Well, well, I'm back again.
Thanks very much to my one vocal reviewer out there. rouge killer naruto I really appreciate your support as well as your first-hand experience. I will certainly take your advice when I have the chance. I would certainly like to do a scene in Johannesburg, or anything really to develop my OC character, but at the same time I want to stick to this being a fanficiton as much as possible, which means to me, utilizing what other authors have already provided us. I feel that with this latest chapter, I may have even broached this self-imposed rule already, but the main point is actually more to convey what happened pre-timeline, and I am using an OC to illustrate it. To be honest, I had actually considered doing this story 100% in southern Africa, during the bush wars and with the unit being the 32 Battalion. But my knowledge of your country is limited, as I have not yet visited, and I didn't quite feel comfortable doing that. Anyway, not to say it might not happen in the future ;)
And thanks to my silent viewers as well, though unless you follow and/or review its hard to quantify you, and even harder to know what you think. Even though this story is my own pathology expressing itself, I am still curious to know how many of you there are out there who actually care to pay attention. And if you don't, I am also interested to know why.
Anyway, back to the grindstone. I actually have some downtime and I don't want to waste my momentum here.
Cheers, prost, whatever floats your boat.
He was flying…
Only in the conventional sense. Even if he were to close his eyes, he would still be riding side-saddle with only his legs dangling out of the open helicopter door riding weightless on the jet streams. Despite that, the whole thing was very surreal, dreamlike as only he could imagine it. Being weightless, despite the external bulk which clung awkwardly to his body, being so carefree yet with such an important burden to shoulder with those by his side.
And yet that task, that missions itself, should have been a dream as well. A child's fantasy, the kind of thing recruitment posters would tout, offering that one-in-a-million chance to actually do something groundbreaking and significant with an otherwise wasted life.
They had always been the tip of the blade. Here now, scalpel-like in purpose and intensity. They were loaded up with an extra 20 kilos of electronic equipment, theoretically to help them better facilitate this task. It would do the extra thinking for them, recording everything of note and preserving it even should they fail.
It was supposed to be an opportunity, an honor, both to try out the new FELIN combat system, and to be the first ones in to investigate the anomaly. He couldn't relish that thought. He couldn't help but feel like they were a bunch of Guinea pigs.
It wasn't all bad, though. The mountainous terrain shrouded by the limbs of primordial trees which sped by in between his dangling boots was fairytale like, and harkened a reminiscent tranquility which reached him underneath the layers of cloth, flesh, and stoicism.
"Wake up people. T-minus 30 until the incident zone."
The voice of the AS532 Cougar's copilot crackled in over the radio. He rolled his eyes. As if anyone could sleep in this instance. Even if they had wanted to, even if the excitement hadn't gotten to them just yet, years of training could not be shrugged off so easily.
He glanced ahead, past the glassed-in cockpit, to where the 'incidence' was supposed to be. Nothing. Not even a shimmer to distinguish it from the rest of the cloudless blue sky that had followed them for hours now. He was a little disappointed, but he held that in reserve. They hadn't made it. Yet.
"T-minus 15… 10…5…4…3…2…aaaaand here we are?"
The copilot's inflection resembled the question which was on everyone's sealed lips. They had passed over the line of distortion which had confounded the outside world ever since its discovery with nary a ruffle. No turbulence, no sudden shift in scenery, no profoundly illuminating shift in conscious. Nothing. Just more of the same, untouched forest. All this preparation, all the hype and training for this very moment. Weeks, months, years of dedication, only for nothing to change.
Kind of like his life so far.
"Mon Dieu…."
And just like that, it all changed, like a prayer was suddenly answered. Or a curse realized.
The tree-line halted suddenly at the crest of a peak, and bordered one side of a wasteland. Scarred earth stretched from peak to peak in that shallow valley, with no end in sight. They had a bird's eye view of the end of days.
And in that desolation, a sea of combat churned. Hundreds, thousands of bodies swirled in and out together in a microcosm of struggles. There was no delineation, no set borders they could see. All of the bodies raged in and out of one another in small groups like whirlpools of destruction. A most apt description, for in some cases it was literal.
Even from their lofty height above it all, they could see the very elements of nature duking it out amongst the human figurines, water, wind, earth, and lightening indiscriminately carving swaths out of the battle. Ironically, it was only in the wake of these attacks by nature that any calmness could be found. For once they passed over an area they cleared everything away, all of the death and dismay was swept under the rug.
Their transport had slowed down to an almost-hover so that they could all regard the sight in due awe. After the initial shock had succumbed to their response to fight, they were able to distinguish a sort-of pattern. Some areas more than others stood out as a small handful of combatants were given an ample buffer. The natural disasters which surrounded them were especially devastating, and yet were clearly bent to the will of one or the other. Everyone else gave them the room they deserved.
Those were people to be avoided, if they could even be called such. It was hard to be atheist at that moment.
Once such epicenter stood out, being especially catastrophic. No wonder everyone seemed to be giving it a wide berth. Natural elements turned into attacks lit up the self-imposed stage like fireworks, and the very ground around the two combatants split asunder with frightening frequency.
Despite being so far out, so removed from the oblong circle of combat that lapped upon the edges of the valley, this was the center. This was where the whole thing would be decided.
"Put us down over there."
Their fate, however, was centered and decided up here. Ten heads whipped around by the only thing that could possibly distract them from the incredible scene playing out in front and underneath them. They each looked at the stern face of their grizzled commander in equal looks of shock and dismay.
"W-what? Are you crazy? I can't land anywhere here! We'll be torn to bits!"
Even the pilot recognized the man's insanity and they imagined he shared their look of incredulity. There was no sense in the craft landing in the midst of this chaos, even if it were possible. Their mission was to recon, go in, and try to figure out what was causing the disturbances which permeated through the worldwide observational equipment. The danger everyone assumed had been minimal, and hence why they only sent one team.
They were decidedly unprepared for this.
The veteran of half a dozen conflicts turned around from the cockpit, dismissing the pilot's concerns and focused instead on the men who would be most directly affected by his decision. He knew that regardless of what they had expected to find, they would not be prepared for it. Nobody could be prepared for everything, that was what their training was for. To prepare you to be unprepared.
The silver-haired man did not know himself why he opted to give the order, but once it was out of his lips, he knew it was what they had to do. Despite their status as 'elite' soldiers, they were legionnaires first and foremost. Whatever the outcome of his decision, it was inevitable that it would be sung about. Added to the lines of Le Boudin(1) alongside Cameron, Dien Bien Phu, Kolwezi (2).
As always, they were expendable.
Not that there was such glory in fighting to the death for a cause that they would never understand. But the mere fact that they had been there. That they had fought. And that while they might not, the Legion would survive. The officer in charge of the operation did not know if those under him could appreciate that. But he did know that they would obey his command.
As the grim faces of determination set in all around, the deafening noise of the chopper was drowned out by the silent acknowledgment of fate.
"Just get close to that zone over there." The older man pointed over the pilot's shoulder as he turned back to the cockpit. Behind him, stony expressions checked over weapons and gear for the umpteenth time, prayers were whispered silently to totems hidden close to the body, and mindsets were hardened with the flip of a switch.
"You won't need to land, just get us close enough that we can jump out."
The pilot shook his head, but complied despite. Toggling the joystick, the craft dipped over in the direction indicated, a zone of sparse combat that only appeared that way because recent destruction had made it so. He would do as best he could, but he was not about to land amidst all this chaos. His first priority was the integrity of his craft. He would get as close as he dared, but even that would be quite the drop. He wasn't about to risk deploying a fast-rope either. Despite the name, it would longer than he would like to disembark his insane passengers, and he was surely justified that he wanted them out of his hair ASAP.
In the back, he sat watching as the ground approached. Saw the miniature combatants grow from the size of ants, to the size of action figures, though this did not serve to make the fighting any more real. It was easier to see now how the elements of nature were being bent to the fighters' whims. The majority were being directed towards identical humanoid plants, which took little heed in their numbers being thinned with shocking consistency. There were plenty more to take their place.
Despite the incredulity of the whole thing, he managed to take some solace in this last observation.
Plant-people were the enemy. Got it. Now he had a direction to point his gun. He thumbed the safety-switch off. The ground got closers.
A nearly-invisible bubble of compressed air struck the side of the craft, dulled only partly by the downward force of the rotors. Still, it was worse than any turbulence that he had ever encountered. He was jolted, and felt his rear-end start to slip off the corrugated metal floor, and for one fleeting moment he was totally weightless. As his stomach climbed into his throat, he was overcome with the most curious sensation of elation.
He was flying.
"Oh no you don't!"
He didn't have to look to see the silver-haired commander latch on to the collar of his ballistic vest with his meaty paw and yank him back into the craft as it pitched dangerously off course. Other cries of surprise intoned all around and hands shot out to latch on to whatever available handholds there were. He even felt another grab him, now that he was securely back in the craft. He looked back up to see the wrinkled face of his superior smirk back at him.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, kid. We're not there yet."
He nodded courteously and scooted back to his original spot, grabbing the aircraft frame for support. Went back to watching the approaching chaos.
"Alright! When I say go, first group jump! Try to find a flat area to land. For god's sake, try not to twist an ankle!" The man yelled over the drone of the rotors.
They all silently acknowledge the command. Counted down the seconds to its implementation. He watched the ground. Watched some of the faces turn up to looks at them in abject shock. Watched those same faces get swallowed up by the humanoid Venus-flytrap. It was unavoidable, they were going to cause quite the stir.
Suddenly there was a break. Just enough.
"Alright! Go! Go! Go!"
It was a long drop. He got that feeling of flying again.
Sucked when he landed, though.
Despite being churned up by whatever preternatural attacks were being thrown about, the ground was still too hard. His boots prevented his ankles from twisting, but it wasn't enough and he rolled to distribute the impact.
When he came up, he was immediately accosted by one of the plant-men. He didn't think about how hideously ugly it was up close. He didn't think about the sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing. He didn't think about the rest of the battles raging around him. He didn't think about the additional weight on his rifle dragging it down. He didn't think.
He just did.
Thought only returned to take his finger off of the trigger before he used up to much ammo, although it was probably too late for that. The thing stood there pockmarked with a dozen boil-sized craters . An incredulous pale face stared back in confusion, and not pain. It tottered there, not quite sure what to do with itself, before it collapsed. Rather than bleed in any manner, it simply dissolved away, dust to dust.
He watched it happen, studied it with curiosity more than fear. But it proved a distraction all the same.
"Wake up!"
He blinked as two more of the man-plant clones lunged at him from either side of their fallen brethren. His rifle was lowered while inspecting the dissolving corpse. It was already too late to wake up from this dream.
Whizzing past his head like mosquitos came a torrent of fire, shredding the two approaching plant-men into nothing but mulch. So much for using ammo.
This did the trick, though. Others were coming to back him up, he couldn't block the way. He had to push forward.
One step in front of the other, rifle pressed into his shoulder, finger carefully controlled this time, only touching the trigger when his sights passed over those abominations. This was what he was good at.
The bodies hit the ground. They fell just like men. It was no different. It was easier.
The tide of enemies ebbed for a split second. A replacement mag was in the gun before the other had hit the ground. Something in the corner of his eye, he spun on his heel. A hoard of them. Or was that considered a bushel? He laughed silently as he lobbed a grenade their direction. Incendiary. That worked.
His arm moved to change out the smoking shell, but as his hand fumbled about at the pouch on his thigh, he suddenly felt something constricting around him with the force of a Boa Constrictor. He saw the pale-white spikes start to encircle him, felt himself losing the ability to breath.
Panic set in.
He let go of his rifle, trying to reach for his knife strapped to his belt, but that entire part of his body was already being assumed into the corpse of the plant-man who had gotten the drop on him. His hand became mired in the organic cellulite and he was well good and trapped. He was sure as hell going to struggle, though.
Before he could try and headbutt the thing in its 'face' with the hardened back of his helmet, though, the thing let out a cry and the pressure constricting his chest was alleviated. He threw himself away from the thing and into a shoulder-roll.
He stopped on his chest, ignored all the equipment digging into him, rolled over to see the thing lamenting the sudden loss of both its prey and its limbs. Its cry was something horrid, yet natural, like the whistle of gas escaping. His gun was louder.
He stopped firing only so he could see past the muzzle-flash and watch the insult to botanica topple over. Only when the body began melting on the ground did he remember to breath. He stopped sitting up, letting his head hit the ground, wondering not for the first time just what he got himself into.
It was still an innocuously blue sky above. But that was suddenly blocked by the shadow of silver-haired man poking his face into his field of view. Or rather his mismatched eyes only, because he was wearing a mask and headband which covered everything else. He blinked, suddenly glad it wasn't his commander.
The man asked something. He couldn't understand, but recognized it was a question. He couldn't fathom an answer, so he just attempted a universal hand gesture.
Thumbs up.
The man smiled with his eyes, somehow. But that still reassured him and he sat back up, checking that there were no lasting remains of the plant thing on him or his very expensive gear, thank god. He heaved a sigh, but got to his feet anyway, the silver-haired man pausing in his own assault to watch him heft his body off the ground, giving him an almost amused look. He tried to glare in reply, only to realize that his entire face was covered, including the drop-down eyepiece which was still broadcasting much to his appreciation. So much for small favors.
Instead, he simply nodded, and got one back in reply. They both turned at the same time, and were accosted with the rest of the strange battle, perhaps even stranger now that they had joined in the fray, still dancing around them.
He sighed again.
He did not sign up for this shit.
There were always a million things to do every day. A tweak here, a snip there. A bit of dust or dirt which had escaped her watchful eye. Every plant in her shop needed water, every plant needed tender love and care. Then there was the store itself, always in need of upkeep. It was an old building now, having been in her family's possession since her grandfather, and it was showing it now.
Still, every day she got up to make everything perfect as it was the day before. Every flower in the peak of bloom, every board of the floor polished to a mirror shine, every window spectacularly streak-free.
She spent no less time on herself. She was always perfect. Always slim, always done up as if she could waltz out of the shop any minute and into a fine restaurant. Just the right amount of makeup which never smudged once during the day- not on her watch. Between the shop and her temple of a body, there was no time for a stray thought, an uncoordinated action, there were always a million things to do during the day.
She always made sure of that.
But each day she always left time to smell the roses, literally. She cupped the azure petals in her slender fingers, admiring its graceful curves so much like her own, yet so much more perfect. So natural, yet one of only many things that had been made possible in the recent years, thanks to science.
So much good. So much not.
She took a careful sniff. This one, at least, was sweet. A crisp, clear scent. Clean, like mountain spring water. Too clean.
As she drew her face away, she looked past the single flower in its emerald bottle serving as its vase. Through the storefront window and out into the street, where a familiarly jovial face was making its way towards her humble shop. The sight brought a happy smile to her face where there was a only a contemplative one before.
The silver bell above the door jingled as her friend swept the beautiful spring day in with her. So upbeat and exuberant in her entrance, it reminded her of herself.
Once, long ago.
"Ino-chan! I'm so glad I could make it!"
Ino returned the brunette's smile as she set down her watering can and wiped her hands of imaginary dust on her apron.
"Oh? Is the world-renown botanist busy all of a sudden? Well, I'm ever so glad that you could find the time to stop by."
The other woman rolled her eyes at her friend's facetious sarcasm.
"Oh come one, you know I would always have time to say hello to my best friend here! Besides, I thought you'd be happy for me, I do have news!"
Ino shrugged aside her playful banter immediately in response to this declaration, and her head fell into her hands, propped up on the shop's smoothly worn counter. She gave the other woman her undivided attention. This was serious business after all, this was the latest gossip!
"Well come on Rae, tell me!"
Rachael smiled once again hearing her friend's affectionate nickname. Ino had never been good at foreign languages, even though she now could speak English and Italian as well as her native tongue. When she had first met Rachael, Ino had the most difficult time learning to say her name, with it coming out something like 'Ray-chu-ru', which she had laughed at.
Very quickly this had devolved to 'Rae', after Ino had borrowed a page from her childhood friend's book and deemed it too 'troublesome' to learn the full thing. Even after perfecting the pronunciation, the name had stuck.
"You're going to love this. The central government in Mizu finally approved the union's request to study the Kusa Valley. Preliminary reports have already come back, and they say the place is deluged with new species of plants that have grown from the saturation of Demonic Chakra! I've been approved to leave tomorrow with the first group of scientists!"
Contrary to her declaration, the news did not please Ino. She wasn't actually sure how she felt about it, but her face faltered in her internal deliberation and the botanist friend from the Netherlands misinterpreted the signal.
"Don't worry Ino, this is the best part! I asked my professor if we could have a guide come along, and you know what he said? He said, only if that person knew the local flora-which of course you do- so you can come along. Isn't that great?!"
Rachael's euphoric high at the fortuitous turn of events was expected to have provoked a good number of different reactions from the other normally bright and bubbly woman. Silent stoicism was not, however, on that list.
Her smile fell off her face like a rose petal, and an unreadable expression, one which she had never bore witness to before, overcame the blonde. She turned to face away, and Rachael was ashamed to say she was grateful for that. That look so foreign to her friend frightened her, though why she could not say.
"I can't go."
"Eh, what do you mean?" She pressed on as if she could not see the sudden change which descended upon the atmosphere of the flower shop. "I'm sure that your dad could look after the store, after all it'd only be for about three weeks or so, we're supposed to work in rotations so the other branches can get a chance to study the area."
Ino shook her head, not so much denying the possibility, but rather unsure of her own ability to explain herself to the unwitting but well-intentioned woman.
"You don't understand, Rae. I can't go…there."
The brunette's eyebrow's scrunched amd she adopted a look akin to if Ino told her she had been a boy this whole time.
"Ino-chan, what are you talking about? You don't believe those rumors do you?"
They were hardly rumors. There were ghosts there. Hundreds of them wandering among the regrown foliage, unable to find their ways back home. Of that, there was no doubt. Some claimed that they could see and hear them. That was the ludicrous part. No, Ino was not afraid to spend nights out among the ghosts of strangers who wouldn't know her face from any other soul, dead or alive.
It was the familiar ones she was afraid of, and they were always with her.
She shook her head, already giving into the knowledge that it would be hopeless to express this kind of thing upon the other woman. She was too sheltered, at least by their standards. In fact, if was only a curtesy of age that she called her woman. She was a girl, barely out of her teens, and so jaded to the way the real world worked.
Maybe that is what attracted one to the other. Did Ino see a bit of herself in Rachael? She could accept that. She had long since learned to accept her own flaws, once she lost count of them. But how to bring enlightenment to another who had never seen the dark? That was Buddha's job.
Or Naruto's.
"Rachael, I'm sorry, but you have to understand that I can't go back there. That place holds too many bad memories for me. It will always be associated with death in my mind."
It threw her off that Ino had used her full name. That should have been the most obvious of warnings that she was treading into deep water. But as easily as a faded placard at the beach, she dismissed it and dove in anyway.
In her defense, it was inconceivable that this woman no older than her and so bright and full of life could dwell on such dark subjects. On the other hand, she also did not believe it was possible, again, that this immaculately dressed and presented person could have ever been so close as to be truly scarred by what went on there. When read from a book, death was but a statistic. But there was no comparison to the real thing.
"Oh come on, Ino-chan," she quirked in eyebrow in skepticism to her friend's dramatic showing. "You told me you were a second-line medic. I did some reading about the conflicts pre-contact, and with the traditional weapons and tactics it was rare that fatalities would occur so far behind the lines." Before Ino could overcome her shock at this brazen accusation, Rachael placated her by throwing her hands up in apparent defeat. She was willing to give her first and best friend in the village the benefit of the doubt if it would repair their friendship and get her to go along.
"Okay, looks, I know I shouldn't presume. But still, you told me your family specializes in psychology, right? Well, don't you think it would be better to confront your fears head on? Come with me, it'll do you some good."
Behind the counter Ino's fist clenched repeatedly as she tried to regain some semblance of control. By textbook civilian psychology, she was right. But this wasn't a problem that a civilian could understand. It wasn't anything anyone outside of the former shinobi could even begin to comprehend.
How could one empathize with a life where death lurked behind every corner, both on and off the battlefield? Few could understand the necessity to take a life, but how many could comprehend the economics of it? How could one explain that some secrets were worth losing a life, tens of lives, hundreds of lives, in order to keep? These were all things that Ino knew from experience as well as her family's teachings, that could be corrosive to the human psyche.
They were things that should be done away with. They were things that were actively being relegated to the annals of history so people like Rachael Zöet could look back and marvel at how their barbaric society managed to function.
But they were also part of her life, and that could not be done away with so easily.
"Rae-chan," Ino circled around the counter and glided up to her friend, who while marveling at the grace with which she moved, could only blink in surprise to be suddenly confronted with such a serious-looking Ino who placed her hands and her shoulders. She was shocked to feel how solid the slender woman's grip was.
"Please, go. Go on your expedition. Have a good time. Make some discoveries that help to change our world for the better." The other girl could only work her mouth aimlessly at the beneficence of her friend's urging.
"But please, go now."
She was worn out from this conversation. She needed to be alone, away from the outsider who could in no way comprehend the pain she was going through.
But it was clear there was a divide, greater than any language barrier. The unusually direct request from her friend was not taken as the order it truly was.
Rachael reciprocated the gesture, placing her own arms on the blonde's shoulders so that they were kept at a distant embrace.
"Ino, please, I'm your friend. Let me help you. If you could maybe just talk about what happened, you could even let go of it. I'm sure that your friends Choji, Asuma-"
Her words were stopped there. Which was just as well because they could not be heard above the sound of the once pristine countertop exploding into a million tiny splinters that shredded the blonde's purple dress and imbedded themselves into the finely polished floor, but somehow missed the brunette as she had only just come to terms with the fact that Ino's hand was no longer on her shoulder.
"Leave. Now."
Involuntarily shaking like a leaf, the brunette finally understood the non-negotiation in the voice. She took a few hesitant steps back towards the door, unsure if this monster who had taken the place of her friend would strike her down if she turned her back. Finally, though, she could take no more of the icy stare that rested upon her and she bolted out the door, banging the solid wooden plank on a rack of vases and managing to topple one onto the floor.
It exploded into another infinity of tiny glass pieces, forming a galaxy of shards around the red sun in the center.
Ino looked not at the door as it struggled to close, nor at the matchstick pile that once was the countertop which stood in the shop since before she was born. She looked at the downed rose, and slowly walked over to it and picked it up.
She walked over to the other flower she had been admiring earlier, and plucked it from its rustic holder. She replaced it with the simple red rose she had rescued from the ground. Then walked over to the dust bin which still lurked in the space behind where the counter had once been and tossed the only blue rose into her shop into the trash. She looked back at the remains of her counter, with the cash register now lying off-balance on top of the heap.
She frowned, which then became a smile.
She sighed contentedly and retrieved her broom and dustpan.
Everyday there were a million things to do.
A million little things which may, or may not, make the world a better place.
"Of the thousands of things that could have gone wrong…"
"Eh, what are you complaining about, sir? It's just a flesh wound."
"That may be, but it's hardly like you can walk on it. Still, I'm glad that you are not too injured."
Belletriste clapped a hand on the injured man's shoulder as the team's medic silently changed the dressing. The bandages were pretty well soaked, but the wound itself had stopped bleeding. The man had been lucky that the piece of shrapnel was large enough to extract and had not fragmented inside his leg. They had all been lucky.
"Don't worry about it, my friend. We'll get you back in a warm bed right away."
He stood up and turned to his right-hand man who was, of course, waiting not far away.
"Tarek, have your group take the lead on the way back. We'll take turns with the stretcher and guarding the rear. It'll be slow going, so we best start as soon as everyone is ready."
The man under the medic's ministrations winced in shame trying to disguise it as pain.
Naruto could sympathize with what he must be feeling. Even as a fresh Genin he had been determined never to be a drag on the rest of his team. But sometimes it was unavoidable. It certainly wasn't the injured man's fault that they would need to turn back without having completed their objective, and it could not be helped in any case.
He himself felt only the barest amount of disappointment. Though it was more so with himself and his own actions. He felt that his skills as a fighter had perhaps dulled in the period away from being a shinobi. Or perhaps he had never been all that accomplished a ninja? True he had techniques that could cause untold amounts of devastation. Or rather, he had had them. What was he without their broad strokes? His canvas was empty.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, what was left of it, slowly re-growing in the months away from a razor. It was still too early to dwell on such somber thoughts, and none of them had managed to snag all that much sleep.
They had all gotten what they could, under orders and between watches. But it was obvious that they were all feeling the strain of the previous night, as well as all of the long days before that. Even the commander betrayed the smallest amount of fatigue, though it could also have been concern for his injured subordinate. Naruto still could not tell that man's expressions.
"Sir, if I may…"
Tarek's voice was soft, but it cut across the small clearing they were hole up in, and heads turned from cups of coffee and ration bars to face the man who could dare attempt to talk back to their superior officer. Even the medic faltered in his bandaging, having to redo the sloppy knot.
The NCO was perhaps the least nonplussed, and simply nodded for the man to continue.
"Sir, I believe that we can still press on."
It was the first distinct frown Naruto had seen on the man's face.
"Absolutely not. We can't bring LaCombe with us, and I would be a fool to leave him alone this far into enemy territory. You should know this."
The dark-skinned man brushed off the admonishment.
"I absolutely agree that we cannot bring him with us, not only would he be a target, but he would slow us down as well." Not far away, the man turned his head away from the discussion about him, and inadvertently met Naruto's eyes, which was perhaps even more challenging. Naruto did not shame him with a look of sympathy.
"However… I also do not think we can afford to waste this opportunity." The two senior officer's shared a look that the shinobi watching could not quite interpret, but it was clear to them that it held some amount of significance.
"We are closer to catching up with them than we ever have been, and we have clear evidence that there is a shinobi. We have no idea when next we will get the chance to encounter them again. We don't even know if we will ever get another chance, if the higher-ups have their way."
The three shinobi listening across the way found it particularly curious that the argument seemed so focused around the narrow view that their unit afforded. As if the rest of the war being raged around them had no bearing on their success, nor theirs on it. Idly, Naruto realized that this could be true. It was another reminder of how little the individual seemed to matter in this world.
Or maybe… it was not the unit as a whole, but them, that changed the game.
Belletriste also ran his hand through his hair as he seemed to mull it over. It was obvious that he wanted to agree with the other man's plan, but was shackled by duty and a genuine care for his allies. His normally stalwart convictions were at ends, and it would only take a little more pushing to sway him.
"So what would we do with LaCombe? Epichoff is still suffering from concussion, so he would have to stay behind too, we would need to leave a medic behind with them. And I would want them all to have enough protection, so add another three men at least to share in watch. So what are you suggesting? We split in two?" He shook his head. "That is reckless. Foolish, even."
Even though during Tarek's argument the shinobi had felt their hope rise at the possibility that they still had a chance to show their metal. They could not help but agree with the commander, though. Splitting up in enemy territory like that was a poor decision.
"Not so." Still, the man was resolute. It was curious how much the normally abiding soldier was pushing back. "Do you trust me commander?"
"Of course." There was no hesitation. "Which is why I can't split the team. No offense to our newer memebers," Here he finally did look over at the three shinobi, and they could see that he meant what he said. "but I don't trust them to act independently just yet."
"Exactly, which is why they will go with you while I stay here with the rest."
The assembled could only blink in surprise, but the man continued to lay out his proposal before any objections could be raised.
"You are correct, sir, that the casualties would just slow you down. But that is also true of most of the rest of the men. The truth is that they simply cannot keep up with the shinobi in terms of speed."
Small nods from the veteran soldiers showed that they were wise enough to know their own limitations, and humble enough to admit them. It greatly surprised the newcomers who had yet to get to know the rest of their team on a personal level.
"With all due respect sit, you can keep up with them, more or less." He shrugged, admitting the 'more-or-less' part. "So you take the three of them, plus Moses, and the rest of us will remain here and try to achieve contact with ALAT (3) or any other air transport units in the area who could extract us from our current location. Let's face it, the three of them should be more than enough firepower to take down whatever you encounter, and you would have Moses to keep an eye on them."
Once again, Belletriste looked their way and stood there appraising them clinically. But this time, they could clearly see a modicum of that deliberation turned inwards.
"Please, sir. You know as well as I do what will happen if we report failure this early. The unit will be shut down. Everything you worked for until now will be for naught. At best the remaining shinobi will be scattered among the regular units, at worst, they might ban them entirely."
"I don't need you telling me this, Tarek."
It was clear that he understood, but it was also clear that he needed to hear the words. The rest of them too were shocked by this sudden influx of information. Politics and propriety were still too complex for them to fully understand, but it was still very clear to the outsiders that Tarek was proposing this plan more for the commander than himself. And in fact, it seemed, more for them than for him.
"Well?"
He spoke after a while, the question aimed not at the shinobi, but at the rest of the veteran soldiers who simply nodded back to him one by one before turning to the little group of shinobi plus two, and nodding once again. Belletriste turned to face them too. Turned to face him, and the blond man stared back unblinking.
"If we push on, a lot will be riding on your shoulders. Whatever would happen would be your responsibility, not much I can do to cover for you if the worse comes to pass."
Naruto understood that meant more than the completion of the mission. That was okay, he was use to life-or-death decisions.
If he had been younger, if it had just been his wellbeing at stake, even if it had just been the three of them the decision would affect, he wouldn't need to hesitate. But he was remiss to say that he did not know the other two quite so well. He turned back to see the large man nod deeply and a wide smile of pearly whites staring back at him.
"Are you guys sure?" He wasn't even sure if he was comfortable splitting up their gang, and did not entirely feel confident in his ability to keep the non-shinobi, Conrad safe.
"Nope!" The young man quipped without losing his smile. "But I trust ya. And besides, isn't this what we signed up for? Adventure and whatnot?"
Maybe it was. But the only way to find that out was to press forward. He turned back to the expectant NCO who already seemed to know his answer.
"Alright then. We leave first thing tomorrow. Get some sleep. Pleasant dreams."
This was a nightmare.
There was no end in sight, and they were rapidly eating away what ammo they had jumped in with. Though their commander seemed to have anticipated such an event, and they had carried double the amounts that intelligence suggested, all of the bullets in their armory probably would not have been enough.
He was down to semi-auto. Trying to make it a game to see how few shots it would take to bring the plant-men down. They were relatively slow, that made it easier. But they were tough, and while his M733 was well and good for human targets, his current enemies shrugged off the high-velocity cartridge with moderate ease, taking no more note of the hole in their face than they would a mosquito bite.
Thank god for the demi-humans fighting by their sides. In an ironic twist of fate, it seemed that it was they who were being rescued.
Speaking of which, he wondered if anyone had given a spare thought to send a distress signal once it was apparent they were well and truly mired in it. He wondered if it even mattered, if such a thing could get out of this valley, much less the sphere of incidence.
Besides, who would listen?
He was forced to duck underneath a labored swipe that was sure to take his head off, helmet or no. He rammed the buttstock of his weapon into the general area that the groin should have been with all his strength. He did not hold much hope that that would be sufficient, though, and quickly followed up with a kick that would have broken a normal man's kneecap, and then a left hook that clearly knocked a few of the pointy teeth out of its mouth.
He cursed, nursing his aching fist.
The thing stirred at his feet. In a sudden bout of frustration, he stomped on its larynx and proceeded to empty the rest of his mag into the things face. When had it become a personal vendetta? Maybe he was just frustrated because he knew that they weren't getting out of this?
He still changed the mag, ready to fight on. They weren't moving forward anymore. Hadn't been, for some time. But they weren't losing ground, either. Not yet, anyway.
When he looked back up, the ground in front of him was clear, which should have been a welcome relief. But something kept his muscles tensed despite the permeating silence as the rest of his enlarged group of allies tacitly came to the same realization.
That same something threw him down to the ground the same time a devastating shockwave whipped over the battlefield. It seemed the extra tech was good for something however. The way the blast had torn at his uniform, he was certain that he would have been deaf for the rest of his life if this were not the case.
He recognized laughter, but the words that accompanied them were that strange but familiar tongue their ad-hoc allies spoke. He quickly decided that he did not like it, however.
Looking up and seeing a man riding atop a giant bird that looked to be made of plaster should have surprised him. But by now, he was ready to accept just about everything. Including the fact that it was this one-armed blond lunatic that tried to frag him into tiny chunks with an endless stream of plastic explosive.
It seemed his comrades were of the same opinion, and as soon as he started trying to shoot the man down, a fusillade of fire erupted from behind him, attempting the same.
The man appeared momentarily shocked as the sand-colored bird exploded beneath him in a puff of smoke and bullet holes, before another identical one shot away from the cloud with him latched on its back. He continued to laugh in that especially grating tone of his.
The mounted man then reached into his black cloak and withdrew another handful of explosive, which he lobbed at the lot of them on the ground.
The only thing he heard was the blond man yelling something about a cat before the shockwave hit.
Only, it didn't.
There was a vague feeling of being enveloped by a fleece blanket, static electricity prickling the hairs on his arms, before he was yanked back.
Only he was still standing still. At least, at first. The disorienting feeling caused him to lose his balance and fell backwards onto his butt with as much grace as he could muster in full combat gear.
Which was none at all.
"Dijoubu desu-ka?"
Once again, the silver-haired man uttered those incomprehensible words at him, and all he could do was blink as he tried to stand up. Tried, being the opportune word, for as soon as the attempt was made, another blast wave knocked him back down.
He swore, not sure in which language, but the other man still nodded in agreement. Then he did something curious. He got down on a knee and started to pray. That was what it looked like to him anyway. But instead of his hands remaining steepled, they wove in and out of different positions in stunning a stunning choreographic display. But then the man stopped abruptly, clearly interrupting whatever it was he was about to do, and looked back at him.
Once again, the look was able to convey the message a thousand times better than the words, which none the less conveyed the utmost urgency. He was supposed to flee, or get back, or something. Anything, just so that he wasn't there.
But he found that despite the clear direction, he could not comply. That same obstinate streak that had caused his commander to order them to jump into certain demise must have infected him, and he was now determined to see whatever mess they had stumbled into until its bitter end. He shook his head in the negative (he hoped). The silver-haired man with mismatched-eyes just sighed and turned back to his task.
Without him noticing, they had been silently joined by a couple of others, none of them his own comrades. One was clad in bone-white armor and animal mask, revealing only oddly purple hair and the fact that she was a woman, as long as he could trust the way the armor clung to her svelte frame. The other was a man who stuck close by silver's left, distinguished predominantly by his square-set jaw and bowl-cut. He and the silver-haired man wore the same flak-vest, which looked more ceremonial than practical, thus probably signified some kind of rank.
Like with him, a look and a nod was all the three of them needed to confer the hastily made plan. He didn't have much time to admire their cohesiveness, however. As soon as that brief moment of conference was over, the two newcomers shot out in pursuit of the blond bomber while silver completed the rest of his strange ritual.
He himself prepared to offer whatever assistance he could, though he was very doubtful of the possibility.
Sure enough, he was not given a chance to offer them log-range support, as the man with the bowl-cut tried to engage his airborne opponent, oddly enough using only hand-to-hand combat. While his effort was stunning, it was just that, an effort, for none of his attacks hit home and the more agile enemy evaded the man by simply increasing his altitude.
But that was apparently what the three had expected, for in the moment that he lost the purple-haired masked woman, she reappeared behind and above the blond, poised for a finishing blow with a short sword clasped vindictively in her grasp.
He was so entrapped with awe that he missed his opportunity to do something useful. In the same moment the blow connected, the bomber dissolved into a pool of clay much like the plant-men had been doing. But unlike them he reappeared well enough away that he would have had a clear shot. But before he could do so, the clay clone exploded, consuming the masked woman in a fiery blaze.
Her body dropped like a stone to the ground, and he was torn between watching that and the equally awe-inspiring sight of a spatial rift like a vortex in time opening up at the behest of the silver-man's gaze. For a second, though, the tides had shifted. The blond man seemed well and truly surprised at being captured in the vortex's inescapable gravity, and the eccentric man with the bowl-cut seemed well poised to rescue his downed comrade.
But like all battles, a second was all it took for it to shift again.
As the feminine-looking blond made one final grasp at a handhold that was not there, he gained a vengeful smirk, which turned into the twisted smile of one of the plant-men.
Then the shit hit the fan.
Everything was consumed in a blinding white, and this time the ear protection couldn't hold out the entirety of the blast. Both he and the silver-haired man were blown off their feet in an instant, and once again, he gained that strange but sensual feeling of being weightless. How many times was that that day? Why did the most blissful feelings come at the edge of certain death? Hardly seemed fair.
He should have been happy that it still hurt when he impacted and skidded against the ground. As long as he could still feel, he was still alive. For now. For one second more.
Incredibly, he seemed to be the first back on his feet, or at least the first with his head off the ground. He could feel the ceramic plate in front shift around inside their Kevlar housing, clearly shattered. It had taken the blow for his lungs, which were still struggling to re-inflate.
But even on his knees, even with the wind knocked out of him, even with his rifle blown god-knew where, he still made the effort to get his feet underneath him. He didn't know why. It was just one of those little mysteries in life. Like why he enlisted in the first place. What had he been seeking? What did he think he was missing in his life? At the moment, life was the most precious commodity for him, regardless of how much mundanity permeated it. He really had no other justification/
Fuck it. He just wanted to wipe the smile off that guy's face. In an endless struggle against emotionless clones, he sought the familiarity of pain and desperation. And for once, he wanted someone else to feel it.
It was like he was watching a movie. Until he realized that it was himself, clad in camouflage fatigues long since faced past any discernable pattern, leather boots stomping the churned earth as he ran like a quarterback from those American football games in and out of explosions, helmeted head ducked low so that he could only see his next step.
He wouldn't have minded paying to see this movie, if only he knew it had a happy ending. But given the fact that he was watching it from an outside perspective, he supposed that he was already dead, and his body just didn't know it yet.
High above him, the psychotic cripple was busy doing something, amassing yet another wad of plastic explosive. Bigger yet than any he had used thus far. If only he had some popcorn, this was getting good.
The armored soldier tripped. No, he threw himself against the ground, over the still body of the purple-haired woman. But the bomb had already dropped, the clay detonated high above the ground and their entire battleground, and further even, was consumed in one massive event of such intensity that even in his omniscient vantage he could no longer look.
Which of course was when life decided that he had enough of a break, and he found himself back in is corpse of a body. He still must have been slightly out of place, though, because everything was numb, and things were still moving without his control.
He could no more control his hand reaching down to his thigh for the nickel-plated revolver that rested there, than he could halt the wisps of smoke parting above the two of them, revealing the smirking face of the blond man high above in the blue sky turning inexorably to dusk.
Though he relished in the sudden expression of dismay and incredulity which shifted onto the man's face, apparent through the crosshairs, he couldn't help but feel a slight amount of regret as his finger squeezed against the long double-action pull of the trigger.
He wanted to feel something when he took the man's life.
But alas, he did not. He did not feel anything, even as he clearly saw the man's jaw jerk back, and the body summersault backwards off of his dissolving mount. Nothing, as he scooped up the limp body at his feet. Nothing as he shuffled slowly and carefully over the uneven ground back to where the man with the bowl-cut was checking up on the silver-haired man. Nothing, as the limp body was taken from him, and he fell to his knees.
He realized that he could not hear, nor see that clearly either. His hands found the plastic buckle of his chinstrap, fumbled and finally released it. He threw the whole unit, ruined electronic eyepiece and all as far away as he could, not expecting and no longer caring if he would have to pay for its loss. He grabbed a fistful of cloth on the top of his head and ripped off his sweat-soaked mask, gasping for breath that was still reluctant to come.
The armor. It was still constricting him, and he suddenly felt claustrophobic in its now useless embrace. He hurried going through the motions trying to release his body from the cumbersome unit, only realizing that he was still wearing the rest of the FELIN system on his back, and in its Jerry-rigged state he was trapped until he ditched that too.
He was all too happy to do so, but right before he tossed the electronic hunk of slag away, he heard audible crackles coming from the back-up headset. Words. Sentences. Again, in an incomprehensible foreign language.
No, not quite. Not unintelligible, just mired in static. Not foreign, at least, not entirely.
His high-school English lessons came back to him in a startling moment of clarity as he put the transceiver up to his ear.
"….anyone….read me? Repeat…. Is anyone alive down there?"
He could have wept. It seems that someone had called it in. And there had been a response. Air support, thank god, was apparently already here. If they could just get one bomber to do a run, one fighter to strafe the ground, they had a chance to change the tide of the whole battle.
It probably hadn't even occurred to anyone until that point. The battle that they had been fighting had been so unlike anything they had trained for. Unlike anything anyone had trained for in hundreds of years. All the combatants were out in the open, ripe targets for modern aircraft, and here they were slogging it out within arm's reach of the enemy.
He hastily tried to reestablish the connection with the aircraft. He was lucky.
Doubly so. Apparently the ones who had been watching them had been especially spooked when they sent out a distress signal and then had gone silent. Their response had been as through as it had been immediate. Whatever it was the emergency had said, they deemed it prudent to blast the treat to kingdom come and back again. At that very moment, there was a US B-1 bomber flying circles above their heads, armed with a single MOAB (4) in its bay, and looking for anything resembling a target.
He could pick out a few.
But there was one obvious one. The battle they had seen from the air was still going on, and if anything had waxed in magnitude. There was something massive, visible even from this distance, which stuck up above the hilly terrain. It was a statue, grotesque though it may have been. It was even uglier than the plant men, but more intriguing because of the intense movement that buzzed all around it.
He fumbled into one of the pockets hooked onto his half-undressed armor and pulled out his private pair of binoculars. One hand on them, one on the headset, he squinted through the lenses.
It was peculiar. He did not know what to make of the scene. One moment streaks of color where whipping to and froe in his compact lenses, the next they were at a standstill, and he could see the black and orange blurs for what they were. But despite the fact that he could see the two people clearly as they paused in their attempts to kill one another, he could no more understand what they were saying to one another as he could understand how these strange individuals did what they did.
He still had the bomber pilot yelling in his ear at his sudden lack of response, desperate for his own sense of clarity. He also realized that his strange allies were mired in their own conversation now, animatedly gesturing in the same direction he was focused. Unlike him, they seemed to be aware of what was going on, and were waiting on pins and needles. He tried taking another look so that he might see what they were so worked up about.
The two individuals were clearly distinct. Both visibly, as well as the attitudes that they managed to convey across the vast swaths of land which separated them from him. The vibrantly dressed one was little more than a kid, probably not too much younger than himself. The blond kid looked as bedraggled as he himself felt in that moment. But unlike him, there was a spark of determination in his eyes. A conviction that only one that belonged could possess. Only one of stalwart determination could hope to convey in this trying hour.
The other one gave him the creeps. He didn't need subtitles to figure out who the good-guys were in this instance.
Then they were back at it. Nigh-invisible blurs of speed conjuring attacks of such radiance that it hurt to look at, and that further altered the landscape that had taken millions of years to create.
The mutterings by his side climbed steadily, and he couldn't help but notice how they seemed worried. And it wasn't concern for their unconscious comrade whom he returned to them either, for she had already been bandaged and was resting off her recent effort. Both the Silver-haired man and his masculine friend were fixated on the same fight he was. And they were worried.
Which meant that he should be as well.
But what could he do? Was it his place to do anything? He was sure as hell wasn't even supposed to be here. But could he afford to not do anything? Could he blindly put his faith in people he had not even met to get them all out of this alive?
He couldn't think with the incessant voice crackling in his ear. Where was that helicopter? Where the hell were his comrades? Where were the superior officers? Where were the people who could make the decisions?
The fight was continuing to mount, and with it, the palpable tension. Though the battle continued to rage all around them, many more sets of eyes were now trained in the same spot. It was clear now as it was from the helicopter- there was the center of combat. There was where the battle would be decided.
"Hello? Please, anyone out there? Jesus, what the hell is going on? Are you still alive down there Frenchie? I can't reach anyone else. I've got to drop this thing or else I won't have enough fuel to return to base. For god's sake, someone give me a target! Let me know what the fuck to do!"
That, was a very good question.
Notes:
1. Le Boudin- one of the FFL's marching songs. One of their oldest and most famous. Literally translated, it means "the blood sausage". For those of you who have had blood sausage before, this isn't it. This is boudin, and my apologies to any connoisseurs out there, but it is nasty stuff. Give me Irish puddin any day.
2. In the lyrics of Le Boudin, the Legion recall most of their major battles. Most of which, they suffered some pretty heavy casualties resulting in defeat (except Kolwezi, which was a great success). But that doesn't matter to the Legion. They celebrate insurmountable odds. It's part of their charm.
3. Military organization is often horribly complex. ALAT is light aircraft which are operated by the army, not airforce. The FFL has some of its own integrated transport, but often times has to hitch a ride.
4. Yup. Mother of All Bombs. Just like on TV. These things have actually been around for the better part of a quarter of a century. They're not actually that expensive, given that they are mainly just conventional explosives. It was the development of them that cost so much. It only makes sense from an accounting point of view, but with each bomb they drop, they get cheaper.