She readied herself at the doorway, like a soldier about to throw themselves into the breach. This was a place of competition, one that forged the backbone of the Victorian Army- their officer corp- a place where Tower squires were chosen
Whoever her bunkmate was going to be… would have to have that same intensive drive, right? Once their positions in class were going to being contested, she'd have to be on guard-
The door flung open to a young woman; red-haired, red-feathered Liberi, freckles across the bridge of her nose, hair tied to a beautiful woven braid, dressed in the same uniform as Shae yet somehow more radiant than she.
"What're you standing outside for?" the Liberi girl smiled, gesturing for Shae to come in. "You're my bunkmate, right?"
"Y-Yes."
"Fianna Salet!" the Liberi held her hand like that of a noblewoman, "A pleasure to meet you, bunkmate! Here's to many years of friendship!"
Yes.
Here was to many years of friendship- not that Shae ever knew what a "friend" was until that day. Three and a half years- certainly the many years Fianna promised, hopefully many more.
Many years...
At least until Shae cocked it all up.
She weighs the metal in her hand- about two-and-a-half pounds by the feel. Inert, chunky, solid steel- not that much different than a defensive offhand. Sits high in her grip, its profile curving aggressively forward. Most of the weight came from a steel cylinder that held six rounds, and when she depresses the lever by her thumb, there's enough weight there to make the front-end drop down when it breaks open.
Dirk hands her a few bullets that she deftly loads in the empty chambers.
"Give it a try then." Dirk grins, stepping aside on the range to give Fangs some space. The action is vastly different from her rifle, but it's still the slow, purposeful connection of Arts-to-bullet with the pulling back of the pistol's hammer and cycling of the cylinder. Heavy trigger pull only helps her focus; she doesn't have to think or concentrate the circuit repeatedly like an automatic or semi-automatic.
"I like it." Fangs says with a smile- an honest smile at that.
And then she swaps it to her off-hand. Gives Dirk a bit of confusion, but he doesn't say anything as she lines it up all the same. Arts connection as the hammer drops, circuit completed, and the firearm goes off.
Her shot hits wide and to the left of the target steel.
"That's why we practice." Dirk shrugs, eyeing how she's holding the revolver. She knows he's going to suggest that she actually try with her primary hand, but the whole point of this is to give her a firearm for excision missions. If her primary weapon is her saber instead of a burp-gun, then clearly the pistol was to be the offhand.
"Just get some time on it, you'll iron it out." Dirk nods, giving Fangs a pat on the shoulder before leaving.
"She'll have to get time on it in-county."
"Ma'am."
"Mum."
Both she and Dirk instinctively snap to attention without having to see the twist-horned war-scale to know the Vouivre's presence.
"At ease." Fairbarin grumbles, frowning at the formality.
"That mean we've got a mission, Knife?" Fangs asks the moment that she's allowed to speak freely. There's a glint in those wrinkle-framed violet eyes, a knowing smirk crawling onto the old crone's face.
"Aye, Fangs, we do. Whole of First Commando is going too- a nice little day trip."
Fangs smiles- it's a horridly cruel sort of expression, one that no-one but Fairbairn and Dirk could understand. No having to babysit new-bloods in Second Commando.
"Where to, mum?" Dirk chirps, equally eager, just without the same chomping impatience.
"Ursan Border. Pack warm."
HMLS Justice, newly forged from the fragments of the Duke of Wellington's fast-battleship, is the most cutting edge ship in Her Majesty's arsenal yet. Brand new cannon tech gleaned from Sarkaz artillerists; modern Originite burners that were twice as efficient as the old swift-ships; a complement of Royal Marines, their assault transports, aircraft, and everything needed to sustain multiple thousands of men and women of a single purpose: persuade the Bear that the Lion is not worth biting at.
A battlegroup on the border would supposedly do that, but to include First Commando? Well, they were neither listed, nor seen by anyone. Dressed as just another group of boots and doing their damndest to blend into the cramped space, but leave it to Royal Marines to sniff out those not of their own. Rumble-legs; those that needed to hold onto something when the ship started up and got underway- a name that chewed at Fangs' tail, but Shae could keep a lid over it so long as they were someplace unfamiliar. The beast didn't know how to act around all these new people, didn't want to rear up lest someone steps wrong to it.
Which is why she is sitting in the brig during the arrival procedure. Nose bloodied, a bit bruised in the ribs, but hey- Fangs won, a fact that it gloats about in the moments where Shae's mind slips.
When the whole ship rumbles, she instinctively holds tight to the cot. When everything starts groaning and swaying, she manages to keep her lunch down this time. No way she'll give any other one of these ship-rats another chance to mock her-
A sentiment she sets in steel when she hears the bootsteps on hard-deck. Hold the sick down while standing tall and defiant-
It's not an MP nor any of the marine's buddies looking for a round two, just ol' Khukri. The Vouivre looks slightly bemused, but nonetheless serious to find Fangs behind bars.
"Mum told me to fetch you once you cooled off." Khukri gives her the once-over. That appraising-sort-of-look that… twinges something inside of Shae's heart; tugs at a bloody thread that threatens to unravel her carefully stitched-up memory.
"-but you won right?"
"Damn right I did." Fangs spits on the floor, "Street-shits hit harder than these waifs."
"That's our Fangs."
The Feline gives the Vourivre a fang-filled smirk as she stands at the bars waiting for the MP to bring along the keys. There's an unsettling energy to her though, one that the MP certainly picks up on with how awkwardly close she leans in against the bars as they slide open. He wisely retreats swifter than a spooked fowl-beast, Fangs' eyes following him like he were a bit of prey the entire time.
"Brief before disembark." Khukri interrupts Fangs' mad-mugging, wisely pulling her attention onto him. He'd be a fair fight against her, and that knowledge eases the tension in Fangs' muscles.
"Not going to catch a shoe from the old bat?"
"Oh she'll probably give you the shoeing after. Would have been much worse if you lost."
Fangs smiles, following the sway of Khukri's tail down the cramped hallways. The Hornsey's step is quick, not his usual long-legged stride- so either he's all charged up about something, or he's 'rumble-legged' too. Shae manages to grasp hold of that bit of camaraderie to keep Fangs at the end of the stick, prodding the savage back towards its cage. They have to wind their way into the ship's guts to reach where the Regiment was bunked, but Shae'd been on the ship long enough to know they were heading up to the deck instead.
First give away is the sweltering humidity of the interior being overcome by a frigid air as they neared the exterior bulkheads. When they clear the hatch and walk out onto the deck, the great expanse of white is nearly blinding. She winces, covers her eyes, feeling the bite of the northern air really sink itself into any exposed skin.
"This is it, eh?" she manages to snort once her eyes adjust.
Nothing like the rocky wilds of the Alliance Highlands, the dirty and damp streets of Londinium, nor the swamps of the Taran lowlands; nothing like anything she's ever seen or felt.
"Aye. Frontier lands now."
"... quite a bit bland, innit?"
Khukri chortles, taking a deep breath of the air. Fangs… Shae does the same, feeling how the cold shocks the system, making her lungs seize up and body tighten.
Tail-end of winter, moving to spring thaw, then the summer.
Perfect campaigning season- if she were feeling a bit cheeky.
"We're briefing out on the deck?" Shae asks, finding it strange that there is a lack of sailors out and about doing whatever they are tasked for. Maybe they had the common sense to be inside.
"Aye, why not?"
She frowns, but she doesn't voice what most sane people would be thinking- they were gods-killing commandos, damnit. The Regiment is gathered right at the bow of the ship- an amusing title considering how there's only a rough twenty of them gathered up around Captain Fairbairn, but it is a well earned moniker so long as they kept fighting like they were a thousand strong. Shae wears that little bit of pride on her, letting it warm her body as she and Khukri join the huddle of clearly-freezing, but still-sharpened blades.
"There's the last two." Dirk gives Shae the kind of grin that makes Fangs want to give the pretty-boy a Glasgow kiss, but she gives him an acknowledging nod instead- especially when Scalpel happens to be around. A tussle with him would always turn into fist-fighting his little Feline thing too-
"Alright ladies and gents, welcome to Farway Plains. This is the very edge of Her Light, right up against the Bear's border." Fairbairn… no, Knife authoritatively speaks, meaning there is to be no thinking, so speaking until she is done.
"We will be accompanying the marines here as they rotate out the Coldstream Regiment. They will be taking up the defensive positions while we serve as the forward eyes and ears. Now, I know many of you-" Knife casts glances at a few key members of the team, Fangs included "-have been on edge, champing at the bit for a new mission since Drakkenslayer. Something big is brewing, and we're going to help… set the table, so to speak."
Both Fangs and Shae await with bated breath. There's hope for something big, the sort of rumormilling that all boots get up to; maybe they'd be striking out to assassinate an Ursan general, or undermining the Ursan 5th Army, maybe infiltrating a mobile base… maybe even a mobile city.
"As you are well aware, Ursus and Victoria are not currently at war."
Quiet grumbles. Disappointed grumbles. Knife is quick to silence them- warmongering is frowned upon among civilized society after all.
"We are here to change that."
Two lanterns for a seven-man patrol. Ushanka-capped, mask-clad troopers, easily identifiable as Infected Patrol. Officially Ursan Army, but easily deniable considering their more unsavory dealings with Ursus' own civilian population. The kind of "soldier" that is but a thug in uniform- she is familiar with the type.
Poor light discipline, poor supply, poor situational awareness as they trudge their way to the north-east- towards their patrol base. Sent out as an offering extended to the Victorians- a… trade deal so to speak.
They are all dead men walking- they just don't know it yet. Fangs grins wide and menacing, a single set of pearly whites gleaned from the dim light of their lanterns.
The lead patroller fires his shot in panic, crossbow bolt streaking right past her cheek, but the poor sod will never know just how close he got to giving Shae the mercy she craves. No, Fangs answers with a single, purposeful gunshot that startles the rest of the Ursan troopers.
When their lead scout crumples to the ground clutching his gut, everyone's got their weapons drawn. Fangs stalks them in the dark though, her footsteps silent as she circles their formation. They're shouting, calling out in their gravelly language, and she waits for the moment when the air hangs, when the tension is thickest and nerves are most frayed.
That's when she swings into their midst. First goes down with a chop to the neck when she slips into their ring, second and third catch slugs in their backs that leave them writhing and screaming.
Those not shocked by Fangs' grand entrance manage to leap at her, but they come in divided and undisciplined. First attack parried easily with the blade, riposte running him through while she fires her fourth shot through the next man's leg. When he drops like a sack of meat, it only takes a downward flick of her blade-wrist to stop his caterwauling.
Fifth bullet catches a crossbowman in the gut as well, Fangs following the bullet's trail with a flowing lunge and using the freshly-impaled Ursan as cover against his buddy beside him. A wet *thwack* of an axe into her fleshy shield the moment she wheels it around, firing her sixth and final shot point blank in the face of the Ursan who had no respect for his dying comrade.
Last man of the patrol tries to run, but Fangs is on him in a single sharp breath. She parries that wild, desperate swing with the chunky steel of her revolver before gracefully lining up her stab. A delay, a pausing beat to let his fate sink in, before she runs him through with the simplest of lunges.
When all is still, she finds the lantern and breaks it upon the ground. Nothing but her, the cold Ursan air, and the frigid moonlight now.
"Fangs to Tower; patrol down." she whispers for the throat microphone hugged uncomfortably tight to her neck.
"We heard the gunshots. Couldn't keep it quiet?" Stiletto crackles in on the other end. Of course that prick is on radio for the night.
"Sound will draw more. Call me if there's more movement out of their post." "Bit of a murderous night, innit?"
"Put the fear into them." Fangs rumbles, "Kill patrols, blind their OP, bottle them into their walls."
And then Bleed. Them. Dry. Fangs snarls. Shae manages to keep the beast from speaking the ruthlessness, only to be put back in her place in the back of her own mind.
"They kill one of ours, I kill seven of theirs. Even trade in value."
"Right ruthless bitch tonight, Fangs?"
"Just tonight?" Fangs smiles, but it's a cold, emotionless expression for no one to see. She thought the taste of revenge might get some feeling into the heart, but without Shae present, there's nothing. Stupid little girl stays quiet and lets Fangs run the show for now; probably will stay that way until they got back to Achanarry.
All the better, then.
"Try and leave some for the rest of us."
"If they're stupid enough to keep sending poor-fucking-bastards out for us to kill, you'll get your chance." she hisses, "Fangs out."
"Affirmative. Tower copies all."
Fangs wipes her blade off on the closest body before reloading her revolver and slipping it into the underarm holster. Hard reset, the moment to breath the iron-tainted air and feel that miserable cold. Cracks the persona of Fangs that little bit, lets Shae crawl up to the surface like that acidic bit of sick burping out of the throat.
She looks at Fangs' handiwork and clicks her tongue. The reasoning is sound and the mission clear- for every dead Victorian that was found, the Ursans had to pay back sixfold. It is a clear demarcation that even Shae couldn't argue with; anyone Ursan carrying a weapon is fair game. Tit-for-tat kind of violence; not so much unlike the Troubles, except Shae's far less squeamish this time around.
Yes, she was a hardened kin-slayer by this point, but firing upon someone who could still become a true Victorian at heart is one thing. These people were others- and they were spilling the blood of true Victorian patriots all for the sake of a dying empire's ambitions. Death is the only repayment.
"Death is the only repayment." she repeats aloud, sheathing her saber. "Benevolence shall save lives, but our knives shall save more."
Their Creed. The Hypocritical Oath. The Grim Promise.
It went by many names to each member of the Regiment, their dark little take on Her Creed, perfect for those who didn't walk in Her light. Saying it feels wrong; for a girl who had dreamed of being the exact opposite of what she's become, it felt wrong to let such a vile perversion of Her Light out of her lips.
And Fangs'll recite it that many more times until Shae gets used to it.
Shae glances at that flickering lamp for a moment, its shutters closed in the scuffle. Yellowish light with the kind of hazy, flickering dimness to it that spoke of a weak power source. It makes her shadow long, formless, beastial- and she reaches down to snuff it out.
So long as these skirmishes continued, the kettle would keep boiling until either spilling over or sizzling off into steam. Either resolution, she'd still have bloody work to do.
"Fangs, Tower. Movement at the south-eastern wire- outbound."
The wicked beast smiles- neither overly-joyous nor cruel. It is merely happy. Happy that it still has a purpose, that there is a job for it to do- and oh does it excel at its work.
The rumors of a new mission coming down the pipeline are answered by Fangs getting a call-up notice the moment she thinks about heading out to their little walled off section of the forward base for some target practice. Instinct has her making for the Regiment's briefing room, but for the first time ever she's the second person there. Scalpel of all people beat her there- Scalpel. The medic eyes Fangs warily before giving her an acknowledging nod.
Fangs returns the cordiality, but working with Scalpel always left her feeling irritable. Something about the other Feline's bristliness that never went away even after Fangs proved herself, or maybe it was just her resting bitch-face- not that Fangs should be the one to talk. Still, seeing Scalpel means that she can make a relative guess on the team's composition. Wherever Scalpel went, Dirk is soon to follow, and with Fangs added that left only one slot in a standard deployment.
Dagger arrives next, abolishing that mystery with a swagger that Fangs found annoying. New blood; a Feline kid fresh off Achnacarry replacing the previous Dagger. Thinks himself quite the bloke to earn himself a place in First Commando instead of Second, all chuffed with himself. Also must have bent Fairbairn out of shape replacing a war-scale comrade, but the old bat never showed it when she pinned the crown-knife on him.
"What's the mission?" Dagger eagerly blurts as he takes a seat. It earns him glares from both women, the kind that puts him in his place right-quick. When Fangs was new, she'd never dare to be as outspoken. Had to keep your tongue bit around those who were straight bastard-killers.
"Apologies for the tardiness," Dirk politely announces as he makes his entrance, "got hung up on the range."
Fangs scoffs and rolls her eyes. Leave it to the Vulpo to act all gentlemanly in front of Scalpel- Fangs knows it is all for show though.
"Right, team's assembled." Scalpel exhales.
"What, no Fairbairn to brief?" the young Dagger once again lets his thoughts out of his mouth, and earns a good smack on the shoulder from Dirk before Fangs could even sneer.
"I'm in charge of this operation." Scalpel adds a glare to Dagger's stinging reminder, "And no, it's not a combat op. Subterfuge."
Fangs leans back in her seat instinctively. If it wasn't a combat op, why include her? Everyone but Dagger is an excision team member, which usually meant some close knife-work. Scalpel notes the body language, dismissively waving off Fangs' question.
"Got to move a lot of heavy objects quick-like. Dirty work."
When no one speaks up, Scalpel cracks the smallest, most minute of smiles before continuing,
"We've gathered up all the lads and lasses the Urskies killed over the last month, about thirty in all. We're going to use Her dead to send the Bear a message."
"We're handling corpses?" Dagger frowns. His outburst is nostalgic, makes Fangs smirk and her tail curl. Let the newbie say all the things she wants to say, but he catches all the heat instead.
"One could say we handle corpses daily, Dagger. We just so happen to make the corpses most of the time." Dirk, ever the diplomat, tries to soothe the new blood's ruffled feathers.
"We're not in the business of 'clean' or 'honorable' either." Fangs chimes in, echoing the harsh lesson she had learned, making that boy's ears flatten out in shame.
"Attention, please." Scalpel seethes, waiting until everyone's piped down before explaining the mission further. It leaves a stale taste in Fangs' mouth though; they were going to take the Gray-and-Tans that'd been killed in the recent skirmishes and set them out in a forward observation post, make it look like the OP got slaughtered to-the-man. Most of their deaths had been covered up so far; after all Ursus and Victoria were technically not at war.
-Yet.
Didn't stop the border clashing though, the Bear testing the newly crowned Lion to see what they could get away with. Killing or imprisoning Her citizens, pillaging Her mines, taking temporary control of settlements and imposing their flawed laws upon Victorian stock? They had to be taught a lesson.
Fangs nods- it's a decent enough plan, gets two fowlbeasts with one stone; lets Victoria officially acknowledge Her dead and places the blame for them right at the Bear's feet? With both sides so squeamish about stepping up to a right-and-proper fight, they were content with sending men and women to die in the shadows of an already ambiguous border. Despite the glut of recent meat for the grinder, Fangs had been growing a bit sick of the ease at which the Ursans sent theirs to die.
If they got a nice and proper war, though?
Maybe then the Regiment could stop pussyfooting around and go for some real targets instead of Ursan conscripts. Another mission like Redsteel or Drakkenslayer- some right-and-proper knifework.
"Alright then, Scalpel. Where to?" Fangs answers, which is a surprise for the other two veterans.
"The lorry's loaded up, just waiting for sundown. Remember the abandoned trenchline we retook the other day? The one outside of Krinky?"
Those on the assault nod- Fangs included.
"That's where. Go get a hot meal and your ponchos; its going to rain tonight."
"Bloody dark work, this is."
"Shut it, Dagger."
"Wot? Figured we'd be up to more than-"
"Scalpel said shut it. Shut. It. " Fangs growls, frustration mounting to a dangerous degree as she throws another body out into the trench. That one had a crossbow bolt through the eye, face frozen in pain and agony. How sporting of the Ursan wilderness to put bodies on ice for them.
"Chatty one, they are." someone mumbles before a wet thud of a bodybag hitting the mud.
"Newblood getting Dagger's name. Hmph-"
"Always throw a frag first. Didn't follow procedure." Fangs once again interjects, trying her best to just… shut everyone up. The sooner they got the grim work done, the sooner they could head back to base. This Ursan front was shiet; cold, rainy- and not the same kinda misery that a Victorian'd be used to. More biting, more… hostile, and it'd only get worse as the temperature dropped.
"Civillians-"
"-be damned." Fangs finds herself spinning and snarling. "You throw a frag in first on the breach, end of discussion. The old-timer knew and held back anyways. Look where that got him."
"Fangs there was-"
"-children be damned to! How do you know they aren't using them as shields, huh?" Fangs bites back, "We killed them all the same once Dagger went down. We're not good people here; we're here to do the shit that is too unsavory for the regulars."
"Careful Fangs, starting to sound like Machete there."
"She was with Machete's team for a year-"
Fangs grunts as she heaves another body off the lorry, but the gruffness and aggression of it certainly let those around know her disdain for the topic. Another unceremonious, unsanctimonious throwing of one of Her braves into the brackish muck of Ursan soil. This one had a puncture wound through the side, between the front and back plates; worst place to get hit.
Fangs readjusts the body, making it look like they were side-on to the long part of the trench, easy enough to assume they got hit in the side while looking out over the parapet. The defensive line was now scattered with Victorian dead; a bit less than a platoon, but still a significant number. Enough dead uniforms that Ursus would have to answer an official inquiry, and if all the dominos were set properly…
"Wrap it up, bastards. Patrol is scheduled for this sector soon, we got to be gone." Scalpel calls out over the increasingly oppressive rain on their ponchos.
"Aye Scalpel, aye. No more excited handling corpses than you are." Dirk snarks back, taking a stab at the fact that Scalpel's track record as excision-team medic was… bloody.
Earns the Vulpo a sharp glare from the Feline, but he has been the longest-serving knife since… well, since the original Dagger.
"Movement. Movement on the perimeter." Someone calls out.
Someone not from their unit. There was no way a commando would announce contact so fucking loud.
Meaning the patrol is early.
"Halt! You halt! Announce yourselves!" a trooper calls out, sweeping the caustic yellow light of a hand-torch across the trenchline, catching the outlines of a few of the black-poncho'd skullduggers, but not all of them.
"Bit of a fucking pickle this is." Dirk says, raising his hands and motioning for those who got spotted to do the same.
"Trilby Tactical Unit." Scalpel calls out, getting a few more hand-torch beams on her for that one, the bright light making her wince. "Do you mind turning the damn lights off lest the Bears decide we're a tempting target?"
Couldn't besmirch the Royal Commando name, so blame the competition, right? Fangs smirks as she slinks over the parapet and low to the ground, completely unseen from her end of the trench. Crawling on all fours through the slop, she flanks the incoming patrol from the edge of the broken treeline.
"Just… what is going on here?" the sergeant asks, sweeping the torchlight over the bodies, particularly lingering on the uncollected body bags. Crossbows are leveled at Scalpel, Dirk, and Dagger.
"None of you and yours' concerns, sergeant." Scalpel answers coolly. She hasn't raised her hands like the other two yet, in fact she casually waves the patrol off like they were nosey children. "Best move along, come back in half-an-hour, and report about what you've seen then, aye?"
"I don't like this, sarge. Something stinks here." one of the boots whispers, but his voice peaks with a crack loud enough to have been thunder for what it matters.
"These are Victorian bodies!" another trooper exclaims, having inspected one of the sealed black bags.
"What're you doing with Her dead?"
"Again, none of your concern. Above your pay grade. Classified. Whatever you need to hear to keep your fukken mouth shut and your eyes looking away, aye?" Scalpel snaps. Even Fangs winces- Dirk had a more silver tongue than that catty medic, he should have handled the talking.
"Caught red handed it seems." Dirk mumbles.
"Alright, your three, keep your hands up and where we can see you. You're coming with us back to base." the sergeant orders, motioning for the commandos he could see to line up. He's right to be cautious, those he can certainly see are dangerous individuals- the problem is that the most dangerous commando is the one that goes unseen.
"Afraid we can't do that, sergeant. You don't have that authority." Scalpel cautions, and to that the Gray-and-Tan scoffs. Steel is drawn- but it's not Scalpel, Dirk, or Dagger that does so.
"Surrender yourself now, or you will be treated as saboteurs."
"Not too far off there, mate." Dirk grins before being silenced by Scalpel's harsh hiss.
"Last chance for you and yours to walk away, sergeant. The more you press this the worse it'll get."
"You're threatening us? Who are you? Ursan agents? Provocateurs? Why are there so many dead Victorians here, and what's with that lorry-"
There is a puff of a heated sigh, but Scalpel raises her hands slowly now. The slight nod goes unnoticed by the regulars who prickle with suspicion.
Fangs had slithered into the trench now, dagger out, its blackened steel unnoticed by everyone but Scalpel. The nod is the signal that 'communication has broken down'.
She's killed Victorian blood before, already a kinslayer like that bastard Machete.
What is any different about this? For the greater good, and all that high-morality shiet.
Shae tries to reject Fangs' thinking, injects a fresh caustic flavor into Fang's mouth, but it doesn't stop the beast from slinking forward, Arts humming, steps silent. The rear man in the patrol doesn't even get the chance to scream out before Fang's dagger gets him twice in the kidneys and once into the neck. Didn't have a torch in hand, no chance to give away Fangs' grim work. Next down the line did, so Fangs lets this one scream, lets his hand torch hit the mud.
Three beams swing around to Fangs, taking the light off of Dirk and Dagger.
These poor sods should have just walked away; if they knew they were up against Her very shadows they might very well have, but such declarations were just not in the cards today. So deep into the dark these four knives are that you can only find them from torchlight shining right on their black souls-
The sergeant is the last one alive; long enough to know that all of the men under his command are dead. Long enough to know that they were probably dead the moment they shone lights on Victoria's bloody apparitions and stared into the darkness.
Dead because he was probably just trying to hurry the patrol, eager to get his boys out of the rain and back to the barracks for a cup and a meal.
And when all is said and done, what are six more bodies added to the other thirty? Numerically, not much; but to the four commandos whose hands were forced? Those six bodies weighed heavier than all the others they had to shuffle. Shae's thoughts creep in; This is why all this complex skullduggery didn't seem worth it in the long run. There were easier ways to spark a war-
Fangs sneers, knowing its best not to think about it. It keeps Shae back, shackled in her own mind as it goes about the practiced motions of cleaning the evidence of them ever having been here.
"Alright." Scalpel says with a tone frayed with exasperation as she grips her head trying not to let the duress show, "Fangs, Dirk, get those fresh ones and spread their blood around the stiffs. Take a sword to them too- cover up the stabs. They'll send another patrol to find this one eventually."
Quiet drive back to base.
Quiet debrief, Knife present. Dagger stumbles away, concern etched on the boy's brow. Who knows if he'll last another week.
Leaving Scalpel, Dirk, and Fangs to sit, the once hard eyes of the ever-unshakable Captain Fairbairn… softening. Violet irises that seemed brighter and wider than usual. More… motherly as the expression softens, her wrinkles all the more apparent.
"You okay Leah? Arthur? Shae-"
Fangs shudders at her "name". The reminder of what it was gives her strength, and that loosens Fangs' hold.
Shae's nod is terse, biting her bottom lip to feel the pain. Scalpel and Dirk seem more shaken than her, and she finds that odd though. They've been in the Regiment longer than Shae, shouldn't they have had hands in unscrupulous things like that?
"Was hoping they'd have just walked away, mum. Really hoping." Dirk - Arthur- sighs, more disappointed than disgusted with their actions last night.
'Least he has a spine' Fangs interjects, voice ringing from the dark recesses.
"Leah? Any words? Concerns?" Fairbairn turns her eyes over to the red-headed Feline. Leah's leg is bouncing, but her face is that usual iron-cast mask. Same expression when Dagger's ticket got punched, too.
"Nah, ma'am. Same as Arthur, but had a feeling we were going to have to kill them regardless." she shrugs, her tailing curling and showing the distaste more than her face.
"You were right about that in the long run. No witnesses, no loose ends that we have to keep track of. You did by operating procedure, don't let that hang over you." the old war-scale clicks her tongue and crosses her arms, "Think of their loss as a sacrifice to Victoria's future growth. Their names should be the ones spoken off the regulars' lips. Martyrs."
"Martyrs, huh?" Fangs scoffs, instantly earning Fairbairn's ire.
"Problem with that, Fangs?" she says pointedly, not realizing how right about who she is talking to.
"No, ma'am. Just curious how the high-ups are going to spin this."
"Above our paygrade."
'Not our concern.' being the actual answer. Any way Shae looked at it, last night was murder, plain and simple.
"As if you haven't murdered before." Fangs sneers from the back of her mind. "You're no saint either."
The ugliness of it though; the unease sets a chunk of lead in her stomach too heavy for even Fangs to shrug off. It's a sinking, gut wrenching, nauseating lump- the kind of thing that stayed with you.
And even as she quietly clenched at her gut beneath the table, Shae… is thankful.
Thankful for those soldiers who had martyred themselves upon her blade, not for Her benefit or gain, but for Shae's.
Their sacrifice… jumbled something in her already busted brain, like someone hooked a car battery to her of drove a needle for a spinal tap. A harsh, throbbing, deep pain that would make sure that she would both never forget, but never let happen again. No matter how much Fangs snarled and roared and gnashed for control… she used that lead to keep the lid on its cage- for now.
All her life… she's hurt people. People close to her. People she's both loved and hated.
Herself most of all.
A constant meandering life of violence and murder, no path to take, no fight to truly fight. Fear ruled her every waking moment; fear of failure, fear of pain, fear of reprisal, fear of never amounting to anything more than a blood-red-stain on her branch of the Wesslan family tree cut down to the stem-
And now?
Now, for the first time in her life, she has clarity.