Clipped Wings
A Clover fanfiction written by: RinoaDestiny
Chapter 9
"Not just anyone can join our outfit, boy." The leader of the mercenary unit, hard gaze fixed upon him, put his drink aside and stood. Though they were close in height, the other man was massive across the shoulders and chest. Dressed in gray-black camouflage and armed only with a knife belted at the hip, he was an intimidating presence, especially flanked by the other unit members sitting at the bar counter. They looked on, amused and curious, as if relieved from boredom.
The bartender, however, had a worried expression, expecting trouble.
"I'm aware of that. Will you give me a chance? Whatever trial you use to test for recruits –"
The mercenary leader let out a harsh laugh. "Know what you're asking for? How old are you, huh?"
"Twenty-nine."
"So not wet behind the ears, but still young. You have experience? Or you just work behind a desk while your elders fight? Get sent out to do grunt work?"
"I have battlefield experience," 284 said, voice level and calm, drawing on stoicism and patience; he never had much of a temper or Ryuu would've seen it long ago. "Depending on what functions or roles you need, I may be able to cover them." Here in a public bar wasn't the time or place to detail the specifics of his experience and skills; perhaps, they'd speak of those in private.
The man's expression didn't change, but he crossed his arms. "Desperate, huh? Where are you from?"
His unkempt appearance – unshaven with rumpled clothes – indicated his current plight. Without money and only two days' worth of rations left, he needed some form of employment. Sleeping wherever while on the move and conserving his food supply lasted him a week, but no more. Food and clothing in Yuten were expensive and the civilians weren't giving odd jobs to random strangers out of caution. Scraping by, he'd managed to evade the beginnings of Azaiean search units, going to ground in this enormous and wealthy land.
It was in the Yutenian underworld where he heard of this mercenary unit. Taking a gamble, he decided to try his luck. Mercenaries were busy and mobile, moving from country to country. It was also safer being with others, rather than going alone. Yet, with Azaiea in pursuit…
"I came from Azaiea," he said, which wasn't a lie. However, it wasn't the whole truth, so he mentioned his country of origin next. If rejected, he'd have to leave this city and go to the next one, seeking a source of income and temporary room and board. Already, he risked much being here, for time was precious and black ops weren't ignorant as to the places he'd visit while pursued. Unfortunately, he always had to be several steps ahead of them, hoping his trail went cold. This also meant not telling the mercenary leader his Azaiean "name," his actual unused name, and the reason why he sought this type of employment.
"Are you an Azaiean citizen? Where did you gain your experience?"
"I'd prefer to disclose that in private, if permitted."
The man took a step closer; 284 held his ground, although every part of him wanted to fall back to create distance. All the mercenaries here were in their forties or even early fifties, grizzled veterans or former paramilitary. An old crew working together and him a young one, seeking admittance.
"I'll decide that. Your name?"
"Yu." He'd time to consider this, because of how often his name was requested. 284, Gingetsu, and now Yu: three identities, an apt portrayal of brokenness. Who was he?
"Hmph."
"Give the kid a drink and send him on his way."
"Try him on for size and see if he fits. Young blood isn't all bad, Teru."
"You know what? Drinks on me! Let's see if he's lightweight. If he's not, give him a week."
Resisting the urge to glance behind him, 284 kept still. The leader gave him another look and turning, gestured to the bartender. "Four shots of your strongest liquor." The decisive gaze slewed back to him. "Let's see what you're made of, boy. Surprise me."
As the bartender bustled behind the counter, the other mercenaries opened a space between them. 284 approached, understanding how easily he'd been let off with a mere drinking challenge. Undoubtedly, the real trial was grueling, meant to break egos and send the lesser men scurrying away. However, his access to hard liquor was non-existent during his time in Azaiea and the most he'd had of alcohol was beer. How he'd pass this test was still in question.
Four full shot glasses, their contents clear and strong. He could smell it.
"One after the other without stopping. If you're still standing within ten minutes, you come with us. If you don't, sleep it off somewhere else."
Stepping gamely up to the glasses, 284 took the first one, shut out the men in his periphery and downed it. The harsh liquor burned down his throat, so strong the taste was masked by the alcohol content; coughing, he picked up the next one and finished it. The third and fourth followed, empty glasses back on the counter and he stepped back. He felt the gazes on him, to see if he failed or succeeded.
Back when he was with Ryuu, he'd often have whisky on the rocks. Whatever this was, he was…unacquainted with it.
"He teetering yet?"
"Eyes ain't rolling back. Whaddya know."
"Bit strong for 'em, huh? Think he drinks virgin?"
"With how fast he pounded them back? Nah."
They were counting time – had to be, whether from experience or the watches they had – while he tried not to think about Azaiean black ops storming the bar. The back of his neck itched. Across from him, the mercenary leader stared, expression difficult to read.
"Knees ain't buckling yet."
"Still got nine minutes to go."
"Hang in there, kid!"
Nine minutes and the paranoid thought Barus was outside, ready to enter the building. They couldn't have found him this soon, right? Shouldn't they be moving to a safer location? Trying to remind himself that a mercenary unit could take on black ops – there had to be former special forces members here – 284 narrowed his focus down to courageously not wobbling. He didn't think he was moving.
"Bet ya the kid passes."
"Taken! One pack of smokes and a third of your cut."
"Fuck no!" Whoever spoke retorted, though not spitefully. "Smokes only."
"And if he fails? Flops like a goddamn fish?"
"I'll take that bet! Two packs of smokes and a shot of my special whisky."
"You're fucking on!"
The conversation grounded him, made him remember days in the Special Forces Hisoku. Even before Kazuhiko Fay Ryuu joined his staff, the soldiers in his unit liked hanging out, smoking and drinking and making small talk. Often, they talked about non-confidential news, the latest rumors and gossip, and their girlfriends or boyfriends. Sometimes, there was good-humored grumbling about particular superior officers. He'd listened and refrained from commenting.
It was good practice to let soldiers vent, so long as nothing untoward stemmed from it. Occasionally, a comment or two fell his way, but he'd grown accustomed to lighthearted ridicule. A superior officer – a subordinate to his superiors as well – needed to have thick skin.
"Seven minutes!"
"Goddamn! He's still standing!"
"Shifted his stance a little, ya see that?"
Unaware he'd done so, 284 looked at the mercenary leader, whose hooded gaze betrayed nothing. Did his, eyes revealed the way they were? He missed his visor, but blocking his eyes had been forbidden by Azaiea and Barus in particular relished his open vulnerability. Wearing one now would make him too obvious – something he wanted to avoid.
He was already pushing his luck being here, on the off chance Azaiean forces had zeroed in on his location.
"Five minutes, kid!"
"Come on! I need to win my bet!"
"Ya drunk there, Huang?"
"Saw him down three bottles earlier."
"Fuck off, Ty."
He could do it. Despite being out of practice for so long, he clung to willpower and fortitude. Failure led him down this path – a prisoner of war to slave to mercenary – yet, he wouldn't fail here. Could not. Not if he wanted to survive in the long run.
"Hey, I think he's gonna make it."
"Seen boys his age keel over after two drinks."
"Tougher than he looks, yeah?"
"Teru, if he makes it – give 'em a decent cut, yeah? Only fair."
"We'll see," Teru said, expression still unchanging. He must've been a commander before. "Three minutes left."
284 glanced behind him, just in case, and turned back to meet Teru's imposing gaze. The mercenaries at the counter were noisy, masking all other sounds; some already had their cigarette packs out, waiting. If Ryuu had lived to their age, his friend would've enjoyed the atmosphere. Would likely place a bet on him to win.
It was that thought which spurred him on, kept him on his feet.
"Two minutes," Teru intoned.
Alcohol buzzed in his brain, a slight lightheadedness forming. Two minutes. He just had to hold on until then; perhaps, afterwards, it wouldn't matter.
"Did he just wobble?"
"Did he? Hey!" one of the mercenaries yelled. "You're almost there, kid! Hang on!"
"Get ready to pay, loser!"
"Shut up!"
His knees buckled; staggering, he shifted his balance and remained standing. Not now. He was too close to fail now.
"One minute."
"Hell kinda drink you give him?"
The bartender might've said something, but 284 couldn't hear it. Some of the men snorted or guffawed.
"Poor bastard. He'll have a good sleep later."
"Teru –"
The mercenary leader made a sharp quick gesture. "Twenty seconds."
Silence fell, then, a sudden hush. It jarred, going from raucous to still. 284 heard the swirling thoughts in his head, the pulse beating in his neck, and minor background noises sounded loud.
"He's gonna make it, Teru."
"Give him time to doze before ya question him," a mercenary with a beard said and laughed.
"Fuck! That's one shot of my whisky."
"Should've bet to win, haha!"
Teru's face was stolid, eyes flicking away from his watch. "Congrats, Yu. You're one of us. Get some water and we'll talk later. Got a contract to fulfill, so we gotta move – van's outside."
"Your smokes. Whisky later, ya prick."
"Love you too, asshole."
Grabbing the glass proffered to him by the relieved bartender, 284 drank the water. As he put the glass back down, his hand slipped and so, it felt, did the rest of him. Laughing, the men around him seized him before he fell, hoisting him back up and clapping him on the back and shoulders. Sufficiently drunk, he trembled with each contact, yet made no move to push them away.
"Let's get you to the van, kid. Ain't gonna be walking today."
"Give him a hand."
"He'll sleep it off inside. Gonna have a nasty hangover."
Some more laughter and movement – it was as though a whirlwind picked him up and deposited him in a quieter enclosed space. The van was large, similar to the one he'd been in before with the captain and… Two mercenaries flanked him, keeping him from slipping off his seat. Limbs pleasantly slackened, sleep encroaching, he thought he heard an all-too familiar vehicular sound outside before the van doors shut.
Succumbing – feeling strangely safe – he drifted off to the sounds of bantering and the pleasant movement of wheels against asphalt.
What he hadn't expected was the steaming bowl of noodles as a counter to his pounding head, the fragrant smell mouthwatering. Teru, despite still appearing stern, placed the food on the side table by the bed. "Hangover food from Huang. Won a pack of smokes 'cause you passed, so he's feeling generous. Get that in you while we talk. How's your head?"
"Hurts." Moving gingerly to prevent nausea from sudden movement, 284 sat up and reached out for the bowl. The toppings were light – a few chopped spring onions and a slice of substitute meat – with thick noodles and amber broth that reminded him of the late-night takeout he and Ryuu used to get while working overtime. Cautiously, he took a sip. His head, still aching, did feel a bit better.
"You want to thank Huang, find him later."
Giving a tiny nod, he returned to the food.
"Before I ask about your skills and background, a few rules. First, when a contract is met and payment is made, everyone gets a percentage. You're new and untried, so your cut will be smaller until you've proven your worth. Second, you have any grievances against anyone – bring it to me. Doesn't matter how big or small. Third, everyone contributes to the unit's operation – cleaning, weapons maintenance, cooking, driving, and keeping watch duty. Filthiest job to the desk ones, you do. Fourth – that you'll not endanger the unit through any actions of yours, whether open or covert. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Since you've agreed, is there anything you'd like to tell me? For instance, checking over your shoulder at the bar?"
Putting the bowl down, 284 returned Teru's gaze. The other man stood, refusing to sit on the bed opposite him, gaze critical. There was no choice, unless he wanted to be promptly ejected from the group. "I told you I came from Azaiea," he said, repeating what he told Teru during their previous conversation. His mouth, still tasting of broth, was dry.
"Yes. What else, Yu?"
"I'm not Azaiean-born, nor a citizen of hers."
"Hence your country of origin. Were you important?"
"Yes." His heart thudded in his chest at the memories. "I served in the military of my former home country."
Teru's gaze seemed to pierce through his shrouded past, which he himself was slowly regaining and confronting. "While I don't prefer prying into other's pasts and histories, I must know one thing, Yu – will this knowledge jeopardize us? Will your presence here bring danger?"
Unflinching, 284 replied. "If you see Azaiean black ops, please release me."
"There was an Azaiean military van that crossed our path when we left." Instead of raising his voice or showing anger, Teru continued speaking mildly to him. "Were they looking for you?"
"What did the van look like?" He tried to keep his voice from trembling.
"A large rectangular grille, two large headlights and four smaller ones in the front bumper. A reflective mirror on its right side. A tinted split windshield. Typical Azaiean make. Color was black and olive."
"Any soldiers outside?"
"No. But it was Azaiean."
He shivered, yet kept his gaze fixed upon Teru. "I know who they are."
"So they are after you."
"Yes." His headache, an unfortunate part of his hangover, intensified. "I know the man behind that unit. There's…personal history between us."
"One more question. Which unit did you serve?"
He paused, not from fear or reluctance but from pain. "The Special Forces Hisoku. I was its commander."
Teru's eyes narrowed, though his voice didn't alter. "You're former black ops. And the Azaiean black ops commander is Barus."
"Yes."
"Your name isn't Yu."
"No." This time, his voice shook. "But I'm no longer the man I used to be."
For a long moment, Teru looked at him without saying a word. Silence, heavy and strained – at least to him – fell between them. Shame at his circumstances again resurfaced, inescapable. Had he been alone, he might've wept. But here, in front of a hardened mercenary who'd considered him young and ignorant, he could not. Instead, he bore the relentless anguish, wondering if this pathway towards freedom was over before it even began.
Although he could start over again, the process was exhausting. Without funds and food, what else could he do? Barus had been seconds away, which by itself was terrifying. What if he couldn't successfully evade him?
Despair sank in, threatened to overwhelm.
"Won't reveal your name to the others. You're Yu, as far as we're concerned." No softening in face or voice, yet Teru's words brought some comfort. "Where you looking to go?"
"My former home country," he said quietly, voice still shaky. Home was no more – not for a traitor – but there were things he needed to do upon his return. To make right the wrongs before the Council meted out the penalty he deserved.
"You have the means to get there?"
"No."
"Thought you were desperate back there." The mercenary leader leaned against the side table, crossing his arms. "We're two days away from that city, nested in a secure spot. No Azaieans so far. You could do with a wash and shave."
"I'm staying?" He daren't hope, in case this was mere pleasantries.
Teru gave him a hard look, though it wasn't unkind. "What I should do is give you a thousand and throw you out. You're trouble and the Azaieans are a right set of bastards. My men could die because of you."
284 lowered his gaze, chastened. "I know."
"We don't do contracts with Azaiea. Yuten's our moneymaker, but we sometimes cross over into the island nations and even yours. If we get close enough, take your cut and leave. You're not staying for long, am I right?"
"No."
"Good. I'll leave you alone. Get cleaned up, do whatever you want for today. Gonna need you tomorrow, so don't oversleep."
He nodded, relief so strong it roiled within him.
"Give the bowl to Huang when you're done. You can borrow soap and a razor from Ty. Full sleeves, scar across neck, mean with a knife. Kuroi can give you clothes – you're about his size. Quiet guy like you. Has books. Alten's our medic – go to him for the headache. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Breakfast duty tomorrow. Four sharp."
Again, 284 nodded. His head hurt and his stomach felt half-full.
Without any further comments, Teru left the sleeping quarters. Unlike the places the Azaiean elite squad stayed at, here everyone slept in the same room. Eighteen beds with folded cots on the side. How many mercenaries were there?
In the newfound silence, he took up the bowl again and returned to his meal. He was Yu now – Gingetsu a name only bearing pain and 284 the only identity he had for so long. He was still 284 – the Azaiean ordeal branded too deeply within him to eschew or forsake it. What the Council would think…
It was too far ahead for consideration.
The third phase of his life began here. That was all.
Inside the tent, lying side by side on separate cots, they stayed silent. Disaster awaited them – a storm about to break over the horizon on the morrow – and the entire encampment knew it. Outside, it was nightfall; tension hung heavy, the soldiers on watch like dead men walking. It hadn't changed since his previous check on those serving duty rotations.
Ryuu shifted, turning over onto his side to look at him. His former deputy commander and lifelong friend had been injured earlier, a minor arm wound treated. Very few of them made it out of the skirmish unharmed. "Gingetsu," Ryuu said, quiet voice loud in the dimly lit space.
Thoughts dark and troubled, Gingetsu returned Ryuu's gaze. Like his men, he'd been wounded in the fighting – shrapnel grazing his temple, blood streaming down. It'd frightened the senior members of his field staff, afraid the injury was mortal. It could've been, if he'd been struck head-on. Instead, he had a bad headache. "What?" he asked, his own voice as quiet as Ryuu's.
"Do you think we stand a chance? Tomorrow?"
He didn't respond right away, this dilemma the forefront of his thoughts. Men had died – units lost – because something went wrong. Hadn't been predicted or caught in the pre-planning stages of the offensive. Was it him? Had his lack of foresight led them astray into a death trap? "I don't know," Gingetsu said, because he didn't. "I can't say, Ryuu."
The other man beside him sighed. "You're thinking it's your fault. It's not."
"If the army falls, someone's to blame."
"It's not you." The cot squeaked, Ryuu moving again. "You couldn't have known how strong the Azaiean counteroffensive would be."
"I should've." It was part of his job as a commander, wasn't it? He'd crunched the numbers, analyzed information and yet… "Ryuu, this is on me." The downside of holding command was this: when everything fell apart and defeat was imminent, the blame lay with the commanding officer. All else was complaints and blame-shifting, which Gingetsu didn't do. "The losses, the setbacks – I own them." He paused, the next words bitter on his tongue. "If we get defeated…if that happens –"
"No." Ryuu sat up, reaching for his hands. "Gingetsu, listen to me."
"Ryuu, I need you to –"
"You swore a promise to me." Fingers closed over his, ice cold. "Don't break it."
He continued speaking, Ryuu's plea heard but overridden by his own guilt. "I'm responsible. If that happens, take whoever remains and get them home. Yourself, included. Consider that an order, Ryuu."
"And you?" The question was harsh, Ryuu's voice hoarse.
"I stay behind. It's my duty. There might be survivors."
Silence. Beyond their tent, even with the flap door shut, there were sounds of insects chirping and the usual noises of a camp at rest but on alert.
Ryuu's hands clenching around his, even as he continued lying on his cot, steeling himself for tomorrow. "And if you don't make it back?"
"It'll be the last time I see you, I suppose." He sounded disconnected, as if still processing the cruel reality of their situation. "If that's the case, please look after Ran. He'll understand. We've always known this risk was possible."
His friend shook his head, agitated. "No. You can't be this calm. You're coming back with me, Gingetsu. You promised."
Again, he didn't reply immediately; instead, studied Ryuu, whose face in the dimness was familiar after all these years spent together on missions. A troublemaker – a thorn in the Council's side – a brilliant soldier otherwise and the only person he could truly consider a close friend. He wanted him safe, away from what was to come in fury and blood shortly. "You've retired. Should go home. Live your life. It's not your responsibility."
"Damn straight it's my responsibility! Gingetsu, don't –"
He sighed. "Ryuu, it's late. Go to sleep. It's going to be a long day tomorrow."
"You can't dismiss me like this."
"Stay alive. Bring word back." Gingetsu extricated his hands, watching as Ryuu sat further back on his cot, looking hurt. "One of us needs to."
"The promise –"
"Is null if both of us die. Ryuu, please."
After a few seconds, his friend lay back down. The camp was still, waiting for night to pass. For whatever tomorrow would bring.
"Gingetsu –"
"Sleep. I'll be fine."
