Febuwhump Day 28: Presumed Dead
Word Count: 1600
Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl
Rating: T
Characters: Kain Fuery
Warning: N/A
Summary: When people think you're dead, they talk about you. Fuery had no idea he'd meant as much as he did to people in Fotset.
Notes: N/A

Presumed Dead

Deserting was not as easy as one would think. Fuery supposed that it was twice as hard when you knew the government and homunculi were keeping an eye on you and simply walking away wouldn't do. He had known since he was sent down south that he was going to have to be even sneaker than other deserters when the time came.

Unfortunately, he wasn't given much of a chance. As the Promised Day loomed closer, trying to find a moment to slip off, something that hopefully wouldn't get him immediately chased down, was getting more and more difficult.

At least, until the trenches and the shelling helped.

Normally things like that did not help at all. And truth be told Fuery hated thinking of this as helpful. But for him, it was. The explosion had been large. It had knocked him back, set part of a trench collapsing on him. It had blown off his helmet, and his cable pack, which he had taken off for a moment because the cable had gotten in a knot, was no longer with him. He had actually been so efficiently buried that when people started picking themselves up, they hadn't seen him. He had stayed absolutely still wondering if this was the opportunity that he had been waiting for.

He had heard them find, well, as grisly as it was, pieces of the others. Parts of uniforms, helmets, packs. They had found his pack, blown to smithereens, someone's unidentifiable remains near it. He had heard that assumption that it was him. He had stayed still and thanked his lucky stars that they had assumed it was his. And then, when the night turned dark, he had made his escape.

Unfortunately, with as many soldiers around as there were, and him having wounds that needed tending to, sneaking around was not terribly easy. He had managed to sneak into the medical supply tents and grab some bandages but had needed to hide before he could escape.

"Didja hear about the sarge?"

"You mean Master Sergeant Fuery?"

"Yeah."

A pause. "I did."

"They said that he was just… just a charred husk."

"Stop. I know. I saw them bring in the wounded—and the bodies, remember?"

"Oh… right."

There was a moment of silence.

"Do you… do you think there's any hope that it's not—"

"Just shut up, okay!" A moment of silence. "Look, you're not the only one hoping that it's not the sarge, alright? Lots of us liked him a lot. He was—he—"

"…yeah. I know,"

There was a moment of silence again.

"Come on. We need to get this stuff back to the medtent."

"…yeah."

Fuery waited until they were long gone, and then he slipped out again. But the conversation stuck with him. He hadn't had much to do with the medical personnel, but it seemed that they liked him. That was interesting, but it was something to focus on later.

His next stop had been requisitions. If he was going to make it all the way to Central on foot, he was going to need supplies. While every soldier has his or her own pack, there were extras, just in case. Some were ready made, while others had to be put together. He wanted to grab one of the ready-made ones, but the quartermaster would certainly notice that was missing. If he took individual items and made a pack, it wouldn't be as obvious, although it would take longer.

He had just about decided when he heard voices coming and, once again, he hid himself just before the tent flap opened.

"Alright, we're going to need to make up some new packs and move some things around in here." Fuery recognized the quartermaster's voice.

"We need to replace some packs?" another person asked, and she sounded young.

"Yeah. Some of our boys were hit tonight."

"But why are we making more room?" the same girl asked.

"Because," said a different, male voice, "We're going to store the things that belonged to the men who died, here until it can be sent to their families."

The women's voice was quieter. "…I see," she said.

The three got to work, and, after a moment, the man spoke up. "Do we know who we lost today?" he asked, quietly.

"…Private Sloman, Lance Corporal Winters, Private Henput, Sergeant Oftken, and… And Master Sergeant Fuery."

There was a clatter from nearby as something was dropped.

"Not Sergeant Fuery!" the girl said, sounding distressed. "He was so kind!"

"It's hard, I know," the quartermaster said. "But he's on the list." He paused. "I went myself to see. The remains were too few and too damaged to identify."

"Then how do they know?" the girl demanded.

"They found his helmet, blood on it, badly damaged. And his pack was blown to smithereens. They're sure it's him," the quarter master answered gently.

Fuery could hear the turning of footsteps. "No, I—" it was the girl. "… I was so nervous when I got here. He made sure that I was introduced to people."

"Right. You came when I was laid up," the quartermaster said. "I thanked him later for showing you around."

"I really liked him," she said.

"Yeah," the other man said. "But this is what we can do for him now."

There was silence for a moment, except for some sniffing from the girl.

"Come on," the quartermaster said "Let's make some room. Then we'll get their things, and we can honor all of them by taking the best care of them we can."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir."

They worked for a while, and then, finally, left to go get the items of the soldiers who had died. Fuery took the opportunity to grab a bag and pack it hurriedly. Then, making sure that no one was watching, he slipped to the edge of camp, the force of the girl's reaction echoing in his head.

The one other thing that Fuery really wanted was food. He hadn't eaten since that morning, and he wasn't sure when he was going to eat again. It was only made worse when he skirted near the mess tent, sticking to the tree line, and smelled the food. It was, of course, awful food, but it was food.

The mess tent seemed to be active tonight, and Fuery moved carefully to avoid being seen. Some men stumbled out of it, clearly having found a little alcohol somewhere. Tipsy or not, Fuery flattened himself on the ground and waited.

"It's not fair!" one man said, and Fuery recognized him as one of his own, Sweenson. "Why—why'd the sarge hafta go and—and—"

"And bit the big one?" This was another recognizable voice, gruff, and a bit older. Hinges. "That's war. It's not fair."

"But it shouldn't have been him!" another voice, Earch, interjected. "Sarge shouldn't have been running those cables!"

"Any of us could have done it," a quieter voice, Ferinces said. "I could have done it. I was supposed to do it."

"Hey—you can't go thinking about it like that," Hinges said. "You'll only drown yourself in guilt. Sarge went out doing his duty."

"Oh, come on," a flippant, scornful female voice cut in. Asgone. "You don't really believe that do you?"

Fuery could hear feet moving, suddenly, and he had the impression of Hinges whirling around.

"What I know," he said, a bag he was carrying thudding to the ground, "was that Sarge was a good Sargent. He listened to us. He knew us. He watched out for us. He knew his job backwards and forwards, was more than competent in his field. He protected us when we needed it and pushed us out when we needed that. He took up for us with the higher ups. He was a good Sargent, one of the best. He didn't deserve to be out there. His skills would have been of much better use here. But you lot listen to me—I've been around. I've seen things. And I can tell you right now that Sarge was out there, because of something he knew, or he had done that someone up the line didn't like. Don't go poking into it, you hear? The best thing you can do now, is lay low. Maybe one day we'll know, maybe we won't. But we won't honor Sarge any if we go poking our noses around now and get ourselves killed. Do you understand me?"

There was a pause, and then a mumbled agreement.

Hinges let out a sigh, and then, he turned around, or at least Fuery was pretty sure he did.

"Come on," he said. "Come morning we'll get back to it. But for now, let's all head to bed. We can mourn on our own time."

The solemn group walked away, and Fuery laid still for a good long while before getting up again. He only moved when he was sure that the way was clear, although he darted out to get the bag Hinges had dropped before he left. True to his hope, there was food inside, just as he expected, and Fuery tucked it in his pack before heading on.

He had a long way to go to get too Central, and he was pretty sure he didn't need to get on trains or busses. He'd walk, hitch rides, and maybe grab onto some freight trains. But he had a lot to think about too—namely, how many people he seemed to have impacted.

Hopefully, he'd be impacting a lot more soon.