Category: Gen.
Setting: S1
Character/Pairings: Jake Green
Ratings/Warnings: T, dark themes
Summary: Jake Green wasn't a soldier, just a screw up from a small town.
Note:I know that Jake's relationship with Ravenwood is iffy and unclear, but since the show doesn't go into detail but does insinuate that he was with Ravenwood at Saffa, then I figure he had to be with them for at least a little while before. If I'm completely off, please let me know. I'm still learning, but look forward to learning more and becoming involved in this fandom!
Disclaimer: Jericho nor the characters belong to me.
Not a Soldier
Jake Green wasn't a soldier, but he knew his way around a battlefield. He didn't go to military school or joint ROTC, but he had a mind for strategy and tactics. The dog tags he wore had seen combat, but they weren't military. They were a reminder that he wasn't a soldier, even though most people believed they meant the opposite. He had never served his country, but he had served a company. He had carried a gun, but it hadn't been used for defense. He'd worn a uniform, but it held no honor.
He was no soldier, just a failed mercenary. He had gone where soldiers had gone, followed in their footsteps, but he could never stand beside them. While they served for freedom, he served for death. He had been to Iraq and to Afghanistan. He had seen things he could never un-see, done things he could never undo. Those things haunted him every moment. They were the reasons he couldn't sleep, could barely live.
How many lives had he helped to take during his time with Ravenwood? He was just the driver, but they had to get there somehow. Without him, Ravenwood would never have seen any other villages. He had heard rumors that there were rogue elements going off on their own, that innocents were killed, but he never witnessed anything. He just kept his head down, did his job, and carried on with his life.
Until that day in Saffa, when he followed the people who ambushed their convoy, who killed his friends. None of them were trained or had been in a fight before. They just did what came natural, and he pulled the trigger. He saw them, men and women running for their lives, and that little girl. He kneeled over her as she was dying, his bullet in her chest, her blood staining the sand as he desperately tried to slow the bleeding. She died looking her murderer in the eyes, three other innocents dead on the streets they grew up on.
And he ran. He ran to San Diego, ran to Jericho where he could run no more. No one knew who he had become. To them he was still the same screw up who could never grow up. Then he became the hero who risked his life over and over again for them. To them, he was their own personal soldier, and sure, he had the experience of one. But he was no soldier. He could never bear that honorable name.
No, he wasn't a soldier. He was just a screw up with blood on his hands. And that he could never wipe away. No matter how hard he tried.