Earth-717: Spider-Man Vol 2
Chapter 2: Mercy Killing
War changes a person.
A drone flies over my head. It wasn't today's first. It won't be today's last. Today. A weird word to use. What does today mean when all the days are the same, when they all meld into soup? Don't know what time it is. Forgot what time zone we're in, what time it is stateside. But the sun's real high, so I guess people back home are asleep.
Home. Another weird word. Isn't home where you live? I haven't lived there in years. The battlefield is my home now. Where I've done most of my "living", if you can call it that. I don't know if I live, but I trade in lives. Lives of friendlies. Lives of enemies. You save enough friendlies, you kill enough enemies, and maybe you get to live a little longer.
Because that's the battlefield. Bullets, grenades, knives, missiles, tanks, rifles, planes, drones. They're just the means. The exchange rate we use for blood. Blood's the real currency, what we place on the scales to figure out who wins. Win. That's what we were here to do, right? Win? I think so, but I'm not sure. It wasn't to lose, but I don't know if it was to win either.
Winning suggests it was going to end, but I don't know if this war was designed to end. If anything, it seems the longer it goes on, the more it's a success. We crushed the enemy, we captured the base, assassinated the leader. But there's always another faction, another foxhole. I forgot who we're supposed to be killing. All I know is we're not the fighting the same people we were at the start. I don't know what that means.
An explosion goes off near me. Land mine, I think. Shredded some people. Or maybe it destroyed a tank. Somebody's day was just ruined. I don't check the explosions anymore. They happen either way, and they never seem to matter. They're like set dressing. Every half hour, an explosion goes off. It doesn't change anything. It just is. Like the fleas that pile on the bodies. A fact of the battlefield. A fact of life.
Another fact: I don't think the people in charge care what happens here. I know they don't read the reports. They take them, but they don't read them. They don't want to see the lists, the statistics, the names. It's gone on so long, they've gotten exhausted. Funny, they should ask us how tired we are. I don't even know what year it is.
Year. I've been here longer than that. What's it been? Three? Four? Four years? I don't know. Double it? It hasn't been eight. I know that. But it's hard to keep track. It's the goddamn sun here. It tears into your skin, burrows its way through your skull. Can't focus on anything for too long. Everything aches. Itches. Burns. It always screws with my timekeeping.
Through the window, I see a lizard scurrying. Just trying to cross the dirt road, get out of the way of the fighting. Probably trying to find food. Food. I remember food. Not these piece of shit ration packs they give us. Or those damn protein bars. Real food. Meals. Something that someone cooked, someone put care into. Honest to god, I'd take junk food. Kraft Dinner. I'd chop my hand off for anything that wasn't military issue.
I killed three people today. All with bullets. Or was it yesterday? The day before? I killed other people then, so maybe it's more? I forgot. Lost track. I know I used my pistol. The big one. I remember the first time I fired it on the practice range. Nearly broke my arm. Stopping power. That's what the quartermaster said. "That one's great for stopping power." Yeah, it stopped their hearts, alright.
I duck my head. Can hear someone in the building. More than one. On the floor above me. Walking around, slowly. Methodically. They're looking for something. What are they looking for? For me? No. I don't think so. This is our building. Enemies would come from below, right? It's our guys. My guys. My . . . . what would you call them?
Friends? Comrades? Allies?
I don't know. I think you should know someone's name to call them a friend. I don't know anyone's name here.
Ugh, the sun. Always the sun. Gets right in my eyes sometimes. Even when it's not, it beats you. Blinds you. Can't think straight. The words get jumbled in my head. Feel like I can't breathe. Can't even see. Colours, shapes, nothing's ever clear anymore. Every piece of this place is oppressive, like a poison under your skin that corrodes everything you are.
Breathe. That's the important thing. Air flow. Always need air flow. I stop trying to think, and I just try to breathe. Oxygen tastes so good when you've been forgetting to breathe.
They're coming back to me now. The faces. People I used to work with. Still work with? Maybe? I don't know. Some of them are dead. Some of them, I'm not sure. They could be alive. The names are gone. I know I won't get those back. But I'll get some of the faces. If I can remember the faces, then maybe they're not completely gone. If they're not gone, maybe they can forgive.
Some of them are bodies I've burned. Some of them we lost, and never found again. Jaws blown off by grenades. Ribs punctured by sniper rounds. Splattered chunks of blood on a wall, all that's left of some people after one of the aerial raids. But it doesn't hit me anymore, it doesn't hurt as bad. You see death everyday and it stops being special. At that point, it's all just routine.
War has become routine.
That's why I had to get out. I asked for a discharge. They said I was fit for service, so I don't get one. Weren't we getting paid for this? I think that was true, once. Don't know where I'm supposed to cash a cheque when all the buildings around me are half blown to bits. So I called someone else. Guy I met out here. I don't even remember his name now.
He was a nice guy. Well, maybe not. Nice isn't the right word. Nobody who lives like this is nice. But he talked to me. Shared some of his food. We got patrol duty together. Think he was a special operative or something. Wasn't part of the normal unit. We did it a couple times when no one was looking. Wasn't even fun. Nothing's fun in this heat. But for a few minutes, it was an escape, I guess.
One day he got called away. Was a while back. Left me his number. Don't remember what reason he gave. Don't care. It was a chance. I called. Told him I needed out. Told him I'd do anything to get out. Told him I might have already done it. He didn't even sound surprised. Just said to sit tight, and he'd come get me. He promised he'd come get me.
I breathe again. I hold my rifle tighter, press my back against the wall. I hear more footsteps. They're right upstairs. I heard one of them say my name.
They know. They know what I did.
Please. Come soon.
I don't want war to change me anymore.
"Now!"
Sharon Carter held her pistol at the ready as the tactical unit tossed a flashbang into the room. They burst through the door a second later, and were met by a torrent of bullets. Two of the squad were cut down before the target leaped through the already shattered window. Sharon tried to shoot her in the legs, but her shots missed.
"Gargan!"
Mercy Gargan landed on the roof of the next building over, rolled into a crouching position and aimed her rifle back at her assailants. Sharon barely got any time to visually confirm it was even her before she saw Mercy aiming her rifle's underbelly grenade launcher right at her.
"GET DOWN!"
Sharon tackled one of the soldiers to the ground as Mercy's grenade blasted into the back wall, sending chunks of concrete all over the place. Sharon wasn't struck by any of them, having used the doorway for cover. She hurriedly tapped her earpiece.
"Chopper One, she's moving northwest! You're up!"
"Copy. We're on her."
Sharon got to her feet and stumbled back into the room. The rest of her squad were picking themselves off the floor. Turning to the side, Sharon saw what was left of the hostages they were sent to rescue. Eaglestar International was a private military corporation hired by the United States government, and their top three commanders stationed in Afghanistan were present, all of them tied to chairs and with their faces blown off by magnum shots.
"Great," said Sharon.
Mercy was already sprinting through the town at top speed, with the helicopter hovering overhead, trying to get a decent view of her. She had cuts, bruises, burns, dirt and grime all over her, but none of that fazed her as she tore between the various structures. Her advantage was knowing this area by heart. The people sent to hunt her didn't.
There were other squads in the area, deployed to try and box her in. Soon she was being pursued by multiple ground units, all while the helicopter stayed on her tail. She unloaded the rest of her rifle clip to buy her enough cover to get from one side of a road to the other. Tossing down her rifle, she pulled out her compact combat shotgun as she mentally processed the layout of the building. Every entry point was a threat, but she was a greater one.
Mercy was a whirlwind taking the floor, pumping shotgun blasts into two more attackers before pinning a third against the wall by shoving her weapon under the man's throat. Whipping out her knife, she stabbed him in the side before knocking him to the ground and sprinting down another hallway. She heard screaming coming from outside. Civilians fleeing the area, she supposed.
It doesn't matter. Keep moving. That was all she kept telling herself. The helicopter was the problem. She could fight it out with foot soldiers all day. But the helicopter razed down the rooms with its minigun, and she had to stay ahead of it. She knew they weren't going to take her alive, not after they found her hostages already murdered. Maybe she'd make it out, maybe she wouldn't.
Truthfully, part of her didn't care if she died here, which was the most liberating thought of all.
At least she'd finally be done with this place.
Or so she thought, when suddenly Sharon broke through a doorway at Mercy's side and body slammed her into a wall. Mercy didn't know Sharon's name, but she'd met enough commanding officers to know she was in charge of whatever operation was going on here. Sharon launched into a string of physical strikes, trying to overpower Mercy with finesse and advanced CQC training.
But Mercy was no pushover at hand-to-hand either. Even taken by surprise, Mercy was able to transition smoothly into defensive moves, and her musculature was bulkier than Sharon's. Not great for speed, but Mercy could pulverize Sharon with a couple well placed blows, and Sharon knew it, which left the agent to act more cautiously than she would have.
Or should have. Mercy took advantage of Sharon's slower assault to grab her around her right elbow, before spinning around and heaving her against the nearby wall. Mercy followed up with a punch to the chest, sending Sharon through the drywall and into the next room. She knew it wasn't a fatal strike, but it would slow her down long enough for Mercy to escape. So she ran.
More bullets. More screams. More running. The helicopter was this ominous force determined to bury her. They started using missiles, blowing apart whole sections of the town to try to eliminate one target. Hellfire protocol. Just kill the enemy, no matter what you need to do. Fitting, she spent years doing that to others, that she'd end with it being done to her.
But as she slid behind a fallen pillar at the edge of a town square, the helicopter swerved overhead so it had the right angle on her. She sighed with resignation as the pilot locked a missile on her position. She was sitting on the ground, magnum in hand, her tactical suit covered in ash and caked blood. She didn't know what day it was, but it was a good day to die.
She closed her eyes, her soul ready to swept into the sea.
Then the helicopter exploded.
Twin missiles from an unseen vehicle smashed into the side of the chopper, blasting its flaming carcass out of the sky. Mercy's eyes burst open as a type of jet she'd never seen before soared above her, before spinning around and lowering to the ground. It looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. The jet landed with its back to her, and the loading ramp opened to reveal the man she was waiting for.
"Come on!"
So she wasn't dying today after all.
Mercy leaped to her feet and ran towards the jet. Sharon and some of her cohorts turned into the town square, but the man, who was wearing a black combat suit with a white X across his chest and facemask, returned fire with a handheld LMG. He provided cover long enough for Mercy to scramble aboard, and then smashed his fist against the button that pulled up the ramp.
"We're clear!" he shouted. "Let's go!"
The jet lifted off and raced back into the air. Mercy coughed up a mixture of blood and bile, her stomach unfurled by the upwards movement. The man placed his weapons against the side wall before returning to Mercy's side. He massaged her back as she vomited on the floor.
"Augh . . . . ugh . . . . I, uh, I'm sorry."
"It's alright," he said. "Get it out."
"You came," she said, finally breathing normally. "You came for me."
"Told you I'd get you out. I keep my word."
"Thank you . . . ."
Mercy's knees buckled, and she collapsed against his frame. He held her for a few seconds, keeping her stable until she could regain her footing. They sat down together on a bench at the side of the cargo hold. Mercy took a moment to marvel at the jet she was in.
"Where'd you . . . . where'd you get this?"
"Friends in high places. Doesn't matter. You're going home, then I gotta get back to work."
"What kind of work?"
"Can't tell you. If you get in something serious, you can call, but I gotta stay low profile for a while. I'd suggest you do the same. Now get some sleep. I can tell you need it."
Mercy nodded, and laid down on the bench. Brock Rumlow rubbed her arm for a minute, and once she was unconscious, he got up and returned to the cockpit. Mercy Gargan slept the entire jet ride back to the States, finally resting for the first time in years.