I do not own Aliens.
Drake would have fought the worlds for Vasquez.
Too Bad
*racial slur used in context*
Yeah, he loved her, sure.
But it wasn't that sappy, whiny, dumbshit love people would have wanted to assume if they had known.
Fuck no.
She was the toughest, most badass, most uncompromising individual he'd ever known in his life.
Jenette Lucretia Vasquez.
She was lonsdaleite.
Tougher than diamond, tougher than iron, tougher than granite or steel or anything else on any planet in any solar system in any galaxy, cosmos, or universe.
They'd met in juvie.
Him into petty theft, corner store robbery, wanting to get out of the ghetto, line his pockets.
Her aggravated assault against her foster father.
He'd touched her. She'd retialiated.
He now needed a special apparatus to breathe.
She got sent to juvie.
Drake figured the bastard'd got off easy.
And she . . .
"Don't turn your back on them."
. . . was right there in a moment he desperately needed someone to have his back.
Tall, scrawny red-haired kid. Scared to death trying (and failing) to look tough.
Little black-haired spic with hate in her hard, dark eyes.
"They'll popsicle you 'til you choke on it."
Shard of metal passing from her hand to his.
"Get caught with that, don't tell anyone I gave it to you or I'll popsicle you myself, pendejo."
And they had attacked, a whole group of them, all of them older than him, bigger and tougher.
In a pack.
Like wolves.
And he had struck out, he had fought back, one guy had lost a ball.
And Drake himself had been sliced a crescent from the corner of his left eye halfway to his ear.
And he'd never spoken, written, blinked, sign languaged, or any and otherwise hinted whatsoever at who had supplied him with the shiv they'd pried out of his bloody hand when the orderlies had finally separated the brawlers and taken him down.
Not even when they cut his rations and stuck him in The Hot Box for three days . . .
"Gonna have to work on that sneer now. Gotta have a good sneer to go with a scar like that."
"I'll just copy you, J."
"That's Vasquez to you, Drake."
"You got it."
. . . as 'persuasion'.
And then things had gone back to normal . . .
"Hey, man, they're signin' up kids for the United States Colonial Marines!"
"I don't want to be in the fuckin' marines!"
"You do if you want to get out of this shithole!"
. . . for a while.
"Now come on!"
And he'd followed right on her heels to the signup table.
Scratched out his name.
And followed every order he had been given from boot camp . . .
". . . -op and give me twenty!"
. . . to squad assignment . . .
". . . up, up, up, let's go, ladies-"
. . . to specialized advanced M56 Smart Gun training.
" . . . pulse rifle . . ."
" . . . ten millimeter explosive-tip caseless . . ."
" . . . slam it in fast . . ."
All the way to . . .
". . . glorious day in the Corps! I love the Corps!"
. . . Sargent Apone's Second Battalion Bravo Team aboard the USS Sulaco.
They ate together, showered together, trained together, kicked ass together.
He never once was able to beat her at pull-ups.
She never once let him forget it.
And they fought together, would fight together.
Until the . . .
". . . bitter fucking end, pendajo. And don't you forget it."
So yeah, he loved her.
He respected her.
But Private First Class Colonial Marine Mark Drake, ID number A23/TQ2.0.47619E7, sure as shit . . .
"You are just too bad."
. . . wasn't going to say shit . . .
Ouch.
Woman.
. . . about it.
These two.
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