Battlefields of Killzone

The Hunted

Ch.3 Some Catching Up To Do

As told by Jei "Bloodchild" Malmstrom

"Damn it… I don't want to get up…"

Consciousness crawls into my mind slowly, sleepy eyes welcome to the darkness of my closed lids, and a soft body still cold and sore.

"Gah… I feel like a bloody mess…"

I leave my eyes closed as I let my brain awaken, letting my thoughts wander. It isn't often that I get the chance to daydream.

Hmm…let's see… where would I rather be right now… home? Not really… I didn't have much to do there… Back on Helgan? Oh yes, and deal with the rest of the male population there as well… I'd rather go back to the orbital stations… At least I could keep myself busy there. There was always a good read in the Archives.

Yes, that's it… back in my room in the Outer Academy. Not many people bothered be there… I trained when I needed to, updated myself when this Army won a battle, and could read whenever I pleased. God, what I could do for a good book right now. War Drivers and Zealots never had anything new to say; it's always the same thing. 'Glory of Helgan' this, 'Visari is a living God' that…maybe an Earth writer has something new to sell… something not so…

THUD!

My body instantly reacts,eyes snapping open, hand reaching for my rifle and pointing it in the direction of the possible threat; Fricarion's dark, tiger-stripped body leans near me, his body crouched low atop an icy boulder.

"Hello, love."

"By God…"

I lower the weapon, conveniently placing the end of the silenced sniper barrel near his crotch, "… What the hell was that for?"

"Well, I didn't feel like climbing down that last set of rocks, so I dropped in." Even with his mask, one could tell he was grinning spitefully. Damn him for always being so cheerful.

"Blimey fool…" I lower my rifle completely, placing it upright near me, "I do wish you weren't so chipper… it'd make it so much easier to hate you."

"Ah, well. Sorry for that."

As my higher ranking comrade slides down the boulder to sit near me, I finally realize the snow magnified brightness of this planet's morning sun; my goggles had turned off to save power, and I had to shade them with my hand to stop my delicate eyes from hurting. Closing them, I twist the power ring on; the goggles hum for a moment, then glow an orange hue. I open my eyes again, my pupils relaxing and my vision clearing.

With a deep, crisp breath of air, my mind fully awakens. My body still not wanting to move, I lean my head back and stare upwards. The sight of the mountain range behind me pulls my eyes back, dreading the thought of climbing it, loathing the chilly base we've had to trek through already.

"I cannot believe we have to climb that…"

Fricarion pulls 'Herbert', his own highly modified HG-CQ, across his lap, "I can't believe that we still haven't gotten back with the rest of the platoon… how long has it been now?" He removes the drum magazine, ejects a round from the chamber, and begins to field strip it.

I pause to reflect, "About… five days now?"

"Yes… five days today, I believe…"

I remember him telling me about all the trouble he had went through for his habit to tinker. Without permission, he threaded the barrel for a silencer, added some extra support and padding in the butt stock, completely removed the flatchlette gun on the bottom, and replaced it with a stripped down laser designator. Before he was court-martialed for damaging Helgan property, his XO realized that he had created a perfect scouting weapon, and when fitted with sensors similar to the one worn with a standard laser designator into his uniform, made him a Shock Trooper, Sniper, and Precision Artillery Officer all in one. Not long after, he was relieved of the charges and promoted to Sergeant.

And like any other good Helgan soldier, he kept his weapon in working order. Yet, whenever he felt he were in an uncomfortable situation, whether on field, or in a social pinch, he distracted himself by breaking down his weapon. Oddly enough, e's done it at least twice a day in these past five days. It's a reliable trait I've noticed, considering how easily read a man could be, atmospheric mask or not.

"There you go again, fidgeting with that horribly named weapon of yours…"

"Say what you wish, love. He's hasn't failed me yet."

Opening up a pouch, he pulls out a cleaning kit, lays it neatly across the ground, and begins to brush his weapon methodically. I can't help but to watch him…

I've been lucky. Fricarion is the closest thing to a friend that I've had within these past few years. All the training, the experiments, all the ridicule and discrimination… he's been one of the few who doesn't really care who I am. It's strange really, how even from the beginning, he didn't mind working along side me.

I can't help but to almost envy him. Trained as a sniper unit as I did, he bore the equipment of one; dark jungle camouflage, munitions belt across his back, enhanced optics, and long-term supplies and rations gear. His stature was that of all others, but his demeanor set him aside. As strong of a believer as any in the ways of the Helghast, he was always an optimist, as well as playful instigator. Off field, he would challenge authority, set harmless traps, and always made himself known when placed in a new unit. He was the type to either be loved or hated, and that made set him apart from everyone else.

Maybe that's why we get along so well.

My body finally becomes a bit restless, signaling the will to move. Unfolding my legs and reaching out my hands, I stretch my stiffened limbs. My legs spread outward to opposite sides as I lean forward, hands clawing the ground as blood circulates, reaching into a gymnasts split. With a deep breath, I press hard into the ground and lift my curved body upward, letting my separated legs slowly rise to a perfect handstand. Proud of my grace, I let one leg lower to the ground, then the other as I straiten into a stand. I turn on a heel, hoping to attract Fricarion's attention.

As my gaze meets his, he quickly looks back down to his rifle, scrubbing his barrel a little faster this time.

"Oh, don't pretend. You were looking, weren't you?"

"Admiring the fact that you're conscious? Yes. Admiring your grace? Maybe. Admiring that fact that you probably have morning breath? No. I'll keep it at that, thank you."

Half flattered, half realizing the unpleasant taste in my mouth, I simply smirk, pull down my dark mesh mask, build up some saliva, and spit near his feet.

"There's your morning breath, you devil."

Without looking up, he shrugs, "Charmed."

I can't help but to sigh; this man is so unpredictable…

Then again, it's another trait we share in common…

Letting myself stretch once more, I reach for a band behind my head and release my true pride; a meter's length of crimson hair. Running my hands through it, I tug at a knot or two, doing my best to straiten it from my slumber, then bind it again in a dark, metal clasp.

As one of the few, perhaps only, female Helgan soldier, I have led a very difficult lifestyle. In an empire like that of my Helgan homeland, the concept of a woman was rare, and almost discouraged. Merely seen as prizes, where soldiers on leave would spend a day or two in the breeding facilities, or trophies of those in the higher class. The price of a warrior nation meant most women would become impregnated, fed accelerated birthing chemicals, and handed their son, statistically 90 of them, to adolescent academies, then wait for the next man to rape them.

I, on the other had, am lucky. My mother died at childbirth, her weak, human frame passing in agony. My father, a proud, respected, and powerful man, was the first to hold me in his arms, vowing to make my life a worthy one.

And incase one was wondering, yes, I too am a half-breed, yet no, that does not relate, or even parallel to the traitor of our army. My father's sympathy for humans ended with her life, along with the Exodus of our race. I have been raised as a Helgan, and a Helgan only. I only thank my birth parent for my hair, and that's as far as it goes.

Slightly agitated, slightly bored, I lean my body forward across cool boulder, my gaze towards the mountain. This new suit they had made for me had extra padding across various pressure points along my body, so laying face down was rather comfortable; not to mention the fact that C-cups provided a bit more comfort, another trait I had inherited from my late mother. Feeling the need to further taunt my comrade, I make sure that when I turn toward, my chest hangs accordingly in Fricarion's direction.

He continues to scrub, glances my way, lowers his gaze slightly, then once again to the rifle, "Is there a point you're trying to make, or are you just taking advantage of my natural weaknesses, Jei?"

"Exploiting the weakness of any man is my strength. That's how I've gotten this far in this army."

"I suppose so, yes… yet were has that gotten us now? Our squad is probably halfway up this mountain thanks to your eagerness."

Surprised at his accusation, I retaliate, "First off, its not my fault that sniper headsets are only built with receivers and not transceivers, and second, how was I supposed to know the bridge was to collapse. Be lucky our squad was sent backwards, and not in the middle of the ravine like the others." I shift my weight back, "It's not like you to try to blame me for our problems… what's wrong with you?"

"I… I don't know… maybe…" he goes to rub the left side of his head, readjusting his goggles. As his hand returns to his side, I notice an abnormality to the shape of his helm; one side seems angled a bit differently.

"Fric…"

"Jei, you're a lovely person, but please, what have I told you about that name…"

"No, Fricarion… you're helm. Something's wrong…" As I try to inspect at a better angle, he turns himself away from me.

"Oh, there's nothing wrong with it. Manufacturing flaw at best…"

"No, hold still, will you?"

Along the left side of his helm, a deep gash ran across it. The composite plastics had been shred away, a seven-centimeter slice running parallel with the dome of his head.

"You're wounded!"

Brushing away my advancing hand, Fricarion slides the bolt into his weapon, setting the firing spring and closing the chamber, "It's nothing! Only a flesh wound…"

"You've been hiding that from me this whole time? Oh, come now. Admit you got shot and let me tend to you."

"I said I'll be fine! I've made it this far."

"Fricarion…" I cannot help but to step to him, lowering to a knee and forcing his gaze to mine, "…please."

His face must have turned puzzled, for he stopped struggling and stared. "Please? Since when?"

"Ever since head wounds became lethal. Now, stop being such a stubborn male and remove your helm. Let me see how bad it is."

"Fine…"

As he pulls his goggle strap back and down, I pull at his chinstrap, grip the helm by the sides, and ever so slowly pull up. I hear him hiss under his mask as I pull, a slight resistance felt as his bloodied, healing skin and debris peels away from his skull.

"I'm sorry, Fric… there's a lot of scabbing…"

In a wincing voice, "That's half the reason why I wanted to leave it there…"

Pulling the helmet free, I place it in his lap, remove a small first aid kit from my waist, and inspect his wound. The graze isn't as long as I had thought, but a rather deep gash curves neatly over the curve of his ear, the skin a few millimeters apart, a few threads of carbon fibers stuck inside.

"Here… let me remove this trash in your skull, disinfect it, and stitch it up. Think you could hold still long enough?"

"Why, sure! Mind lending me a few strands of hair while you're at it? This breeze is numbing my scalp."

"I would never! Besides, the cold will dull the pain. Now stay still…"

A suppressed, faint motherly feeling enters me as I begin to methodically tend to Fricarion, his head shifting and leaning back to get comfortable.

He's lucky that I'm tending to him… any other Helgan Corpsman would have told him to suck it up and left it to fester…

Time seems to blur as I proceed, picking away at strands and fragments of plastic with tweezers, applying anti-inflammatory cream inside the gap, and gently sewing the gash together with needle and surgical thread. As I finish, my mind awakens from the trance-like procedure, curious as to the wound's origin.

"Do you happen to remember how this happened, Fric?"

"I think… it might have been before the bridge incident…"

Skeptical, I reply, "Before, or during? Unless you picked a fight with 'Herbert' and lost, I wager you were shot during the encounter with that ISA rodent under the bridge. Correct?"

Caught in his attempt to lie, I hear him sigh, "Perhaps, yes. I believe she nicked me just after we had gotten down to the bridge's base. I had just knelt down for a shot, when…. Well, I can't really say what happened then…"

"Why not?"

He shrugs, "… I cannot remember. It's… a bit of a blur now. I think I might have gotten a bit of a concussion."

I pause in sympathy, then explain, "When I reached the bottom with the rest of Squad C, I looked for a good crevasse to nestle in. The moment I laid down, I heard a thump, followed by liquids spilling. Degauss, who was standing directly behind me, fell over with a hole in his chest. Five seconds and 2 bodies later, I finally had the ISA assassin in my sights, but it was a quick one. For every shot I seemed to try to take, it would leap to another girder, and hide. All of the meshing metalwork proved to be a challenge to shoot though, and my angle was bad. It knew what it was doing, too, for it would take pop shots from a different spot, never developing a pattern. I got frustrated and fired a few rounds rather wildly, hoping I could use the steel against it and get a shot to ricochet. Then…"

"The explosion?" Fricarion adds, "That much I do remember, those four explosions that made the road begin to crumble."

Tying a knot through the last stitch, I agree, "Yes, I had noticed the shaped charges set as I was firing blindly, but I suppose I was too focused on the assassin. By the time noticed those red lights flickering, my scope was filled with a brilliant flash. I had to look away, but when I reopened my eyes, the bridge had shifted, crackled, and finally fell away into the ravine below."

Gingerly touching his head, Fric runs a gloved set of fingers over the freshly mended wound, then slowly sets his helm back on, "That was indeed a sad sight, seeing our men and armor fall away like that. I only think one of them was spared from the bridge; I saw two men holding onto the fissure's ledge, but only one was pulled from it…"

Placing the tools into its respective spaces, I slip the med kit away and slouch down to Fricarion's side, "I hadn't seen it… I was too busy trying to find the ISA rat through the smoke as it finally reached the ground. Apparently, it had thought that the bridge would be enough of a distraction, but as it fled I managed to make finally contact with its left arm."

"Oh? So you did hit it?"

"Actually, it was then that I noticed that 'it' was a 'her'."

Tightening his chinstrap, he turns to me, "You don't say?"

I nod, in awe as well, "When I zoomed in to confirm the hit, the bitch had fell and turned to her back, with two measly mounds bulging over her chest straps."

"Did you manage to finish her off?

Reaching for my rifle and holding it close, I continue half-heartedly, "Well, when I had just the right shot, I pulled the trigger, but was only awarded with the click of an empty magazine. I had her, perfectly! Yet, I had wasted five rounds betting on my ricochet tricks to work. By the time I had reloaded and her in my sights, the assassin had run up a sand dune and shot down on her way over. Another Helghast perhaps…"

"Yes… perhaps…"

We sit there for a moment in silence, my mind seeming to numb, along with the brow of my exposed forehead. An uncomfortably cool breeze wafts by, sending a few flakes of pinpricking snowflakes, teasing my skin and hair, reminding me of this double-edged sword of this suit they call an 'Anti-Femme Under Armor System'. It's both a complement and a mockery to myself, my gender.

When my father influenced some higher-class Helgan officials to allow me to enlist and train, he also suggested that my body would be of novel use towards Research and Development. The both of us new that I would not allow any man to disrespect me without proper consequences, and at the very least, would be a good excuse for R&D to tinker with new ideas, considering our 'flawless' army needed no 'further improvement'. As much as the male swine wanted to ignore my abilities, even presence, my father's undeniable loyalty to Scolar Visari and monetary influence granted our wishes for my placement as a soldier. Hence, as I was trained in my specialty, modifications were made to the Helgan Shock Trooper uniform, and this suit I wear now was formed.

And its forming accented every curve, every shape, and every opportunity to point out that I was indeed a woman. Evidently, those so called scientists and field researchers must have been influenced by the dirty magazines hidden under their beds, and made my suit a cross between a sniper's uniform, padded, camouflaged, highly functional, and a playboy bunny, tight as a glove, all the stitching leading to either three of my most forbidden areas, and even a bit of a heel in my boots. My harness straps wrap around the shoulders, crisscross around my bosoms, down into one and connecting to my waist, then wind around my thighs to more straps around my knees; a lacework of nylon twisting and encircling my body.

Another detail of this suit, or lack there of, concerns my neckline and above; even though I am granted with Helgan goggles, I have no helm, exposing all meters worth of my hair. As for my vanity, I appreciate my opportunity to flaunt my pride amongst the sea of ping pong balls making up our army, yet tactically, it makes my survivability percentage drop dramatically. I've always wondered whether those R&D blokes wanted my hair to flow with the rest of my lovely curves, or wither it was a ploy from the chauvinist chain of command hierarchy to prematurely discharge me, and bring my corpse back to my father with scorn.

But with this flaw came a very clever innovation. As I was tested upon, it was noted that I had no problems breathing the air from my world, but as well as from oxygen rich planets as well. This discovery meant that because of my partly human breed, and a good portion of my life spent on orbital suites with my father, I didn't need the horribly bulky and ugly atmospheric masks every other grunt had to wear. Instead, two stiffened, S-shaped coiled hoses with nozzled heads stand parallel with my cheeks, narrowing to a single cord, snaking its way down to a Helgan regulator tank on the small of my back. It's a much lighter, more convenient way to stay comfortable, and if ever the Earth-like air wasn't sufficient, I only needed to turn up the pressure on the regulator and take a deep breath.

And as way to try to waken up, I did just that, pressing a slide button within the regulator pouch and breathing deeply. It's a welcome, familiar scent, that sandy, almost cinnamon spicy aroma of Helgan. As I breathe, I can feel my sinuses and throat flare open; the air calms my mind further, yet awakens my limbs; like sparks igniting a flame and urging my body to rise. Stretching towards the wispy sky, I rise and sling my rifle over shoulder.

"Alright, Fricarion, about time we move, corre…?" The spot where he had rested was now empty, "What the hell?"

A distant voice calls, "Ah, so you've finally quit your daydreaming have you?"

My eyes follow the echo my ears detected, locating him some 15 meters above, his glowing eyes peeking over a ledge, "How'd you get up there so fast!"

"Simple! I climbed!" His voice dripping in matter-of-factness, "Now come on, Lass. With any luck, we'll finally catch up with the rest of our unit. Lets hope our first contact with them is friendly!"

"That man…" smiling, half in humility and half in admiration, I secure my weapon, find a handhold, and begin my assent, "…is the oddest man in this whole army. Thank the gods for that…