White and red sneakers pound into the dirt in rapid succession, crushing grass beneath them. His breathing quick and sharp and his eyes darting in every direction that they could in the verdant forest. He stops to catch some much-needed rest, sucking in air as if he is drowning.
Maybe I lost them?
Such a thought is quickly disproven by the sounds of voices behind him.
"T2, you out there buddy?!"
"Sugah-fox, why ahah ya hidin' from us? Yah making yer aunt wawrried sick!"
Oh no!
He quickly takes off, not fully recovering but not willing to stay still any longer. He spins his tails to generate some sorely needed speed.
Just keep moving!
His legs continue to race almost as fast as mind did.
"Tails, where are you, little guy? You know you can't leave me to handle all the tech myself!"
"Young Tails, don't bréak zis heart of min! Comé back to us!"
Can't let them find me, can't let them find out about me, the real me; can't let them find out about the Enlil, about all of it, about "Binary"...
But as much as prefers to keep running, to keep avoiding them, a part of him knows that he cannot keep doing so.
What will they say? What will I say?
A vast array of familiar faces swarm his thoughts, their reactions to what he had done, is doing, and will do. Shame wells up in his heart as the procession of faces streams on, each one fading into the next, threatening to become one indistinguishable mass of disappointment and disgust, that is until one face, her face, comes to. At once, all the other faces disperse and are forgotten, all his attention now focusing on this one.
Oh no! What will you say? What will you think of me?
His eyes continue their perpetual scanning, but now tears well up in his eyes. He attempts to see through them; however, it is in vain. His vision is now a blurry incoherent mess, he must blink, if only for a brief moment, but in that brief moment he smacks hard into something. On the ground, he rubs his head and then his eyes, and when he looks up, he sees the one thing, or rather the one person, he didn't want to see. His eyes gaze into hers, the face in front of him simultaneously familiar and yet unrecognisable; her mouth begins to move.
His eyes open slowly, the azure irises staring at the ceiling of the tent.
I hate that one
With some reluctance, he sits up and stretches, but he achieves no satisfying pop, disappointing him. He turns and sees the grey renard near him, writing something.
"Vous are rather noisy and agité when sleeping, are vous conscient of that?"
He rubs his neck as his face fills with shame.
"I'm sorry if I disturbed you."
He looks at his watch.
4:34
"Did I wake you up?"
The grey renard answers, still writing without pause.
"Non."
A brief moment of silence follows as Miles is not sure what to say.
"Monsieur Prower, what was the 'airship' vous were mentioning of in your sleep?"
Uh oh...
"Oh that? I was just having a bad dream about a time when I was fighting Robotnik aboard his airships."
Please believe that
"Ah, I see. That is compréhensible."
Although he didn't give a sign of really believing it, he also didn't give a sign of not believing it, which somewhat eases Miles, and so he stands up.
"Well, no use in sitting here since I'm not gonna be able to get any more rest."
The grey renard finally ceases writing and raises his head.
"Actually, I have something else in mind today for vous."
Miles cannot help but raise an eyebrow at that.
"And what would that be?"
He returns to his writings, signing them and then sealing them within envelopes. Gathering them in his hand, he stands up and gestures for Miles to follow him.
"Do vous recall your most recent cadeaux to us?"
"Is that what you've been calling my shipments? 'Gifts'?"
The marshal turns his head and looks at him, but then turns away without a word. Miles scratches the back of his head at this reaction.
"Uh yea, thirty-six tanks and eighteen helicopters. I thought you'd need them with the attack on the capital coming soon. Why do you ask? Something wrong with them?"
The marshal gestures for a soldier to come to him, handing the stack of messages to the wolf. Once he walks away, the renard shifts to face Miles.
"Non, but I must confesser that few of our pilotes have much expérience in actually using aéronef, too much doctrine and not enough doing. For many it will be their first time flying in months, at least, and for others it will be their first time flying, ever. However, the hélicoptères are too précieux a ressource to not utiliser in the assaut final. That's where vous come in."
"Hm?"
"Vous will aider in instruisant them. Vous are a qualifié pilote, are vous not?"
"Yea, I am! Seems like I'll actually be able to do something cool! I swear, I'll turn into a pile of ash if I have to spend another day going through stacks of unit citations."
"Shouldn't vous show respect to the vieux man right next to vous?"
Miles raises his gloves up.
"You said it Marshal, not me."
"Touché."
"Marshal, where is Edouard? Usually, I can't turn my head without bumping into him when around you."
They approach a vehicle, with the marshal going around it and stepping into the passenger's seat.
"Monsieur Prower, get in the driver's siège."
Fine, ignore my question...
Miles does as the marshal orders.
"You know I don't have a license, right?"
"I know that vous don't have a licence de pilote. If I trust vous to fly, I think driving is fine."
As the vehicle turns on, a GPS hums to life, showing the path he is to follow.
"Ah, one of these babies. You're welcome for them by the way. Where are we driving to?"
He presses on the pedal and the vehicle advances along the dirt path.
"Oh? I thought vous knew everything? Your 'méthodes' and all that."
"I try not to spy on anything that I don't need to know."
"And the événements within my tent are something vous need to know?"
Miles doesn't respond, but the marshal knows it's due to a lack of words rather than a desire to not answer.
Ah, jeune âge
The wind blows into their fur, dewy mist in the air around them.
"Well, the voyage is not a short one so let us not souffrir in silence. Tell me the 'long story', vous did promesse me after all."
Damnit, I did, didn't I?
Finishing his brief mental chastisement of himself, he sighs.
"Well to start, I left a little over two years ago."
"So, your first décision was to come to Mercia?"
"I had been keeping an eye on the civil war, ever since it began."
"Is that why vous parti from them?"
He shakes his head.
"No. To be honest, at first, I wasn't sure how to feel about you guys. Sure, I obviously empathised with the desire to be free, but I also knew that Robotnik was, is, still a big threat and that all this infighting couldn't be good for our ability to combat him. The reason I left, like I said, was because there were certain differences that I felt couldn't be bridged. It came to a head when we had just defeated one of the doctor's lieutenants, Snively. I said we should put an end to him, stop playing this game of back and forth, and deprive Robotnik of a valued chess piece, they refused. They said that Snively was defeated, unarmed, and surrendering, and that killing an enemy in such a state was no different than murder."
"Monsieur Prower, in this armée, we do not shoot surrendering soldats…"
"Of course, but that's different! They aren't fighting to destroy and enslave all life, or anything of that sort. They aren't an existential danger who escapes again and again. Clearly they aren't the same."
"I supposer."
"Well anyways, while we were arguing, we got so distracted that he just got up and ran; he got away! And all because they didn't listen to me..."
Noël starts to point out that the boy is also at fault for the escape, but he is is quickly cut off.
"After that, I was furious. Not really cause of the event itself, but what it represented. They tried to talk to me about it after but I just couldn't. I knew that things just weren't the same after that day."
"Did they détest vous?"
Miles' head shakes rapidly in a mix of confusion and refutation.
"What? No, of course not! Whatever problems may exist between me and them, the Freedom Fighters were my family. They took me in when I was only eight, they cared for me, they loved me, and I love them. I would die for anyone of them in a heartbeat. Especially my a-"
He cut himself off, alarming the marshal but once more Miles continues before he can get a word in.
"Well anyways, it's not that they hated me; it was just, misunderstanding. I can't blame them to be fully honest since that's my fault. Eventually I couldn't stand it, everything, anymore, so I spent about two weeks planning my leave. And then, one night, I just left."
"Vous didn't give your adieux to anybody? Didn't tell them anything? Vous just disparu?"
A sharp stab of guilt strikes his white chest.
"Why did vous do such a thing?"
"I wasn't strong enough to-to, to, that's…"
Noël sits silently, waiting for the next words.
"That's all I'll say."
"So, vous come to Mercia; why side with us and not the royalistes?"
"Well, you guys were, are, the underdogs. I thought it'd be more effective for my experiment to use unfavourable conditions."
Noël strokes his muzzle, intrigued by this statement.
"Is that what this is to vous? A study? A jeu? Like d'échecs"
The rather calm statement causes Miles to jolt straight up and the car sways erratically, almost as much as his tail, before he steadies it.
"What? No no no! I- I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that, I swear! I really do believe in this cause. I don't know why I said that, I..."
A heavy groan emerges from his chest and out his mouth.
Great job idiot...
He stops the vehicle, braces himself, and turns to face the marshal.
"I don't see this as a just some lab study or a game of chess; that's why I asked to join you, directly. I want to be a part of this, to put something on the line. I just also saw it as a chance to figure some things about myself. And speaking of involving myself in this, I want to ask you something."
"What is it?"
"Would you be willing to invite me into whatever government you're forming, once you win this?"
At this, the Noël's ears perk up in great interest. This is exactly what he and generals like Beric were hoping for.
"It's a possibilité."
"Well, I hope it becomes a reality. Mercia's gonna need all the help it can get once this civil war is over, especially if republicanism is to hold any long-term legitimacy."
"Ç'est vrai."
His foot pushes on the pedal and they begin to move once more, letting the quiet endure while enjoy the cool wind and the glow of the Moon.
After some time, Noël speaks once more.
"Monsieur Prower, vous said that, when vous were eight, vous had k-"
Miles steps on the brake and the vehicle comes to a stop rather abruptly, shaking the marshal.
"Look! I guess we're here."
The marshal turns and sees the field, illuminated by the early sunrise. Indeed, they have arrived. He sets a mental reminder to ask that question another time. The two of them exit the vehicle, the metallic slams of the doors against the frame echoing throughout the air. As they close the distance, Miles sees the jackal standing by a tree on the edges of the clearing, smoking. The grey fox approaches, causing Edouard to hastily throw his cigarette to the ground and step on it and he quickly gives a salute.
"Maréchal."
He turns to meet Miles' eyes and nods to him.
"Adjudant-général Prower."
Miles gives a salute to him.
"Division general Berrien."
"Are the men préparé, Edouard?"
"Oui, mon Maréchal."
"Good."
He turns to face Miles.
"Monsieur Prower, vous will be giving instruction to them. Do it well, for a great many lives dépend on it."
Miles stands straight as an arrow and delivers a sharp salute.
"Sir, yes sir!"
A smile is the only answer that the marshal gives in return. He motions to Edouard to follow him back to the vehicle while Miles heads over to the pilots.
"Ah, the ardeur of juvéniles."
"How long do vous think it will persister, mon Maréchal?"
"In that one? It is already passé; has been for a long time it seems. Les vestiges, however, may take some time."
The two of them finally return to the main camp, shutting off the vehicle, exiting it and returning to the command tent. The marshal immediately sits down and begins working as does the jackal.
"When we win this war, Maréchal, I'm going to enjoy a well-mérité long rest..."
"Pas de repos pour les fatigués, Edouard"