Right. For those of you high on happiness or something because of today's special occasion, I'd recommend reading this another day. It is a massive angst burger even though it is relatively short - I felt that the chapter's transitory length is necessary.
Happy (or sad) reading. Additionally, a homage to a very, very brilliant movie near the end.
Chapter 29: One For the Team
An Umbreon grunted and blearily opened his eyes before vigorously rubbing them. He hadn't noticed that he nodded off, and he berated himself for doing so. Relaxed actions like that could get him killed in combat.
Half-awake, Shadrach looked around the large tent he had dozed off in. Medical cots lined both sides of the olive green drapery, some containing some injured individuals and others empty, white sheets showing not a hint of disturbance. The two cots before him each held an Ampharos and a Leafeon. Both breathed in and out normally despite their heavy injuries, the former a bit more quickly.
Shadrach turned to the sound of a low sigh. Din sat on a chair next to him, staring at his bedridden brother. Earlier, Levina had awoken for a moment to complain about how she hurt all over, but Jul showed no similar signs of life. He laid as immobile as he was when they had first recovered him after the crash. This small fact caused the Umbreon to worry not only his health, but the squad's as well. If Jul was to be taken out, they would only be left with five of their original nine. No, not five... he thought, three, since Siria and I are leaving for HTR. Chances were that the remnants were going to be merged into another squad, which was a shame because of the loss of unit cohesion. But perhaps they would be able to pull it off...
A warm wind cut through the cold draft the mountain climate pushed through the tent. A medic Infernape, head flame glowing brightly, walked alongside a dreary-looking Garchomp, showing her several papers and documents. Nuwai seemed to give them a brief glance before shaking her head and turning away.
"So," he said to Shadrach, looking down once again at his folder before raising her eyes back up at him, "I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?"
Always the realist, the Umbreon quickly said, "The bad news."
"Well..." the medic trailed off forlornly. Nuwai sighed, giving much evidence to what Shadrach had thought prior.
"The Leafeon - Jul - he's... bedridden."
Din emitted a short hiccup. "Bedridden?" he asked, not making eye contact with the fire-type.
"That is..." The Infernape paused to search for a euphemism, but could produce none. "Comatose."
The clatter of metal sounded through the entire medical ward as the Vaporeon stood up furiously, knocking down his chair. His fists were clenched tightly, the whites of his bones showing clearly through his knuckles. His face was lowered so that none could see, but Shadrach noted a few tears trailing down Din's cheeks. "You mean to tell me," he choked, anguish crystal clear in his voice, "that my brother is... is in a coma. Unconscious. Not living."
"He's living," the medic said, hasty to correct any possible misconceptions. "Tomorrow we're transporting him back to FOB Archer's medical wards to give him some proper treatment. We don't know if we can revive him, but-"
Both the Infernape and Nuwai were crudely shoved aside as Din charged through them, running outside in what Shadrach assumed to be a fit of either anguish or anger.
"... there's a good chance that we could," the fire-type lamely finished. He looked at Shadrach apologetically. "But the good news is-"
A yellow hand grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him down to the face of its owner. "What the fuck were you thinking?" Levina hissed, one eye open in a slit. The other was bandaged shut, affected by major bruising from the crash. "Why would you tell him that he was in a coma? Why? He's a damn loose cannon bent on depression, and you're telling him that he might never talk to his brother again?"
"Not... didn't... know," the Infernape weakly responded, airpipe severely restricted by Levina's gesture. When she let him go, he jerked up, coughing and gagging. "Sorry. I didn't know, but it's the truth. I didn't go into this profession to lie to patients, and I definitely won't do it to a soldier, no less."
The Ampharos was ready to throw a barrage of insults at the leaving medic, but Shadrach quickly cut her off. "I guess the good news is that you're awake and well," he said with a soft smile.
She snorted. "As if. And hey, aren't you going to go after him?"
He shook his head. "I won't. If he's unable to handle continuous death, then he doesn't deserve a spot on the squad. Sorry, Nuwai," he said as she balked, "But I'd thought that you, out of all of us, would know by now that Special Forces is a high-casualty service. If you wish to go after him, you may, but I will probably not admit him back on. I can handle some emotion-" He threw an askance glance at the bedridden Ampharos, who promptly rolled her visible eye "- but outbursts are intolerable. A night of crying, yes, a few drinks, certainly, but anything else makes the soldier inoperable and susceptible to decisions based on faulty logic."
The Garchomp's expression was crossed between sympathetic understanding and obvious disgust, but she did nothing but upright the chair that Din had toppled over and sit down on it, staring at the beds just like the Vaporeon had done earlier.
Siria took an idle bite out of her cereal, watching as her father attempted to fill a glass of water from the faucet with only one hand. She offered nothing but the faintest hopes that he wouldn't screw anything up or do something stupid.
Rather, she was perplexed, and rightfully so. She had watched as her father worked his way around the apartment since he had awoken, performing his normal morning rituals sans preparing for work. It was surprising to her that he had managed to fully clothe himself despite his lack of a functioning arm, and even more so when he insisted on doing everything alone without her help. The Latias had already diffused the why of the matter; although he denied it vehemently, her father was a very prideful dragon, and would not let something as trivial as a mangled arm interrupt his day-to-day duties.
Now, as she took a thoughtful bite, she had to admit that despite her immense disapproval of her father, he was someone who she could actually respect. But that feeling disappeared as soon as she entertained the notion that the only reason he worked independently was because he wished to avoid her. What replaced her admiration was nothing other than a burning guilt as she realized just how traitorous her thoughts could be if she cared to look at them objectively. It seemed just... wrong.
Not wrong, she told herself bitterly, staring at the Latios approaching. I have every right to feel the way I do.
Siria said nothing as her father sat down at the table. He drank water, wincing slightly as his left arm rubbed slightly against the wooden surface. This small detail did not escape her gaze, which had somehow repositioned itself so it rested on anything but the face before her. She tried raising it so that she could meet him squarely in the eye, but the closest she got was up to the hand curled around the drinking glass. Suddenly feeling flustered, she simply preoccupied herself with another mouthful of cereal and a thought on anything but what sat before her.
Silence reigned at the table, interspersed with only the occasional munching or subdued sip. Siria could feel the Latios staring at her, but she didn't dare look up to confirm her theory. Then she'd actually have to meet him eye to eye, and she had no idea what'd she do then. Sneer, glare in anger, snort in derision? Or perhaps...
Sensing her father's mouth beginning to open, she immediately stood up and took her bowl to the sink. It was doubtful that whatever would come out of his mouth would be good, and even if it was, she couldn't care enough to lend an ear to him, of all 'mon.
It was thus to her pleasure when she turned on the water in time to render whatever the Latios muttered inaudible. She washed and rinsed the bowl quickly, taking care to place it on the rack and stalk off to her room without giving a single glance at the 'mon she left behind. She could feel the same questioning eyes drilling into her back as she turned left into her room.
An exasperated sigh followed the slight squeaking of bedsprings as she rubbed a wing, glaring up at the ceiling in staunch silence. She felt a strange mix of emotions running through her, all swirling and colliding and creating whatever mess that composed her exterior state at the moment. She didn't even have to take a second to consider whether she would rather be relaxing here or going outbound on a reconnaissance mission - she'd happily choose the latter.
Now that was something strangely terrifying. She would rather kill and risk life and limb than to live in a quiet, solitary apartment with her father.
"Maybe I do need a psychologist," she groaned out loud, drawing her legs in. At the same time, though, the Latias watched the door warily. It wouldn't do to have anyone see her in such a vulnerable state, and she was more than willing to put whoever was there in a three-day coma.
But what if it was your father? She grimaced at first, but then set her face firmly. She most definitely could, and would probably even relish the experience. Hell, there wasn't a reason she should have even hesitated on that; the answer was as plan as day-
She immediately jumped off the bed and crouched the sound of something shattering, slight electric energy forming around her hands. The hypersensitivity gained from years of performing operations made her ready to combat anything and everything that came her way - perhaps too ready, in that regard. In the military, the trait had been a lifesaver for more times than she could possibly count, but in the relaxed civilian life, it could indeed be a veritable boon.
Cautiously, Siria peeked out into the hallway to see a Latios stare back at her. Ceramic shards peppered the floor before him, leaving her little to wonder about.
Walking out, she grabbed a broom and pan from a rack on the wall and looked back at the mess. Little bright pieces of cereal decorated the shambled matrix. "Idiot," she declared, holding her nose up high as she walked past her father.
As she knelt down to sweep the mess up, Siria felt something take hold of the broom. "Let me clean this," the Latios behind her said firmly.
"No. You're in no condition to do anything right now."
"Just let me do it. I can handle it alone."
Siria didn't bother to look back. "With only one arm? Tell me how."
"I..." In an unusual show of weakness, he allowed his voice to peter out as he actually gave chase to the question. "I'll figure it out."
"Just let go. I'll clean it for you." The surprisingly iron grip would not release the broom as she tried to move it, though.
Now extremely aggravated, she swung her head to face him. "Look, I'm going to tell you-"
She halted as soon as she realized that she was looking her father square in the eye. Siria quickly readjusted her gaze, but that one second combined with her photographic memory all but forced her to see and understand every aspect of his face. The whites of his crimson eyes ran bloodshot, evidencing many nights of lack of sleep - strange, he didn't seem that way when she first saw him - and his face didn't glow an angry red as they normally did when he was extremely angry. In fact, he seemed to have an almost resigned expression.
Another strong tug left her grasping for the broom absent from her hand. Her father held it stoically, face not showing even a hint of emotion.
"Okay, yeah, you got the broom," she snapped at him. "How do you plan to sweep all this up into the garbage?"
"I was planning to sweep it into a corner and scoop it up with the dustpan."
"When I'm right here? No way."
"Please, let me do this alone."
She raised her head at the comment. There was a nearly pleading tone in his voice, which made her all the more resolved not to acquiesce to his wishes. "No. We are striking a compromise. I hold the dustpan; you sweep it in."
Her father glared daggers at her, but she evenly met her father's acerbic stare. Siria thought that he wouldn't do it at first, instead seeing him just stand there doing nothing, throwing the broom down in disgust and retiring to his room, or even trying to beat her with it. She tensed at the last thought; now, far more aged and built, she wouldn't even let him swing it down before incapacitating him.
It was to her utmost surprise when she saw the straw broom begin to sweep the jagged pieces into the pan. Her father had a contrite look on his face, one arm hanging limply at his side while the other busily moved the broom back and forth. Compared to the time they had spent bickering over the cleaning, it took only a fraction of a second for them to actually complete the task. The idea humored Siria, and she let a slight, foolish grin escape her before looking back at the Latios. Then, as she found him watching her, the smile slid back into a firmly set poker face.
"So..." he said slowly. Carefully, even, Siria noticed.
Seizing upon his hesitancy, she said with a strong note, "I'm going back to my room." And she did exactly that, flopping onto Sirius' bed face-down with a soft thump.
The next, however, she flipped over and scowled, punching out into the air. Why exactly she did what she did was a mystery far beyond her comprehension. She willingly helped that bastard out without even a second thought, and even went as far as to suggest that they work together to finish it up! Why the hell should she be helping him? Why did she feel obligated to? It didn't make any sense at all for her to be doing that!
Now she was certain that she would rather paratroop and fight her way out of hostile territory than stay here. I really, really need a psychologist, she thought, letting a sigh escape her.
... what was Alyssa's major again, anyways?
Siria struggled to remember; it regarded something in the medical field, she knew that for sure. Perhaps biomedical analysis, maybe restorative attack studies, possibly psycholog-
No other 'mon could have fumbled faster for her cell phone. She jammed the speed dial on the keypad and waited impatiently. The buzzing was maddening now, and she nearly exploded when she heard the click on the other line.
"Alyssa!" she exclaimed, overriding whatever form of "Hello?" the other could muster. "What major are you studying?"
She heard a flustered groanon the other line. "Hold on, Siria! I just got out of finals, and you're suddenly calling and yelling at me! And what? Major? Uhh, why would want to know that now?"
"No reason," the Latias expertly lied, staring up at the ceiling. "I was just curious."
"Well, you can't be curious for no reason," the voice huffed. "You and your 'curiosities' always pan out to be something else, you know... But anyways, biopsychology. Why?"
"Biopsych? When are you done with testing?" The Latias now sat upright, now exited by the prospect of finding someone she could talk at.
A slight pause. "Well, uhh... tomorrow is the last day, and then we get a few weeks off before next semester starts. When do you leave back for the military, anyways?"
"Three days."
"Hmm... how about right after testing? I need to wind down from all of those finals and stuff. How about that coffee shop near university grounds? I think you've been there before with us."
Siria nodded once even though she was fully conscious of the fact that the Dragonite could not see her. "The place we ate at on the tour? Where Sal and Noz got us thrown out?"
"Yes, that one!" She heard a giggle on the other side. "Though I don't think they'd, uh, remember you now, so I think it should be safe."
The Latias couldn't help but chuckle as well. "Right. So I'll meet you there then. Good luck on finals!"
"Thanks! See ya, Siria!"
With that the connection went dead. Siria tossed the cell phone out in front of her and sighed, head sinking slightly. She had to wait for a day and a half, huh? All of that time, waiting...
This time, a loud thud from the kitchen caught her attention. Probably not all waiting, she corrected as she got off the bed, slight grin overtaking her expression despite her unwillingness to actually do what she had to do.
Din stared at his rifle as he passed it back and forth before his paws. The slight light gleaming through the ventilation slits of the portable toilet caused the barrel to cast off a dangerous, metallic gleam, reminding him for the hundredth time of its terrible ability to kill and maim anything staring down its business end.
Of course, during his weeks with the Special Forces unit, he had learned more about the force of death that he could have even guessed at for the vast majority of life. Looking back, the mere idea that he had been a optimistic, happy individual was farcical and borderline laughable. What was there to be happy about, with all of the killing and dying surrounding them?
It was not as if he was foreign to the concept of dying - when he had been a Resistance Movement member, he had seen many 'mon come back limbless or lifeless, depending on the severity of the mission. He had cried once, probably twice, over the deaths of a few friends. However, during his entire stay in the icy mountains of the Drakes, he had never seen anything like what he had in the past few weeks.
First was that Arceus-damned extraction mission of two of their (Halcyia their, not RM their, he thought) troops, only to be confronted by a ludicrous, startling scenario involving a completely homicidal, deformed Skarmory altered by a chemical injection of some sort. The thing looked like a cross between the normal and the traditional, non-morphic Skarmory of legend his parents had told him about. Regardless, it jarred him to see it attack and blow them away as if they were nothing; the fact that his equally homicidal brother almost died facing it down was equally horrifying. Then came some weapon that seemed quite similar to Arceus' Judgment came streaking down at who knows how fast and obliterating anything and everything before him. It was absolutely terrifying; he hadn't known that such a thing even existed. In fact, the entire night had been an eye-opener for him, perhaps a warning shot as to what exactly he would be dealing with in the future.
And what a future that was. He had fought down his shock and terror, instead replacing it with a calm temperament very characteristic of himself. He was glad he was asked to sit out the next mission because he would just be extra, unnecessary baggage for the trip. He didn't mind staying with Levina, though; despite the fact that she was rather snarly and snappish, he could tolerate her for the night. It would have been fine, except for when the helicopter returned with three individuals conspicuously absent.
He was first surprised that the Latios and Umbreon emerged somber looking, then startled to see a dead Lucario soon afterwards. The Vaporeon saw how the blood dripped off the long ears and onto the snow, staining it a fine, bright red. It took an immense amount of willpower not to go out and grab his lapels and shake him senseless to see if he was just faking, but the hole in the head all but deterred him from doing so. Instead, he had dropped his jaw and stared as they escorted the body to the on-site hospital, too nonplussed to follow. They had been good friends, very good friends; Din was saddened to have seen him gone before, but kept a stubborn, ardent hope that he was alive. He was then overjoyed to find that Ward had indeed survived, and was certain that he wouldn't die in war.
That belief was certainly shattered by that nerve-wracking image, but then, another different type of hope burgeoned within him: that Talal, the other he cared for, was still alive and well. So he went with the rest of the Special Forces units into the heart of the battle, saying nothing while Sirius and Levina bickered back and forth behind him. He wanted to tell them to just shut up and deal with their own losses - he contemplated his own in private, of course - but he couldn't summon the acerbity and willpower to do so, and merely remained quiet as the two stumbled upon a perhaps romantic awkwardness.
The hope persisted as he followed throughout the city, avoiding the mortar shells, the attacks from above, and of course, that mix-up when Nuwai unwittingly engaged them. Because Nuwai was a Garchomp, no less; Talal must be alive as well if she had maxed out her potential.
Then he saw the charred, blackened body.
Everything clicked then - that they had been placed under a tremendously strenuous situation, that someone had killed Talal, that Nuwai evolved because of the mental anguish and anger it put on her - and he, too, became upset. Very, very upset, to the point where he was five seconds away from punching that Umbreon's lights out. And what he said only infuriated him more because it made fucking sense.
It was certainly true that he shouldn't have been moping around in a hostile area. It was most definitely true that he shouldn't attract attention to their position. But dammit, he had emotions with breaking points, too, and at the point they went critical, the Umbreon wanted them suppressed down hard?
"Fuck!" he screamed, gripping the rifle hard. He slammed its stock down onto the plastic floor, facing the barrel towards his head. His paw moved down to settle on the trigger, but the Vaporeon knew that the safety was on. Still on.
Din realized that it was the breaking point for him. From thereon, he had little motivation to operate, and even less to live. Talal was the last true contact he had with the world of the past. They had shared provisions together both under the heat of fire and the coldness of isolation. They had together worked out complex solutions that few others would have dared attempted. Hell, they had even passed off the honor of taking care of Nuwai from infancy to maturity; they found her as an infant, both mother and father probably dead from insurgent attacks.
We few. We happy few. We band of brothers.
Bullshit.
Now all of that was gone. There was no one else to reflect upon those memories with, no one to laugh with, no one to talk to. All of that was in the past.
Originally, he had planned on continuing to live for both the sake of Nuwai and Jul, even though he wasn't sure if the latter was even someone he knew anymore. Although Jul was temporarily cured by the drug, he wasn't quite the Jul he had known before he had been abducted years and years back. But that didn't matter; as long as they were related by blood, he cared for him as much as he could.
But what he saw that night was far more brutal than anything he had previously imagined. The Nidoking was astoundingly powerful, as was that mysterious Typhlosion figure blazing through the entire village. He heard reports of a similar figure doing such things to Talal, but wouldn't believe the lies; it had to be the Nidoking, no one else. The Vaporeon was then gravely insulted when his own squadmates would not even allow him to exact proper justice for what the Tamsus leader had done to Talal and Ward, and even more so when the Halcyians actually worked in tandem with the traitor to get home free.
Then came the crash. He was miraculously unhurt, with only minor cuts and bruises marring his body. Jul was a different case, though; he was unconscious and utterly destroyed. But Din was confident that it was only a temporary state; that he would be alive and kicking in not even a day or so. The Halcyians were good at helping their own, right?
Right. Because Jul was now in a coma and good as dead to him. That was just fucking perfect. The only one he knew left was Nuwai, and judging from how things were going, it wouldn't be long before she got killed too.
He didn't want to see that. He already saw almost his entire squad eliminated, and he didn't want to see the last go. He didn't want to be a survivor. He didn't want to be left standing. He didn't want to be alone...
His pensive thought was jarred by a pounding on the door. "Din! Are you in there?" a young voice asked. Nuwai, he immediately recognized. The Vaporeon gave the rifle a closer inspection before flipping the safety off with a strike of the paw. It flipped back fluidly, perfectly, just like how his death would be in a few moments.
"Let me do it," a slightly deeper tone said. Din heard a slight slash on the door before it swung open, yielding a Garchomp, Umbreon, and an Ampharos.
"Arceus!" Levina yelled, pacing back slightly. He saw that she was still heavily bandaged, but her fierce glare shone through nonetheless. "Din, put that shit down! Now!"
He smirked at them. "It's not even loaded," he said simply before reaching back into a pocket. He pulled out a magazine and stared at it for a moment. Thirty rounds, full metal jacket. With a sharp chk, he jammed it into the magazine well and released the bolt.
That was enough of a mandate for Shadrach to surge forward and try to wrest the rifle from the Vaporeon. Din's reaction was quicker, though; he turned the stock upwards and thrust it into the Umbreon's chest, sending him sprawling out onto the snow. He then protected against one of Levina's angry Thunderbolts, roughly setting the rifle down and shoving the steel barrel into his mouth.
As he finally resolved to do what he had desired to for quite a while, Din cast a final gaze out at the scene before him. Shadrach rose up out of the snow, a calm anger radiating off his face, Levina, determined, prepared to launch another attack, and Nuwai...
His eyes rested on the Garchomp's pleading, teary expression. Half of him wanted to throw down the rifle, to rush out and hug her. But he knew that she and he, too, were both bound for death, and he would rather not have her see whatever grisly fate would befall him. No, a simple shot to the head would be far, far more simple and peaceful.
"Sorry," he whispered before depressing the trigger.
To the soldiers' collective terror, Din's head exploded in a brilliant crimson shower, splattering the plastic wall behind him with both blood and memories long past.
So, uh, Happy Valentines?