The Brotherhood of Battle:
Chapter Twenty: The Good and the Bad
"What happens when you put a super-soldier and a super-spy at the same table? Shit, man, I don't know either! That English asshole still won't tell me!" – John Breaker, regarding his squad leaders 'date'
VIIIIIV
"So," She said, taking one of her fries and dipping it in ketchup, "Earth-Boy, huh?"
"What's wrong with Earth?" Jake said.
"Nothing!" Ashley smiled. "It's just... I don't know, too bland? If that makes sense."
"It doesn't, but go on." He urged as he took a bite from the burger.
"Well, I mean, all the big shots come from Earth. You know; corporate billionaires, tech geniuses, ranking military leaders – that sort of thing."
"So, assholes? All assholes come from Earth? Is that what you're getting at?" Jake scoffed, covering his mouth to avoid embarrassing himself.
"Well, yeah, I guess. Earth, the Core – same difference." Ashley shrugged, shoving a cluster of fries into her mouth all at once. "But they colonised Mars, like, five hundred years ago. Then Mercury, and all the others."
"Not the big ones, though." Jake pointed out.
"Well, obviously not Saturn or Jupiter, dumbass. They're big balls of gas, Jake. You can't terraform gas! You can't build on gas!" She giggled, struggling to form the words around the food.
"So what's wrong with Earth?"
"Well, for starters; you're from there. So it's gotta be, like, a friggin' hell-scape to spawn you."
"I'm not a goddamn demon, Ashley. You're such a dick." Jake laughed. It was nice to laugh like this. Having a good meal in a nice diner with a decent friend. It was one of those little things in life that made it all worth it, in his opinion. And Jake hadn't realised until now just how much he craved small moments like these. The life-or-death stakes of freeing the Frontier tended to get in the way and eclipse everything else in life.
"No." She relented. "Not a demon. Just..."
She trailed off, and Jake looked up from his food to glance at her. Ashley's dark brown eyes pensively studied his own. The clamour of the diner withdrew into the background as the world around Jake slowly seemed to sort of fade away, and in that moment he was only aware of her. And her eyes.
"Just what?" He breathed.
She smirked in a sly way. "Just kind of an entitled prick. Now, if you'll excuse me – I need to use the little girl's room."
She pushed her plate of half-eaten food away and stood up, elegantly navigating her way through the narrow spaces between the tables and chairs towards the women's bathroom. Jake watched her go, his heart thudding in his chest. He mentally slapped himself. He knew he shouldn't flirt with Ashley. That he shouldn't even entertain the idea of sparking anything romantic whilst there was a war going on across the galaxy that the Militia were barely contesting.
Jake acknowledged that the Leonidas, as well as Bandit, had been having a run of good luck since Angel City. But so much of it was just that; luck. They wouldn't have been able to win the ground-war on Victor after the Red-Eye went down, and the evacuation of MacAllan's village was a losing battle before they'd triggered the Odyssey to detonate. Even Angel City was only 'won' by the skin of their teeth. Bandit had been sent to assassinate a planet-side IMC general to distract the occupying forces of the planet. Even with that depleted garrison, the Militia nearly had the shit beaten out of them anyway. And that was before the enemy reinforced the city with quick-reaction orbital forces. The same ones that had almost killed Vlad and had eviscerated over half of the Sparrow's infantry complement and several Titans.
It was only because Jake and Castillo had exfiltrated Barker through the sewer system that the Militia had been able to evacuate before their entire battalion was wiped out. Slowly, things had gotten better. Especially after the Argonaut had been captured and converted into the Leonidas, one of the strongest ships in the Militia's scavenged fleets. Even then, the ship would have been lost with all hands if the miraculous reinforcements in the form of three Militia battleships hadn't arrived in the nick of time.
Jake held his head in one of his hands as he stirred a fry in his ketchup absent-mindedly. He was wondering how much longer the Militia's luck would last, and how bad it would be when it did when he was tapped on the shoulder.
He nearly jumped out of his skin.
So much for Pilots having heightened senses...
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. Didn't mean to scare ya." The waitress replied, placing a hand on her chest as if Jake had been the one who surprised her. "I was just asking if you wanted a refill of yo' coffee? I don't think you heard."
She chuckled slightly, smiling widely. Jake nodded; expressing an apology as he hastily explained that he'd been a million miles away.
"Don't worry 'bout it, sugar." She said as she poured the piping-hot liquid into Jake's mug. "People's thoughts tend to wander round star-ports like ours. Everyone's dreamin' o' leaving, you know?"
Jake shrugged as she leaned over to refill Ashley's mug in kind. "I don't know about that, ma'am. Seems like a nice planet you have here."
"Lotta planets look that way from orbit, I reckon. But Harmony's got its own problems like any other." She said. "You're not from 'round here then?"
Jake felt his face get hot. He ought to be more careful about blending in. He collected himself after a moment, and was hesitant to divulge anything about the Militia's activities around the planet.
"No, just visiting. Don't think I'll be here for more than a week." Jake replied as kindly as he could.
The waitress had a face that seemed to exude contentment, a faint smile played on her lips. Her dirty apron was smeared with cooking grease and had uncountable faded stains from the doubtless years she'd worked here. But she seemed happy, as much as anyone could be.
"Oh, so you're attached to one of them merchant vessels, then? Hear it's a helluva dangerous profession these days."
Jake was pleased to have an out, and picked up the lie easily.
"Mmm-hmm, it can be. But the pay's worth it." He joked. The woman gave him a questioning look, the first time she had outwardly conveyed her displeasure since approaching him.
"I hope so, honey." She sighed. "So many pirates these days from what I hear. And speaking of what I hear; apparently the IMC ain't much better, you ask me."
Jake tried not to show his confusion on his face. He must have failed, because the waitress looked at him like he'd said something rude.
"Don't you know? They're pullin' vessels outta their routes to do 'routine inspections' of their goods." She chuckled mirthlessly. "That's a load of horseshit, pardon my sayin' so."
Jake waved away the vulgarity. "It's fine. What do you think they're looking for?"
"My money's on stowaways, you know what I mean? Lookin' for any Militia they can get their hands on. Damn tyrants. Don't they know they're just tryin' to protect folk like us? If the IMC had it their way, they'd bleed us dry for our resources."
Jake smiled. "So you've no love for the IMC, then?"
The woman tutted. "Ain't you heard anything I've said, young man? I'm on the Militia's side, if anything. They're heroes, son. They've never done anything wrong, except stand up for the folk who can't stand up for themselves. And there's not a damn thing wrong with that, you know?"
Even as she said it, Jake could only think about what Vlad had shown him. The evidence he'd provided that proved Sarah had authorised a massacre. The evidence that pointed to the fact that the woman who led the Militia was a war criminal. How was she better than that IMC general? How was she a hero?
What would this waitress, and no doubt millions of Militia supporters, decide what the freedom-fighters stood for if they knew the truth? Sarah wasn't even the only one to blame. The soldiers who had opened fire on innocents, they could've been anyone in the Militia. Who's to say that others wouldn't do the same if they believed that mass-murder was best for the future of the Frontier?
Better to believe in faux heroes than to choose between the lesser of two evils, Jake thought as he forced a polite smile and kind agreement to her passionate words of support.
And even as he did so, even as he nodded his agreement with what she was saying; a little piece of him died inside because of his knowledge to the contrary.
"Yeah. Heroes, the lot of 'em." He muttered.
VIIIIIV
The first punch glances his chin. He notices too late that it was a feint, and when the second punch doubles him over and expels the last bit of choked air from his laboured lungs, he falls flat on his back. The dust settles around him, and Castillo grinds his teeth, staring at the ceiling strip lights far above. His sparring partner had a mean swinging arm, and he was quick too.
A dangerous combination.
Outside of having the breath stolen from him, which he'd always hated, Alan feels a throbbing pain as he slowly picks himself back onto his feet. A hit to the face, or even the kidney he could take without complaint, but the gut always led to much more than discomfort. And getting hit at all made the Other angrier.
Fortunately, he is used to the breathless panting and fight for control. The Pilot has been a veteran of bare-knuckle brawls in countless bars across dozens of systems, Harmony was nothing new. He stands up straight, blood boiling for another bout. He stares at his opponent - some punk who was as dumb as the days were long, in Alan's opinion. Worst of all, he was a mouthy bastard. Castillo hated that most of all. So he threw a fist towards his opponents chin as he came up from the soft mat. The blow felt sluggish, slow. Castillo knew the second he launched it that it would miss. The spry little bastard side-stepped it with painfully obvious grace. Before he could even properly register the dodge, however, his opponent unleashed a body shot, this one to his ribs.
The thunderous blow sent fresh ripples of pain through his torso. Something was broken, certainly. But he didn't fall - he made absolutely certain that he did not fall - but it was a lot closer than he'd have liked. High on bloodlust, the cocky bastard went in for another shot, but Castillo shoved him away. The man was caught flat-footed by the move and couldn't challenge the momentum. The Pilot covered the distance between them in a second. He threw three follow-up punches that landed in the kid's stomach.
His opponent fell. Hard.
Then, much to Alan's chagrin, he stood again.
It was unreal. Between the pain in his guts and the heartbeat he could hear thumping in his ears, the sight of the kid on his feet so soon after the unbridled assault ignited something within him. He threw an angry haymaker as the man ducked but didn't parry. The momentum carried Castillo off-balance, and before he knew what was happening, his opponent responded with a ferocious uppercut to his chin.
The sound of his upper and lower rows of teeth making unplanned contact sickened him.
Miraculously, he kept his feet. He had to. Falling down was not-
Move.
Bloody knuckles were inches from his nose, and Castillo didn't have any time to react or plan. Instinct kicked in. He opened his mouth, biting down on the arm as he came rushing forward. Castillo tasted blood as the kid yelped in pain, back-pedalling in desperation. Alan immediately unclenched his jaw, releasing him. He barely had to do anything. The man was already stunned, clutching his punctured forearm.
Still, there was fire in those eyes. Unspoken rage. To him, it was probably a dirty move. To Castillo, it was just him using everything he had to win.
An agonised roar, a sloppy swing, a clumsy miss.
Castillo had had enough.
So he punched him - right between his shifty little eyes. His opponent was caught off-guard and tried to block, but he was too late. Castillo's fist connected with the man's face, and he felt cartilage crunch beneath his scraped knuckles. A spray of blood, a cry of pain, and suddenly their roles were reversed. Suddenly he was the one standing over a grounded opponent.
"How's the ground feel, bitch?" The Pilot grins, getting his breath back, wiping the blood from his kips with the back of his hand.
"I think it misses you." Breaker replies, blood streaming from his nostrils, staining his teeth.
"What's wrong? No Titan to back you up?" Castillo taunts.
"You little…"
The training mat squeaks beneath the instructor's boots as she marched towards the pair, grip firm on the whistle she would blow without hesitation if it were needed. She glances between the two sparring partners with a scrutinising gaze, searching for weakness. Eventually, she speaks; her voice like weathered sandpaper.
"Good work, both of you." She says. "Breaker, get up."
The younger Pilot struggles to stand. Castillo would lend a hand, but experience has taught him that a warrior must be able to pick themselves up without aid.
"Thank you, miss." Castillo responds, breathing hard, his posture easy. After a moment, Breaker adopts a similar stance, doing his best to hide his heaving breaths. Castillo smiles.
Serves you right for mouthing off.
"Your swings still need work, Pilot; never let your emotions get the better of you in battle. Hot-heads like you are always first to fall in combat." The instructor continues, her a finger less than an inch from Castillo's nose.
"Yes, ma'am." He replies sarcastically.
"And you. John, is it?" The instructor rounds on the younger of the two men. "Watch your stance. You overswung. Again. Your opponent nearly toppled you twice because of your poor footwork, he succeeded on the third time. If this had been a real fight, you would've been dead after the first time, got that?"
"Yeah, whatever..." The reply was nasal and slanted. No doubt his nostrils were already clogged with blood.
Castillo smirked when the instructor wasn't looking. She'd told them before they'd started that she never announced victors, but the Pilot knew what her decision would have been if she had the propensity for keeping score. She'd also told them not to hold back on each other. Apparently, as Alan understood it, she'd been asked by Commander Briggs to whip the pair of them into shape before their secret mission with the 'intelligence operative' they'd met on Leviathan. Alan knew he was up to scratch already; what was so difficult about sneaking into a heavily-guarded IMC base and stealing their technology from right under their noses?
Seemed simple, in theory.
Unfortunately, plans and Pilots didn't mix well. They were basically synonymous with the idea of any arranged battle plans going irreversibly off-the-rails. Thankfully, Bandit were very good at what came after that.
Improvising, he thought, grinning hideously, until everyone else was dead.
He was still grinning as the two of them readied up for the next training exercise.
VIIIIIV
Everyone in the bar yelled loudly as Jake tilted the large tankard further and further upwards so that the last gulps of the alcohol in it could reach his mouth without issue. He finished what was left of the soft liquor and glanced to his left at Ashley. She was barely a few seconds behind him, by Jake's estimate. The marines and soldiers crowding their small table were drunkenly chanting support. Jake quickly raised another mug full of beer, eager to beat her.
It wasn't his favourite beer by any means, but he had chosen it because it was easier to swallow in big gulps than other drinks that he actually enjoyed. This time, he put to lip of the glass to his mouth and let it flow, doing his utmost not to spill any of the beer down his chin. People would object to the bet if he let too much go. It wasn't the first time that Jake had partaken in a drinking contest, it wasn't the first time he'd had one against a woman either. But it was the first one that he'd had against one of his own 'subordinates'. Technically speaking, Ashley wasn't his subordinate at all, but he was a Sergeant, seeing as he had command over his men, several of whom were ranked at least as Lieutenant's, making Jake a Gunnery Sergeant. Even then, the concept of 'ranks' in a Militia like theirs was somewhat farfetched.
Regardless, she was a mercenary contracted by Sarah in some capacity, which gave him automatic command over her in the field if the situation called for it. Granted, they weren't in the field at that moment. Jake nearly lost his concentration thinking about whether or not he could order her to lose the bet when he ran out of beer in the glass he was draining.
He had enough presence of mind to slam down his glass loudly on the table as he reached for the fifth and final mug with my other hand. Ashley had pushed herself even further and reached out for her own final mug just an instant after he did. It was still all to play for. Jake desperately swallowed as much as he could without choking on the beer. Ashley was a little bit too eager to win and he felt himself smile as he heard her coughing out the liquor. Jake swallowed the last gulp and slammed the tankard loudly, making the rest of the empty glasses jump an inch off the table.
He roared in drunken excitement. Everyone watching bellowed in approval and patted him on the back even as they started handed money to the bartender, who grinned in earnest. The sly bastard had found everyone who was rooting on 'the hot girl' and made bets with them. The guy must've earned three hundred credits at least. Lincoln wondered if he'd see any of those earnings. After all, it was his gargantuan effort that had lead to the bloke raking in so much in the first place. As the cheers died down, he looked over to his drinking buddy. Jake felt a small twinge of guilt for a moment. Pilots probably had a metabolic advantage when it came to this kind of thing.
Ashley looked annoyed in a way that only someone half-drunk can pull off, glaring at him even as she smirked, a small dribble of beer leaving the crook of her mouth. Even so, she was the centre of attention of several Militia troopers and Harmony civilians that were praising her for her good try. She didn't pay them any more mind than necessary and only thanked them politely before shrugging at Jake and laughing at a joke that the bartender said.
"Nice job!" Jake had to half-shout to be heard over the loud music of the bar.
"What?!" She yelled back, a wide grin plastered on her face.
"I said; nice job!"
"Thanks," she replied with a smile, "but I already know that! I think you cheated!" She added cockily even as Jake patted the woman on her slender shoulder.
They had spent the day together after their meal at the diner. Ashley, intuitive as ever, had seen Jake was a bit mopey after talking to the waitress. They'd spent the afternoon seeing the sights of whatever city they were in, trying to cheer themselves up again.
Her previous visits to the colonies on Harmony definitely leant a hand to the day they'd spent together. She'd taken him to a holo-theatre to catch up on the latest entertainments of the summer, or so Jake had thought. In reality, she'd wanted to bring him to any showing, for the simple fact that there'd been a 'government-approved' IMC recruitment propaganda video before the film began. It was a pretty typical 'Your Galaxy Wants You!' kind of video, but the occupants of the theatre had all booed the video regardless and thrown handfuls of expensive sweets at the screen, much to the chagrin of the ushers. It went a long way to show Jake just how much to public disliked the IMC's rule over their home.
Afterwards, they'd gone to the infamous Lastimosa Armoury, a weapons manufacturer that sympathised with the Militia's plight and donated whatever supplies they could skim off the top to the freedom-fighters through their network of smugglers and couriers willing to take a risk and go behind the IMC's back. But she'd surprised him when she'd introduced Jake to one of her contacts, a gunsmith by the name of 'Big Boy'. He was a portly Jamaican man with a wide grin and missing teeth. He'd been more than happy to let Jake permanently 'borrow' one of the newest Lastimosa rifles for the low price of just one hundred unmarked credits. After a couple of back-and-forth counter-offers, Jake had walked away with a new gun, and ammunition to boot, for just eighty credits. The rifle, which Big Boy had called a 'Flatline' was hidden away where Jake would be able to retrieve it on his way back to the Leonidas.
Finally, as the afternoon hours had bled into the evening, she'd brought him to one of her 'favourite bars in the entire galaxy', or so Ashley had claimed. It was called the Stagnant Shooter – and contrary to the name, it was actually a great place to drink, arm wrestle with strangers, and hold local drinking competitions.
Jake laughed with Ashley as he recalled the day they'd spent together, and how nice it had been just to relax and have fun, but his head was starting to spin and he couldn't bear to keep shouting at the top of his lungs just to be heard. He took her hand and elbowed his way through the small crowd that had converged on the tall table that they had used as a stadium for their little match. Some of the men who had been making eyes at Ashley yelled drunken complaints at me, and others simply glared at me for making them lose their hard-earned credits. Dozens of people in this bar were men and woman from the Militia, who had come here to similarly relax and unwind from the perils of the war. Most were carousing and laughing between themselves, but Jake spotted a fair few familiar faces, locking lips with unfamiliar faces – probably attracted to the fact that they risked life and limb in battle, just to free the Frontier.
Jake finally made his way through the crowd and emerged into an empty section of the pub. He made his way to an empty booth which the pair soon claimed for themselves. It was mostly a blur of talking and flirting, drinking and easy shuffling closer to one another. Before he knew it, Jake was sitting next to her, putting his arm around her shoulders.
"How're you doing, gorgeous?" He slurred.
"You're drunk." Ashley said, smiling despite the excuse.
"I'm half drunk," He corrected. "And only because I drank way more than you in our little contest – which you owe me money for..." He realised. In all fairness, the whole point of the competition had been based on a bet.
"You did not!" She retorted. "It was so close, so I think we should just forget about the money, you know?"
"If you say so..." He relented. Jake shrugged, an awkward movement now that his arm was draped over her shoulders.
"It's just... I think I can find other ways of making it up to you, hmm?" She purred. Ashley had him and the ring of her finger, and he knew it. But somehow, he didn't care. Jake inched closer towards her, her breath hot on his face. His hand fell from her shoulder down to her upper arm and he stroked it in a gentle motion. Then, without knowing how, he was kissing her. Both of them had had far too much to drink in almost no time at all, so the affection they shared was primal and clumsy. But neither of them cared.
Jake squeezed Ashley even closer to him, as somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought about the implications of a drunk one-night stand with a literal spy. He reckoned he wasn't really the kind of guy that would do this kind of thing, but damn the way her eyes wrote novels whenever she caught him looking at her.
When they parted, they were both smiling like idiots.
"Hey..." Ashley said, "Let's steal a transport. I want to show you something."
Jake nodded, his head swimming. Moments later, they were outside together in the cool night air. He was being led by the hand towards the nearest hover depot. Ashley set a steady pace, casting her gaze back at him every few seconds, as if to make sure he was still there with her.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jake wondered how many friends she actually had in her life. She seemed... lonely, in a way he couldn't understand.
VIIIIIV
"Wow," Jake said, sobering up for a moment to appreciate the view. "Who told you about this place?"
"Found it myself." She shrugged. "You like it?"
"Yeah," Jake replied. "Pity we can't stay long, with our stolen transport and all..."
"Oh, please, we're borrowing it. We'll put it back in the morning..."
Jake chuckled and banged the hull of their little shuttle a couple of times. The craft was sitting on a flat ridge that Ashley claimed to be familiar with. It overlooked the construction site of a dilapidated IMS supercarrier. It seemed wrong that such a gargantuan warship would remain forever unfinished. The ship was almost completely done, with only the outer layers missing from the hull. The ship sported two rail-cannons and Jake could see the broken launch tubes of at least a hundred missile pods. He couldn't even begin to fathom the amount of armour that that thing would've been able to carry. Hundreds of Titans, and dozens upon dozens of troop transports. And he wasn't even going to try imagining the enormous complement of fighters and ground troops the thing would've been able to carry.
It probably could've laid siege to an entire planet, all by itself.
"It's so big," Ashley whispered.
"What?" He said, startled. "You can notice it through my trousers?"
He arranged his pants frantically, pretending to be ashamed. Ashley punched him lightly on the arm as she laughed.
"You know what I mean."
He did, the dead ship was five fucking kilometres in length. The sun was just almost entirely set behind the supercarrier, and the orange-bleached sky made it look all the more imposing.
"You know, Jake, I doubt anyone'll come looking for this brick we borrowed until the morning... and nobody would disturb us way up here."
Jake turned to look at the woman, the soft golden glow of the last rays of sunlight washing her delicate features – making her all the more beautiful. The light reflecting in her hazel eyes hypnotised him, but still he remained coy.
"My, my, Ashley," Jake whispered, an easy smile on his lips, no more than a few inches from her own, "What are you suggesting?"
"A quickie."
He chuckled at her blunt answer. For an intelligence operative, she didn't have much patience when it came to her own desires.
"Count me in." He said, even as they embraced once more - as his world became hers, all night long...
VIIIIIV
Silence.
In his dismally small room, darkness was something he'd gotten used to. And the silence that came with it only made things that much more unbearable. It was not something he should be hearing. Life on the Argonaut had been hard these last two months. Blending in with the terrorists had been excruciating at times. Three times over, his cover had nearly been blown. First by a routine personnel muster. A shame the officer in charge had had an accident with a faulty airlock. The second time was during the mission over Leviathan. He'd used the chaos to attempt to rejoin his IMC brothers-in-arms, but all the transports had been assigned to evacuation before he could hijack one.
And the third time?
Well, he'd gotten his uniform off of some poor bastard who'd for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist. Turns out some people tended to notice when part of their maintenance crew goes missing. But after helping to start a few rumours, many people accepted that he'd been the victim of a freak accident during a maintenance test on the energy capacitors. Shame that a bright young man like that had been disintegrated...
The universe was a cruel bitch.
But just today, word from the captain, a Russian by the sound of it, had reached the crew that the ship would be rendezvousing with the rest of the Militia fleet somewhere in the Freeport System. Maybe this was an opportunity. Could he somehow alert the IMC to the location? He quickly dismissed the idea. No, all the outgoing communications were monitored. He'd get caught. Besides, by the time the IMC organised a force large enough to crush the Militia fleet, the terrorists would've moved on.
What to do, what to do...
As he ruminated over his options, he heard a noise. He thought he was mistaken; surely everyone would be moseying towards the hangar to go planet-side for some time off? But then he heard it again. Suddenly he was on his feet, pressing himself against the wall next his door. It was already closed, but he made sure to lock it.
Then he waited.
"Why are we checking all these cells, Alec?" The voice was muffled, maybe two rooms down the corridor.
"You know why, man; because the Captain ordered us to."
The voices were agitated, their guards were down. Clearly they felt safe here. As long as they didn't open the door to his room, he wouldn't have to shatter that illusion.
"What did they use this wing for anyway? Didn't Lenin scan this area already?" One of them asked. A door groaned in protest as it was forced open.
"I think so." The other replied. "But it was inconclusive, apparently. Basically just where they kept supplies and other shit they'd need if they were deployed for a long time. You know, rations and ammo and other stuff too."
"Oh, I get it." The first voice said, closer now. "Think we'll find anything worth... keeping for ourselves?"
"Just shut up and get working on the next one, Lance." The door in front of him vibrated slightly as someone pressed something against it. Softly, but with a lot of effort.
"Yeah, yeah. God, you're such a spoil-sport. I swear, this job is going to kill me." The man grumbled as the door locks to his hideaway clicked off and the hydraulics fought against the override.
The door slowly groaned open.
The Militia engineer froze as he saw the massive man standing just on the other side of the door. He opened his mouth to scream, or warn his friend. But the hulking figure's hand shot out of the darkness like a viper, crushing his windpipe with unnatural strength. Only air escaped him as the hand wrapped around his throat quickly dragged him into the pitch black.
The bones in his neck let off a sickening crack.
Too loud, he thought. His worry was confirmed as he listened and heard the tell-tale sound of a revolver's hammer being cocked back. The second Militia trooper crept closer to the dark room, weapon in hand, aimed at the darkness.
"Lance? Where are…?" He yelped in surprise as the enormous man launched himself out of the room, crashing into the newcomer and tackling him into the metal wall of the corridor.
He heard the man's spine break in several places.
He mercifully spared him any further suffering, stomping on his head with a heavy boot, crushing it with a wet squelch. He panted, staring down at the blood and brains spilling from the man's skull like a trampled watermelon. The stowaway took a moment to survey the hallway, left and right, before dragging the corpse into the dark room to join his comrade. He tore the uniforms into rags and used them as best he could to clean away the blood pieces of bone and brain matter from the ground before stepping out of his little hovel.
He swore under his breath. This kind of thing wouldn't go unnoticed, but it would take time for the Militia to notice a couple of missing compatriots. At least, he hoped so.
In the meantime, he needed to find a way to blend in.
With the uniform he'd stolen and the options he had available, he'd concoct a new plan. He was alone and cut off from the rest of his allies in the IMC. He'd have to be careful in his sabotage. But whatever he did, he knew he wouldn't stop until the Argonaut was back in IMC hands.
He'd never let them keep this ship.
Over his dead body.
VIIIIIV
Reviews
Guest
Bish as a hooker... I never thought I would read those words ever in my life. But I laughed my ass off anyway.
Oh, yeah, believe me – I had fun coming up with that spicy image in my head. It gets worse when you bring tight leather into the equation.
Sifidude301Carbine
This is a great way to start a fanfiction. I don't know what to expect next. Great job, considering this is in the prospective of the IMC, not the Militia.
Thanks for the kind words! But yeah, he didn't stay loyal for very long, huh? I hope you stuck with the story anyway. Let me know what you thought of this chapter!
ObNixilis97
Masterfully written. a true joy to read! flows well, the lore is well put together, the characters are believable, and it brings twists I couldn't have imagined! well done!
Hey, man. Thanks so much. I put a lot of effort into keeping the lore consistent with the games universe when I'm writing, so I hope you're still enjoying that. The final battle is coming very soon! I can't wait!