drones just now. The Reunion seemed to have fielded some of these custom-made machines specifically manufactured to carry wweapons on their hulls. If I recall correctly, I think we tried to engage them first - but my dominant arm were afflicted with those strange spasms again, as the rest of squad openned fire on the drones - I just stood there like an idiot with my gun frozen in place.
The attack drones fired back and I got unlucky, so I think some got me. No - not I think, I'm certain I got hit - on my face, no less. I don't know how many hits they'd scored on me, but judging from the indents and how I can feel the outside air hitting some parts of my face, it's probably safe to assume that there's more than one hole on the surface of the mask. Unfortunately, this means that the air being supplied by my oxygen tank is leaking out, and the ones that do come in doesn't pass through the filters like they're supposed to.
Well, fortunately... if I can still call myself fortunate at this point, even, is the fact that I can still taste the sour and slightly bitter air of oxygen that definitely comes from my tank, so they didn't manage to rupture or disable the connection of the tube. Also luckily, it seems none of the bullets went through - considering I'm still alive and all, although the concussion of the blast did knock me out. Still though, if they'd managed to rip through and damage metal plates on my rebreather - then the bullets were not simple nine milimeters, maybe Forty-Five Hart's, but either way - it still hurts.
Okay, calm down. Remember what he said, if the pain is bearable then I can simply tune it out. And if I can tune it out, then I can still fight.
The pain is only an illusion.
Right. Okay. So far so good. It might just be placebo effect or personal confirmation bias, but the pain is slowly subsiding - I think even Miss Warfarin also mentioned something similar about this, literally shrugging off pain through sheer willpower. It's getting increasingly hard to breathe though - sorry dad, but I really can't tune out the oxygen part since the mask is obviously damaged. If that's the case then I need to finish this up before things get worse for me, then.
I find some success in trying to sit up, and hearing more of the familiar chatter from the rest of the Operators currently present with me. A hand snakes itself around my shoulder while another one is placed on my back to support me. It's strange though - I'm getting increasingly conscious, yet my vision is still swimming. I place my own hand on my forehead, feeling a something hot that smashed into my rebreather, causing a crack that created an indent and sent some shrapnel that managed to cut my skin.
My index finger manages to sink into one of the holes, I get the sensation like I'm touching dried blood with the open wound being coated with something. I think that concussion did more damage than I'd predicted, must've knocked my brains around for it to be shaken and stirred so much. That, or I got knocked back and it messed up my occipital lobe when I hit the ground, that would explain why my vision hasn't returned yet. Both are equally problematic. Okay, calm down. Deep breaths, don't mind the rough sand and dust that got through your nose. Oxygen would still help in restoring my eyesight. I think. I hope. I don't know. I'm not a Medic.
It works. Lucky. Or not really lucky if I take my whole condition into consideration, but still. My eyes then once again find the two pale orbs that belong to the Vanguard-class Operator from the delivery company, Miss Texas. Her fair skin is considerably paler than I'd remembered. I think she's unsettled - not exactly panicked, her expression at least suggests so, whilst still also maintaining that same almost neutral and unreadable look to it. No question that she looks quite troubled though.
"Miss Texas?"
I finally find my voice, almost feeling that choking sensation that forces me to cough a bit, a byproduct from the disruption in the oxygen flow. I think I should keep my talks brief to conserve the air I have left.
"Zulu One-Actual," She manages to say, giving a nod before her lips press into a thin line. "...Are you... feeling alright?"
Now that she mentions it, I do question if my body is actually alright, aside from the hits I've received from the drones to the face. My body feels a bit stiff for some reason, but I don't feel any damage done to either my plate carrier or the skin underneath it. Considering my prosthetics are still responding, I suppose it's also safe to assume that they weren't hit. My right arm feels just fine too, so this means that the drone only managed to hit my face, and only my face.
Both unfortunate and also a bit troubling.
"I think I should be the one asking you that question, ma'am... are you alright? Is everyone alright?"
From my observation, Miss Texas doesn't seem to be physically injured, although her white jacket has lost its pristine color - most likely due to the desert heat and dust. Her expression doesn't change from that troubled look, if I had to guess, she probably doesn't believe my words. Or maybe it's the fact that I didn't give a proper answer to her question just now. I pull an open palm up, clearly I'm still functioning, so having her palm on my back just to support me is a bit overkill.
Thankfully, she seems to understand the message and lets me go. "I'm fine, the rest are too. We managed to take care of the Drones," With that look of steadiness once again returning, her calm tone also comes back to fill her voice. "Are you sure you're fine? I've tried to pull you back from the cliff edge, but I'm not experienced to handle head wounds nor am I familiar with the construction and engineering of your... mask, so I just used some blood-clotting spray to stop the bleeding."
Yeah, I think she's also there when Miss Warfarin mentioned that I'd always need this constant flow oxygen supply from external sources to keep me from blacking out - back during our mission in the slums. Actually makes me a bit thankful that she remembered, anyone else and they'd might done something different, and I may not even be conscious right now. Unfortunately, it's not like I'm going to stay conscious for long either, but I think I'll take what I can get.
"...Right. It's just a matter of pressing the big red button on the side to take it off, but thanks for not taking it off. Would've made things worse, most likely."
"I'm not a Medic myself... but I think you shouldn't be moving around too much," Miss Texas comments, it seems that without thinking, my hands are already searching for the rifle I'm assigned to, which leads to her remark. "You look particularly dazed. When you got hit back then, you're also knocked back and landed on your head. There isn't any bleeding on the rear, but I wouldn't risk forcing yourself to fight. The rest of the team's got this covered."
So my assumptions are correct. The back of my head smashed the wrong place and it messed up my occipital lobe - explains the persistent blurry vision. I just noticed this too, I think I got dragged away from the perching point where the rest of the Snipers are stationed. I'm placed in a shady spot a few meters clear off the action, if I recall correctly, this is the same spot we used in the afternoon to drift off for a few hours. Seeing my own condition again, her words have some truth to it. My lungs and heart are probably already forcing themselves with the damage done to the usual air flow they're used to get.
Even as we speak, I'm starting to get sleepy, most likely from oxygen starvation, so logically speaking, lying down doesn't sound too bad of an idea.
"Permission to ask you a question, sir."
The Sarkazian Operator began again, dusting off his body from some of the still persistent patches of snow that remained. Even as he straightened himself up, the much larger, almost hulking Kuranta didn't do much effort to spare him his attention, only warranting a side glance as his reply. In turn, the Defender-class could sense the hesitation coming off from the Sniper, if his sudden change in demeanor wasn't already a clear enough indication. He was usually and respectful to anyone he met, but that was him putting all of his guard and defenses up, like he's fearing that he'd get assaulted again for just a mere request.
"Granted," In the end, the large Kuranta decided to humor him, after the sudden attack, he owed him this much. "Ask away."
"You didn't answer my question last time, sir," He strenly reminded him, not making an attempt to approach but neither did he retreat further from where he stood. "Were you actually trying to kill me?"
The Defender sighed heavily. "...Yes, I was," He replied, an unreadable tone and expression etched on his face, not missing the light flinch that was elicited from the hooded Operator. "I was trying to gauge your performance and reflexes, and how'd you react in mortaly-risky threats," Folding his arms, he began his explanation. "From the beginning, the moment I merely tried to do something, your breathing was already erratic. You're prone to panic and you're scared. That's your fight or flight system at work."
"...I was?" Sounding confused, the Sarkaz repeated with evident uncertainty, certainly the explanation got him thinking about his response to his attack. "But I didn't..."
"Yes, you had something else in mind," From his body language, the Kuranta could deduce that he was about to challenge or say something contradictory to his statement, which made him open his mouth again, not letting him speak finish up his sentence. "Deny it all you want, but you didn't try to counter my attacks back then - you're too focused on the defensive, on protecting yourself, instead of repelling my strikes or making and taking openings."
The Sarkaz's hooded head shook a few times, once again, a few patches of snow fell from the top of his head. "But wouldn't that be obvious? You're a Defender-class and I'm just a Sniper, the disparity in our strength is massive - it's almost unfair. There's no way that I can beat you."
"That isn't obvious, that's ironic," He bit back, that harsh tone once again returning to fill the shooter with a sense of dread. "A Sniper should be proactive to one's offenses - not reactive, especially when said threat is directed at the Doctor," Hearing his words, the Sniper's protests were shut down. "You wanted wisdom - here's a bit of wisdom, in battle you're supposed to be unfair. Use every single damn trick in the book to ensure that your enemies are dead. Any advantage you can get over your enemy, you use it. It's either them or you. You could've used your gun against me, but you didn't."
"It's because you're not an enemy, sir," The male with the mask returned with his answer, even sounding a bit defiant for once. "Shooting you would be the last thing that comes to mind."
A light, humorless chuckle escaped from the Kuranta's lips. "Sometimes, I wonder whose the older one between us," His tone was almost jeering, but still maintained some respect for the one who kept asking his questions. "And what if I say that's just an excuse because you're simply not fast enough to draw your firearm? You're still all too focused on avoiding attacks than making moves to counter them. If your trigger is fast enough, you can even stop that attack from even happening in the first place."
"...But I literally can't see you as an enemy. You're my senior," He repeated again, his free gloved hands visibly tightening, probably growing impatient with the Defender's judgemental and somewhat condescending attitude towards him.
"Then here's another wisdom I can spare - you disconnect yourself from any kind of attachment or feelings you had prior to the operation," The Kuranta replied easily. "The world's not exactly in a good place right now. The Doctor understands that, that's why the Initiative is even created in the first place. Anyone you see as a risk factor that can endager yourself or the Doctor - even if it's another fellow Operator, you deal with them - with extreme prejudice."
"Even if it's another fellow Operator..." He repeated, almost shakily, despite his still steady composure. "So basically... you wanted me to see you as... one of these risk-factors just now, sir? And you... wanted me to kill you?"
A nod came to answer his query. "That's right - and again, I wanted to see how you'd deal with threats when your body is on autopilot," He also added verbally, which caused the Sniper's head to tilt in confusion. "I deliberately didn't state my intentions to see how'd you react... and it looks like you're still not cut it to even talk about joining up when you're still acting like a scaredy-cat."
He could hear something click underneath his metal rebreather, either it's the Sarkaz's tongue or his teeth slammed against each other. "You could've just said so if you wanted me to be serious, sir," His body slouched forward, but it's as if he's trying to enter a stance. "Would you mind if I request us to have a go again?"
The Kuranta's head shook. "...I've seen enough for today. I've also done a bit of damage to your body, it's not good to force yourself after that surgery you had. The Program dictates you to be ready for field training in high-risk environments, so we can just call it a day and wait until you get better-"
"...No. I admit, what I did just now was bad, but that's precisely the reason I wanted to go again," Insisted the hooded male. "I want you to teach me more of that wisdom you told me about," He also added to his request. "You said that our enemies won't be fair. I'm sick and weakened right now, also - my rebreather is damaged, won't this be the perfect time for you to strike?" Challenged the Sniper. "Please dad, let's have a go at it, one more time."
He almost reacted to that statement, more in surprise than anything else, but the Defender-class Operator relented his body from doing any kind of movement. His muscles seemed to tense slightly at how easy the request came out. He's not even sure whether he should feel amused or just the contrary at the insistance of the Sarkaz. Fresh off the operating table and immediately forcing his body for another extreme physical abuse.
"...And also, if you can just... move back a bit, maybe five, ten steps from where you're standing so I can try to shoot you before... you know, you get too close, that'd be great too..." He flapped his palms forward, as if shooing the Kuranta away from him.
In a speed comparable to breaking the sound barrier, the Kuranta's palm smashed against his face, before it quickly slid off to reveal a frown.
"You know that on the field, you're in position to just... request your enemies to back off, right?" The one with the reflective pair of glasses reminded him, his own hesitant movements were also an indication to his contemplating state on whether to grant his wish or not.
The Sarkaz merely shrugged. "You wanted me to be unfair. So it's only fair to make this unfair... wait-" He paused, sounding confused at his own statement.
"...If that's what you want then," The Defender-class Operator shook his head, deciding to follow his instructions to retreat a few meters away from the Sniper, he owed him this much after that rough-housing. "...Right I almost forgot," He began again, after reaching his position. "While we're at it, might as well try to rectify what we can. So here's another wisdom - don't the let the fear of pain take over, be stronger than your own reflexes, override and recode them if you have to. Make your unconscious senses think that you're always ready to fight, ready for more. You only quit when you say so."
Be stronger than my own reflexes, override and recode them if I have to. I'm always ready to fight, I'm always ready for more. I only quit when I say so.
...That's right. He's right. Alright. Deep breaths, calm down. I can't let just a bit of pain stop me from just sniping a few targets. The Professor is down there, there's a reason why he chose to deploy along with the Initiative. This is really not the time to let my own unconsciousness win. I think I must've drifted off again, I didn't realize that Miss Texas is still staring at me, now looking rather impatient. I don't know if that's the case, or if I paused for too long just now. Either way, I have to tell her that I'm good to go.
"No. I think I'll manage, ma'am. I need to make sure that the Professor is alright with the assault team, at the very least."
She shoots me a look, resembling more of a frown. "...If you say so," The Lupo stands back up with ease, now that the threat of the drones are gone. "Can you stand? Do you need any help?"
"I'm fine. How long was I out anyway?"
"I... think it's been no longer than five minutes," She said after a short pause. "I don't know. I didn't time it."
Yeah, that is an expected answer, tending to an unconscious body whilst watching a stopwatch isn't my hobby either. But to think that a mere five minutes managed to disrupt so much of my breathing cycle. I'm personally surprised I can still keep myself conscious after the rupture, but five minutes isn't that look either, so the battle must've not progressed much, at least that's what I thought. Miss Nearl, Miss Dobermann, and Miss Amiya are very capable warriors.
My vision seems to blur a bit, with Miss Texas slowly turning back into a blob of unfocused colors - it's either from the oxygen problem or the hit on my occipital lobe was harder than I'd expected. But this is simply an inconvenience, and I should treat it as such. I need to calm down, need to realize that I can't always expect the circumstances to be working to our advantage. She seems to take notice of this, and I can pick up faint hints of five digits offering its support to me.
"No, please. I'm fine."
The hand stops its approach, and I think she ends up trying to match her own pace with mine, most likely making sure that I won't end up tripping or falling. Even though it's a perfectly normal to have concerns for an injured, it's still rather embarassing for an Operator to be doted to, but I appreciate the gesture. Thankfully, my eyes finally decide to finally work again after a while, not sure how long it lasted, but I ordered myself to stop the moment I hear the chatter of the others.
Miss Exusiai seemed to have taken my post as a shooter, posting herself on the rifle while her submachine gun was stowed on her waist, while Miss Kroos and Adnachiel are posted just to her right, also taking shots towards the still-raging battle on the distance. If I'm not mistaken, I think I just saw Adnachiel talking to the radio just now, he must be keeping the assault team posted with our currently developing situation here.
Their focus are cut short by our arrival, which isn't my intention, the three shooting me this look of... surprise? Maybe even somewhat somber, if I have to put it in a term. I don't understand why though. From my brief observation, I think they seem to be fine. No physical injuries or what not. So that simply means that out of everyone and everything that the drone hits, it hit me and not only that, it also got my face of all places. Talk about luck.
"No, nevermind, Doctor, he's awake now," Adnachiel keyed his radio again after being distracted for a couple of seconds. "Yes, One-Actual is here with us again," He adds after a pause, hearing what the other end has to say. "One-Actual, the Doctor asks if you're alright."
"No. I'm dead, and this is just my vengeful spirit doing the talking."
The group stares at me for a couple of seconds, I didn't say anything wrong, did I? Speaking of which though, I think it's only now that I notice that my own communicator isn't working properly, or rather - at all. Keying or tapping it doesn't grant me any kind of response from the device. I don't if it got damaged from either the gunfire or the blow I had - but it won't seem to activate or open the obviously still active communications line between us and the assault team.
"...Umm... yes, what he said," I don't know why the other Snipers look so disappointed in me, but at least Adnachiel is kind enough to relay the message for me. He throws me another, longer glance, now akin to an analyzing stare, one that turns into a confused one for some reason, he finally releases his own communicator from his right ear and hands the device over to me. "One-Actual, it's Miss Warfarin. I think you should be the one doing the talking."
"Zulu One-Actual on station, sorry for the absence. Something wrong, Oracle Six-Four?"
A groan is heard from the ther side. "Your sense of humor is what's wrong, Warden. No time for jokes, so just answer this seriously. Where did you get hit, and did you suffer any injuries?"
Strange, I'm only saying things that comes to mind. I never realized that I have a sense of humor.
"I don't know. I think there are at least... two holes on my rebreather right now - one on my forehead, the other one just located on my cheek, both in the right side. Nothing went through, so whatever hit me must've ricocheted away. I probably need to keep this short, sorry. Rupture on rebreather, oxygen leak. Got hit on the back of my head, experiencing brief visual problems right now - other than that, I'm alright. Is the Professor alright?"
"Right, okay. Anything else I should know about your condition? I'll list some things off, you just answer with a yes or no. What kind of visual impairments are you suffering from right now - hallucinations?"
"No."
"Okay. Loss of color?"
"No."
"Loss of depth or image sharpness?"
"...I think so, maybe. Yes. Does seeing blobs count as losing image sharpness?"
"Hmm. Are you suffering from any headaches at all?"
"No."
"Gut. Then... alexia?"
"What's an alexia?"
"I think it's supposed to be word blindness. Yeah... you know what, nevermind that, sorry. We'll check on that once we get back. How about... deformation of shape or any difficulties in identifying objects?"
"...Yes."
"Alright... got it. Thanks for the info," Miss Warfarin hums thoughtfully, probably preparing some kind of diagnosis for my symptomps, pretty impressive considering her questions came without noticeable pause. There is a pause before she starts speaking again though. "...Uh... alright, Warden. How about the damage to your mask - you have any other injuries on front I should know about? Don't have to explain it in detail, just keep it concise."
"Holes, dents, shrapnel, concussion. Flesh wound. Miss Texas has covered them with a..."
I look at her, I can't seem to recall what kind of coating she used to seal up my injuries. "Blood-clotting spray," She offers me her answer, showing a thin, gradient-colored tube with red and white markings.
"...A blood-clotting spray. Either way, I can still fight. How are things going down there? Is the Professor alright?"
"Yeah, yeah. The Doctor's just fine, in fact he's here with me and... huh. Alright. Yes, Doctor. Look, just wait a sec'."
By hearing her tone, Miss Warfarin seems to understand the must be looking up possible solutions for this predicament, true to a Medic of her age, experience, and caliber, she doesn't seem to be that particularly uneased by this condition, in fact, she maybe sounds a bit too calm. I'm certain she's seen worse, and with the Professor watching, even if she wants to panic - it'll only turn up to be an unsightful behavior in front of him. She must also be preoccupied in her talks with the Professor right now.
The signal comes back to life. "...Okay, the Doctor wants you guys to pull out immediately."
"Affirm reposition order. Where should we set up next?"
Not unsurprising, now that our position is compromised, we should relocate to another vantage point as soon as possible, else it'll just risk the entire team, especially our attaches, and...
I think I can hear her sighing. "Negative, negative, Zulu One-Actual. It's not a repositioning order, Warden. The Doctor wants the Sniper team to exfil, same goes for the Penguin Logistics Operators."
...and...
"...What?"
I speak my thoughts aloud. Was she trying to joke around with me? She is the type who wouldn't shy aroud from humor from time to time, but this isn't appropriate.
"Told you he's not gonna like it..." Miss Warfarin's voice comes back into the line, sounding much more exasperated than before. "You know what, here. You hear it from the man himself."
There's some slight rumble coming off from the other end of the channel, like the communicator is being roughly pulled from one's ear before being handed to another. "Testing... uh, good evening, Warden. Are you receiving my transmissions?" She wasn't lying about handing the line over to him. "...Um, and yes - she's telling you the truth, I told her to relay my message to you, and I can expect you to spread this to the team there?"
"I... beg your pardon, Professor? Is there some kind of mistake, or a change in our strategy? We can still provide support to the assault team."
"That won't be necessary," From his slightly edged but still neutral tone, I think he's trying to cut me off before I can speak some more. "You've done more than enough to thin out the Reunion's forces even before we landed, right now we're just dealing with some stragglers. My forecast suggests that the team on the ground right now can handle the rest. I'm redirecting Horseman to your location at the cliffs - I'm... not sure on how he'd land there, but I think he'll figure it out."
"Professor, I'm-"
"This is an order," The Professor sounds much more irritated now, for some reason. "I think I have an idea on what you're going to say - but it doesn't change the fact that you're injured and can't perform in optimal capacity. I'm not risking a second wave that can potentially overwhelm your position. You've done more than enough. You get yourself and the rest out safe - I won't be losing any more of our Operators because of my own fault."
The communication line cuts off. The more logical side of my head tells me that there is indeed nothing to worry about, I did receive some injuries that will somewhat hamper my performance but why pulling out the others as well? The Professor is still a very accomplished and capable man when in comes to putting his mind to use in tactical situations just as these, even with his amnesia, so he clearly made his decision with prior calculations beforehand. But even then, this is too overkill - to evacuate an entire squad just because of a small blunder.
My more... emotional side however, seems to have several opinions about this. His voice almost reminds me of the man before his memory loss - however to think that we've come this far just to be shot down and told to retreat, it's...
...Ironic.
Sure, he started this whole thing, but I was the one to challenge him to this fisti-cuffs just now. And here I am, laying helplessly on the ground, unmoving and slowly sinking into the snow. The indents and cracks in front of my visor would suggest that it was smashed in by excessive physical force, and one'd be right if they guessed that. I guess the rumours were true when they said that Ace is a force to be reckoned with.
I think the better term would be Ace is a force of nature. He was really fighting to kill. Maybe my aim was just bad, maybe unconsciously, I didn't want to kill him - but I was certain that I registered some hits on his body. I guess in the end, it was useless to challenge a Defender-class Operator like him, even without his shield, his body is already well-protected thanks to his plate-carrier. The ones that aren't, well, he somehow managed to shrug off everything I threw at him.
Maybe it's just him putting that pain-ignoring mindset to use, maybe he's just that tough and nigh impervious to all kinds of damage. In the end, even when I tried to follow his instructions, to not be afraid of the pain, to force myself to create and use that opening to strike back. No matter how hard I tried to distance myself to the idea that he's my senior, or no matter how I tried to ignore everything my reflexes told me. Right now, I'm truly and utterly finished.
My left arm prosthetic arm was ripped straight out of its mounting point, while my right arm was completely broken and bent at the wrong direction. My kneecaps were busted to the point that they're numb. I can still feel them, so he didn't smash them to literal powdered bones - saving me the need for another amputation. My plate carrier was loose and unfastened, he really made sure that every single bit of pain I received hurts me, and they really do. For trying to simulate how a real gritty and desperate scenario would work though, he left my oxygen tank intact this time.
I don't even know how I'm still conscious right now, staring at the fragmented and refracted image of my stolen sidearm's barrel, pointing straight at my face, while the Operator in question kept it trained on my head, still having that same emotionless and unreadable look to his face. To think that someone so strong would also be so... barbaric in how he fights. I think he definitely used many moves from several martial arts schools to gain the upper hand back then, though, but the way he punches and pounces on his target. Studying them was both a spectacle and terrifying experience.
"...Sick and infected, undeveloped muscles and weak to the bone, untrained reflexes, no formal education, no skills whatsoever in martial arts, first-aid, and too dumb to utilize your Arts despite being Infected..." He begins listing off my qualities, or the lack of it, apparently, again - tone almost condescending, but not without this strange edge of care to it. "Many times I wonder, why do you keep wanting to become an Operator for Rhodes Island, let alone the Initiative?"
The only response I can give to him is a pained gasp, that should hopefully come out sounding as a snort. My body needs to be a bit more familiar to the pain spreading all across my systems to even let me form my words.
"If I had to rate you out of Six Stars, you'd get Two," He also adds, just to put emphasize on his points.
...Not surprising. But why Six Stars specifically, though? Shouldn't it be out of five or ten or something? And why am I a 'Two Star', if I'm that bad - shouldn't I be a 'One Star' instead? That's what I should be asking, instead. My mouth opens again, coughing up air for a solid ten seconds - I still have few more important questions.
"...Then why did you take me in anyway, knowing I won't be any good to the company? Why did you save me all those times before?"
He seems to take notice of my words, maybe even looking somewhat surprised for once. Ace has never been an individual to show any kind of emotion unless needed, mission first and everything else second, that includes himself. Almost detached from reality at times. He lowers the firearm and relaxes his grip, tossing the piece of metal on the top of my torso, the impact of the object awakening the slowly dormant pain that's just beginning to subside. That shuts me up.
"...I didn't save you," Ace gives his first response, it's just as cryptic as the expression that's being shown on his face, like he's fighting back a frown from forming on it, and settles for his lips forming a thin line. "You saved yourself. You shouldn't be alive back when the Catastrophe struck, you shouldn't be alive during your treatment and coma, you shouldn't be alive with all of the growing infection in your body. Hell, you shouldn't even be alive right now."
So he really was trying to kill me. I suppose that's an Operator at his caliber and experience for you.
"But to answer your question, I don't know," The second answer sounds much more truthful than the first, at least - even if it's just as cryptic. "...I seriously, and genuinely don't know."
For the first time in... ever, I think I just saw him crack a smirk.
"Maybe it was just pity at first. But I'd say that you're just that lucky, or your mental resilience is way too strong to just let your body expire."
It must've been so amusing that I let out another snort. I can't see why this is amusing, though.
"...So does getting beat-up to near death by your own dad also count as being lucky, Zulu One-Actual?"
"Well... because you're both unlucky and lucky at the same time," He corrects himself. "You just don't want to quit after everything the world's thrown at you. Again, being an Infected, no skills or academical knowledge to pass off as other Operator-classes, you're not even that good of a shot. But you don't want to stop. You don't know when and how to stop."
I give a questioning sound out from my throat.
Ace crouches down, poking my chest - and I wince at the flaring pain. "Even with broken bones and all, you still want to fight me, don't you? You still want to show something, prove something."
Can't say I'd deny that statement myself, but even he understands my silence.
"You're almost... desperate," Some kind of sadness, or maybe pity would be a better term to explain the new intonation of his voice. "Why do you want to become an Operator. Why do you want to even join the Initiative. You're thirty years older than me, you're uneducated - but you're not that stupid. You know that me taking you in means jack shit, and you're a free man now. You could take up any other position in Rhodes Island for all I care. Hell, you could dismiss yourself and the Doctor wouldn't mind."
Without warning, he places both of his hands on my broken arm - and promptly snaps it back into place before I know what's coming to me.
I swear, I didn't scream. I think.
After examining the straightened hand, he pulls my body up by the wrist. I feel like my entire hand was going to be ripped out of my shoulder blades, he then slides the grip off to my bicep, while another hand snakes it way around my right leg, but not before pulling my broken prosthesis and securing it onto his waist, while also taking my gun and stowing it between the seams of his belt and his pants. In one quick motion, I'm lifted off from the snow and onto his back, being carried in a rather awkward firefighter-carry position as Ace begins his trek.
"...Then if you don't mind me asking, why did you become an Operator yourself, Zulu One-Actual, sir?"
I can't see his face from the position I'm being hoisted on, with my head technically almost upside down, I can only see some parts of his torso and then the ground. Trying to pan my head closer to view his head only rewards me with an eyeful of his stubby beard, all rigid from the cold. I can see some more air being blown out of his nose, though - maybe that's his attempt at a snort or something. Ace is always hard to read.
"...I think that's a story I'll tell you - another time. Let's just say that I'm using the time I have left to make the most out of my life, fighting for what's right," Again with his cryptic answers, although I can settle for the thoroughness of the latter half of his response. "The Doctor's fighting for all of this to end, and I think that's reason enough for me to put my trust in him."
"...Even if he's on a war path?"
I feel wrong to question the Professor's integrity, it's within his best interest to let the company grow and prosper, but... there are some aspects of him that I can't seem to align myself with.
"If that war path is what leads to peace... I'd fight for him. I don't mind being a simple pawn if we can reach that light at the end of the tunnel," Speaking of pawns, I think I finally notice the patch sewn into his plate carrier - tiny, almost unnoticeable, but visible when observed in close distances. It seems to be slightly different from the company logo, however thanks to the cracked visor, I can't exactly make out what it's supposed to be. "That's why it's also become our... I guess you could say... motto."
"If You Want Peace, Prepare For War."
"It also has a Latin meaning, the one we actually use."
"Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum."
"So, you've decided to become an Operator... but have you chosen your callsign yet?"
Archive File: Callsign-
A.N.
I've rewritten this chapter so many goddamn times. Just shows how bad and undecisive I can be. Can't even find a name for this chapter. Maybe Trainwreck would be a better title. God, I'm scared just to post this chapter lmao.
I need to mention that this'll most likely be a one time thing only, I suck big time in writing in a first-person perspective, especially when taking into account that I have to change all of the written expository lines from past to present tense, and to one that'll shed some more light on how the character thinks, behaves, and operates - and the difference between the 'then' and 'now' sides of their thoughts. Purely an experimental chapter and I'll be going back to the normal format by the next chapter.