Chapter 3

"How the fuck are you little mute freak?" Major Downey wasn't the biggest Gear to ever wear the armor. He wasn't the strongest. But it was entirely possible he was the kindest. While so many were stern and bitter for no other reason than its what they felt was expected of them in such a situation, he was boisterous and jolly. Always fair and level headed, never growing too fearful in the heat of battle or allowing his rank to blind him. Even a soldier with a history like Gospel's wasn't treated unfairly. Gospel gave a slight smile in response, something rare for him, and Downey seemed to accept this, smacking him a little painfully on the back.

"Boys and girls," Downey bellowed. Every Stranded within the compound and possibly some of the Locust beneath turned towards him. "This here is Sergeant Lopez and Private Chaplin."

The Stranded exchanged confused glances, before returning to their duties.

"Giving us names serves a purpose," Downey explained. "See, they think we are nothing but suits of armor. Those stupid helmets we're all supposed to wear doesn't help matters, we all look like toy soldiers. We show em that we aren't just robots, and they're more likely to listen to us. These aren't soldiers remember, they don't know the chain of command, don't have an ounce of respect in them. Just don't say anything stupid."

Gospel nodded, ignoring the joke.

"We lost Davey boy," he said, tone suddenly somber. "Some Drone was hiding behind a corner and when he passed, it got him with one of our Lancers. Fucking blindspots on the helmets, I tried to get him to take it off but he was a stubborn little ass. Stay away from Arnold, alright, he's not taking it well. Yeah, I know that you don't start the shit, but just don't let him. Can you do that for me? Thanks G."

So that made two people that Gospel had to avoid: Lopez, since he would be sore that Gospel was down here instead of on the roof, and Arnold. Big, mean, pissed off Arnold. The compound wasn't the largest that the Stranded have ever built, but it was still large, housing about a hundred people in its walls, and stretched several square blocks. It should have been easy to avoid two people, who's massive armors made them stick out amongst the rag wearing civilians. Gospel was hungry, and found a Stranded who was handing out meals: a few vegetables and a slice of meat. He seemed hesitant to feed a COG, but eventually relented when Gospel traded him his last MRE. Food that never expired was appealing, even if it tasted revolting.

He was just starting on his meal when an overly gruff voice asked, "Where's Foley?"

Without looking at the speaker, Gospel took out the deceased private's dog tags and offered them up. Then he felt something around his neck, and a grip lift him off the ground.

"When I ask you a question, you answer me. Don't pull any of this mime bullshit. Now tell me something, freak, why is Foley dead, but you're still here, taking up food and ammo?"

"Don't let him." That's what Major Downey had told him, those had been Gospel's orders. And he had been perfectly willing to wait until the King Raven's came back to fly them all home and not even make contact with another human being. But Arnold wanted to start something. He was mad that he had lost David. Or he was mad that David had been killed and not him. Or he was mad that they hadn't been killed together in some sort of beautiful Hollywood scene, where the two stood back to back, facing down a small horde, having just enough time to glance at each other before they were torn limb from limb.

Gospel had lost people in this war too, and he was in no mood to serve as a vent for a pissed off private. He pulled out his pistol and pushed it to Arnold's eye. Arnold didn't immediately let him go, and Gospel honestly considered applying pressure to the trigger. A clenching of the fist, and this annoyance would be dealt with. The gunshot would echo through the streets but be passed off as nothing. Arnold's body would go over the wall, and Gospel would play dumb when Downey asked about him. Before Gospel could make a decision, Arnold huffed and growled, and dropped the private, off to hate the innocent somewhere else.

Lopez was a little easier. It seemed he lived his life with the sole purpose of fulfilling the stereotype of the hard ass, loner sergeant. Gospel found him in one of the living spaces, which was one of the few buildings that was relatively intact to keep out the frosty winter air, polishing Gnasher, looking it over, cleaning it. Gospel waited in the shadows outside the door.

"Control?" he demanded. "Where the fuck are the Ravens?"

"This is Control. The Ravens are on route to your location. However, we are not sure that we will be able to transport the entire population. Major Downey's initial report put the number at 117. We have lost several Ravens already, and we have other civilian areas to evacuate."

"Control, the Locust know we are here. If this is the last Stranded outpost in the city, then this is the last thing for them to attack. We are going to die if we do not get out of here."

"I am sorry sergeant, but we don't have the resources to save everyone. The Locust have only grown more brazen in their attacks as of late. You aren't the only people being evacuated."

"Who would guess that setting off a weapon of mass destruction up their asses would piss them off?"

"Four Ravens should arrive within the hour sergeant. They should be able to carry fifteen people each. Sixty people, provided none of them are shot down."

"You just said we have over a hundred Stranded."

"Then, sergeant, you will have to decide who should be left behind."

No matter what, her voice was always calm, always level, not raising or dropping to fit the discussion. Never once had Gospel heard her shout or panic. But it was easy for her, safe inside her fortress, giving orders to the Gears who risked life and limb every day.

"Control out."

The sergeant was quiet for a while, just sitting there with his shotgun in his lap. "Gospel," he shouted. The private stepped out of the shadows of the doorway and into the light. Lopez chuckled. "I figured there was a fifty/fifty chance you were standing there. Thanks for not letting me look like an idiot. I assume you heard? Go find the major. Tell him what happened."

The Stranded didn't take it too well, but they were used to being betrayed by their governments. There were no riots, or unrest, and the Gears weren't pelted with rocks or feces. The Stranded simply watched with quiet acceptance, nodded every now and then. Some stormed off but most stayed in the square.

"The seats will go to youths, ages 14 to 25 in good health. Additional seats will go to children. Anything left, we draw lots," Lopez said.

"And what of you soldiers?" shouted a voice from the center of the crowd.

"One of us each will accompany you in the bird should you run into any trouble."

"You're going to take up one of our seats?" demanded a voice from the left. "You're not even going to stay and fight the battle that you brought to us?"

"We did not bring this fight to you," Lopez assured. "The Locust brought this fight to you. The Locust continue to terrorize humanity on every front. There is a very good chance that the Ravens will come under fire. The Locust can't resist slaughtering a sweet little goose full of civilians."

Lopez didn't mention how starved the COG was for man power. He didn't mention why they had started Operation Lifeboat (it wasn't out of the goodness of their heart). Why four trained Gears were more valuable than this entire Stranded population. Why four seats that were meant for civilians were going to soldiers. Gospel had no desire to listen to the Q&A that would follow, and wandered off.

What was now a hospital had once been an apartment building with a lobby. By its raised roof and the peeling, decorative wallpaper, a building for the wealthy. All furniture had long been removed, replaced with countless white beds, hanging tarps to offer some semblance of privacy.

Just entering the door, Gospel's ears were assaulted with the wail of pain that belonged to the malnourished man. His arms were restrained at the wrists to the bed, but his legs flailed and kicked and bucked in a fashion more like an animal than a man. His chest, starting at the base of his ribs to the start of his pubic hair, was cut open, the skin peeled back and held still with several clamps. A woman was tending to him, trying to remove several pieces of shrapnel, but she was fairing poorly. She struggled to keep his bucks pinned, and remove the tiny metal shards from his guts without further wounding him. Things were made easier when Gospel put his full weight on the man's ankles, allowing her to remove each splinter, dropping them into a plastic cup on the table. It was an hour of that, struggling with the man, who was stronger than his wraith like form would imply, so the woman could pluck each shiny, bloodied bit out, then stitch the skin back together.

"You're okay," she said, petting the man's head. He had stopped struggling and settled into a continuous low moan, whining and bleeding despite her best efforts. "The bird will come soon and you'll be fine. We'll all be fine."

"It won't come for me," the man said, forcing a smile.

"Of course it will. Maybe not this time, but there'll be more."

He smiled again. "I'm not of breeding age. I'm not healthy."

"They're going to help us all."

"No, they won't. Promise me something though, tell me you'll be on the first bird. Promise me."

"I don't make promises," she smiled. Gospel handed her a cup of clean water. She took it without much recognition of him, and put it to the man's lips, helping him to drink it down. "I know how hard it is, but try to get some sleep. If I can find any pain killers I'll give them to you."

She petted his head once more, before wiping her hands of the excess blood. The caked on crimson would only come off after scrubbing, but it would be a waste of water.

"You act like you've done this before," she said. A hand took hold of the dog tags around Gospel's throat, and yanked so hard and so suddenly, he was pulled down to her height. "Private Kenneth Chaplin." She sighed, looking down and dropping the tags. "Thank you, for the help. I'm Shana. Shana Purviance. You can call me Jinx, everyone does. Kind of a bad nickname for a doctor, huh?"

Gospel nodded. She was pretty, tan skinned and black hair, worn behind a tied handkerchief, and wide open hazel eyes. Jeans and a white collared shirt that was a size too big.

"I'm not coming with you guys," she said calmly. "You may have no problem with leaving people to die, but I've been caring for these people since you nuked us. I'm not going to leave them now, not until the last bird out."

The Locust did take prisoners, but the things they did to them, most people would choice death. He wasn't sure if the Snub pistol on her belt was for the Locust, or a final mercy for the patients she cared so deeply for. It wasn't easy to look into your fellow man's eyes and pull the trigger. But when a Lancer had gutted a squad mate, and his stomach was on the outside, bullets whizzing over head and mashing into the cover. When that friend took him by the collar and demanded he finish it. Gospel didn't have a lot of options.

"You could say something," she snapped. "I know you Gears all think you're some hot shit, you think you are the most bad ass mother fuckers ever to grace the planet. Fuck you, I've been surviving fifteen years without training, without a fancy Lancer, without some bulletproof monkey suit."

"It's nothing personal," Lopez said, coming behind them. "Gospel doesn't talk."

"Why is that?" she asked, passing a gaze to the private, who gave an embarrassed nod.

"Well, some say he's being a dick. Some say damage to the vocal cords. Arnold says he's faking it, and he just likes giving off that bad ass, silent loner thing. Isn't that right G?"

Gospel shook his head, and turned to go see if his services were required in the hospital.

The sergeant waited until he was out of earshot to continue. "Truth is, he hasn't talked since Emergence Day."

"We all lost people," Jinx spat.

"To the Locust, of course. Gospel killed his ma and pa."

Jinx looked at him.

"I knew his father, Colonel Anthony Chaplin. Brilliant mind, fought with him in the Pendulum Wars. The things we did though, kind of fucked with him. I used to go to his house every morning, and found Mrs. Chaplin passed out drunk on couch. Little Kenneth, a bloodied nose, a black eye, cuts and scrapes on his arms, welts and bruises on his back. 'Boys will boys,' Anthony said, with a laugh, smacking little Kenneth's back in a playful gesture, just hard enough that he cringed."

"And you didn't do anything?"

"What was I supposed to do? Mommy wasn't going to tell anyone. Daddy wasn't going to tell anyone. Kenneth wasn't going to tell anyone. I went there one day and found a lot of blood. Daddy got cut ear to ear. Mommy was on the kitchen floor with a dozen or so knives in her chest and gut. And little Kenneth was in the corner, crying."

Jinx stood there, eye twitching in a nervous fashion.

"I didn't have to do much, that was E-day, and the government had more to worry than some little crackpot who killed his parents. What do you do with a homicidal kiddie? Enlistment of course."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You were wondering why he doesn't talk. I wouldn't want you to think he's being impolite."