Chapter Text
more than anything
i want to save you
from myself- rupi kaur, milk and honey, the breaking, pg. 90
Muscles aching from carrying the heavy gun all day, she wipes off the grime caking her cheeks with the back of her hand. The sky had turned dark grey instead of a fiery orange that was expected at that hour. Nightfall is approaching, and so is another heavy downpour.
The whole squad had traversed through swamps and crawled through muddy fields for miles, lifting their weapons to keep them from being submerged in water, tiny fingers trained not to rest on the trigger. They have been tasked to observe for any signs of the military in the nearby village, ensuring that it is safe for The Leader to establish a stronghold east of it.
She knew not one soul, from her squad at least, who followed The Leader of their own will, or understood what he was fighting for in the first place. They were all too busy caring about the constant rumbling in their stomachs and the fear of not having a roof above their heads during the nightly storms and roars of thunder. Some of them were too broken to be moved by his fiery speeches as they cried over the loss of their mothers and fathers in a blaze of gunfire and explosions that was now their world. This quickly changed when in the midst of The Leader’s passionate speech, guns were placed in their hands like toys. Suddenly, the grieving had the means to exact vengeance. The lost and weary have been given their purpose. The orphaned have found their new guardian. Children are indeed malleable and quick to learn— the most obedient soldiers one could amass in a civil war.
Perhaps she was smarter than the rest, as she understood that The Leader was no god unlike what he led them to believe, and will soon be dead, just like her and the rest of them.
The eldest of them, a 14-year-old boy who lost his entire village in one of the first military raids since the war had started, was appointed squad leader due to seniority. He tells them to take camp by the river so they could wash the mud off their clothes. They will be scouting the village in daylight tomorrow for it’s already too dark, and they need to be able to blend in if spotted, to look like the normal, innocent children that they were not.
No, she protests, it would be unwise to settle with no certainty if the enemy is near. She was the most nimble of the squad, her stature short and scrawny, enabling her to fit in hiding places that only she, among them, has the wits to spot. I’ll go tonight, she volunteers. Just a quick survey so they can rest easy and better prepare for tomorrow.
That, and she was hungry.
She planned to scout, steal, and eat without the intention of sharing with six other hungry mouths.
The small, rural village was surrounded by a sea of tropical trees. Mud houses lined both sides of the unpaved main road. Its inhabitants moved on their feet with a pace indicative of light apprehension, perhaps from the threat of the impending rainfall, or the constant worry over the looming violence. But there were no soldiers in sight. The presence of people still roaming about at the hour seemed to confirm that there was no curfew.
So there is no overt military presence here, she concludes as she watches from a distance. They would have to make sure in the daytime as planned, but for now, it’s safe to say that she should move on to her next mission of silencing the gurgling in her stomach. Footsteps light and graceful as a cat’s, she makes her way to the back of the nearest row of houses, eyes and ears vigilant. If she had arrived a bit later in the dead of night, the mission could’ve been a cinch; but today is a day just like any other and she would have to work hard for food.
Her salvation came in the form of a tiny hut with its window of hay propped open. Contrary to what she had anticipated, it was almost too easy: the owner was not in sight, unlike the bread that was left on a wooden table. There was no source of light in the entire house. It was an open invitation to come in and help herself.
Almost too excitedly, she lifts herself up to squeeze in through the window and tip-toes to the table. The bread felt hard in her tiny hand. It was old and have been left there for some time, but she’s not complaining; a smirk forms in her lips as she turns back to the window to make her escape— but in her eagerness she had failed to notice that heavy rain had started to pour outside.
She curses under her breath over the thought of how tedious the trek would be through the mud and darkness. She can tuck the bread under her shirt to protect it from getting soggy, or she could eat wet bread on the way back— it shouldn’t matter, as long as she gets something in her stomach—
—the front door opens, and the soldier in her quickly drops the bread to grab the gun that slipped from her clumsy, nervous grip. Doomed, exposed, dead. That’s what she gets for wasting precious milliseconds. Frozen in place, she comes face to face with her grim reaper: an old, frail-looking man, frozen by fear and surprise as she was.
His lips were pursed in a permanent frown from old age, the wrinkles of his face ever so slightly moving from an expression of fright that was gone as quickly as it appeared. It only takes one yell to alert the townsfolk to the presence of what was obviously a rebel. But he kept quiet. His eyes move to the gun on her side, then to the bread on the ground that had rolled a few steps in front of him. He blinks a few times in silence.
He reaches down for the bread, rubs it a few times against his clothing, and hands it to her in a gesture that was more friendly than afraid.
Then came a loud boom of thunder that sends her in a jolt of panic; she grabs her gun, firmly this time, and aims at his chest.
She’s killed dozens of men in uniform, but never an unarmed person. Tonight might be the night that she finally does— but why, why does her first one have to be this frail, helpless, generous being who is already approaching the end of his life?
He blinks a few more times, but there was an odd, calm look in his eyes. Was it an invitation to shoot? Or a realization that she couldn’t?
And then she realized, his arm was still held out in offering, the bread slightly shaking from his unsteady grip, mirroring the unsteady aim of her gun.
As quick as the lightning outside, she snatches the bread off his hand and bolts to the open window. She stuffs it down her throat on her way back despite her appetite escaping her from the encounter.
She reaches the squad by the river with good news and a satiated belly.
~
Standing near the middle of a bridge threatening to collapse into the abyss, she cursed at the wind for the predicament she had been thrown into.
She’d come a long way from being a child soldier in a poor, war-torn country to being a young mercenary in the most powerful country in the world. This is her first big mission— and the promise of handsome pay and an impressive reputation awaits— if only she could get her hands on that vial that is tightly secured in the hand of an unlikely ally suddenly turned adversary.
She stares into his defiant eyes. They are blue as the ocean and are most expressive. His lips are full and youthful, and very soft— as she had found out during that moment that would’ve been tender if only it wasn’t forced and deceitful.
This fool. This naive, impudent, pretty fool who chose the absolute worst time and place to be broken from her spell.
One shot is all it takes. She’d add one more bullet wound to the existing one that was meant to be in her body, had he not gone a little too far to impress her. There couldn’t be any other explanation for such actions, as far she’d like to believe.
But then again, none of the men who fell at her feet before had done something as bold and stupid.
As selfless.
The concept was alien to the mind of someone who had learned too early that such virtue is equivalent to a death sentence.
She tries to focus by steadying the aim of her gun, but in a move that will haunt her dreams for years, he lowers his weapon, dares her to shoot, and proclaims that she couldn’t.
The audacity.
Pull the trigger and get this over with, a part of her cries. Prove him wrong. Shoot him on the thigh, on the other shoulder, anywhere to incapacitate him long enough so you can grab what you need and leave—
But the realization that it all meant the same hit her like a ton of bricks— she couldn’t bring herself to kill him.
She killed dozens of men before. Murderous men, innocent men, men who were in the way of her objective. Just like this one. But why, why does he have to be this earnest, beautiful, impressionable being who showed no hesitance to save her life?
She knew she had lost the game the moment she tended to him in the sewers.
Shame and defeat. Failure and regret. Those feelings should be flooding her core as soon as she brought her weapon down, but none of them haunted her in the moment. It was something else instead, a tender feeling somewhat familiar, emerging from the recesses of her mind—
Annette Birkin’s bullet brings her back to reality, this time hitting its intended target.
Ever the fool, he comes to her rescue just in the nick of time. For the last time, he wasted no second risking his life for her. The sample falls to the depths of nowhere, and she will soon follow and take her down with him if he refuses to let go.
Of course he wouldn’t. “Shut up— I’ve got you,” he responds at her protest.
“It’s not worth it.” I’m not worth it.
Heroes like him never make it out unscathed or alive in a world like this. Somehow he knew and willingly embraced it. So does that really make him a fool? It doesn’t matter. He’s a fool now for risking his life for the likes of her. She didn’t deserve him as much he deserved none of the lies and betrayal that she had brought upon him.
She falls, but not before she spoke to him the sincerest words she had ever spoken to another soul.
By a combination of sheer luck and skill, she didn’t die that day. But a part of her did.
She returns to her employer with the sample and a shattered frame of reality.
~
The next morning went on as planned. They observed from afar and confirmed among themselves that the village was clear. It was during noon, when the sun was its hottest, that the question about food came up. Look up in the trees, the squad leader says, gather as many fruits as you can before it becomes too dark. And so they did— but it proved to be too difficult— and they failed to gather enough. A fight broke out when a few of them started to help themselves as soon as the fruits were dropped to the ground by those who had hacked them from the trees.
Let’s loot the village, cried the others, and to that the eldest ones including the leader protested. Another fight was threatening to break out when she stepped up. I’ll see what I can gather, she volunteers again, but it’s safer and quicker if I go alone.
Maybe they’re desperate, or plain stupid, as nobody was suspect of her intention to outsmart them yet again.
And maybe she’s desperate and stupid too, as she came back to the same house that she had looted the night before.
Chances are that the old fool will do nothing about her presence again, and maybe he’d be so kind to personally hand her more food this time.
Old fool. She likes and loathes the description.
Was he a sympathizer? A potential ally for when the inevitable invasion of their village by The Leader comes? Maybe his children had joined the rebellion, as runaways are one of their common sources of recruits.
She peeks into the house through the window, incredulous at how careless this old fool was, leaving it open for her yet again. The house was dark and cold as it had been the night before, and to her surprise, she finds not one, but three loaves of bread sitting on the table.
There was something else too, but she had to go in and see what it was.
Beside the three loaves, a red garment lays, folded neatly. Determined not to make the same mistake twice, she quickly wraps the loaves in the red garment and leaves the house.
He couldn’t have left gifts like that by mistake. An old, generous fool. How lucky was she to have walked into the right place, perhaps at the wrong time, but with the right person that night?
She unwraps the loaves from the red garment. Her comrades will gladly kill each other over a piece of food. She’s seen it happen before. The youngest and the most hesitant always die first. She can break off half a loaf for herself and offer them the rest, but that would give away that she had taken more than her share. And so she eats an entire loaf, leaving six mouths to fight for two. Survival of the fittest.
Satisfied, she wipes the crumbs off her mouth as she finally takes a good look at the red clothing.
It was a small raincoat, perhaps owned by a little girl, as given away by the small red butterflies stitched in the back and near the pockets. It was obviously old and had been worn before as evidenced by the tiniest of holes. It is pretty. She likes it, but she’d be stupid to come back to her squad wearing it with pride. What a shame, she thinks.
She hacks off a large banana leaf from a nearby tree and does her best to wrap the raincoat like a present, afterwards digging a hole in the ground to place it there like a treasure, finally marking it with a stack of stones.
In three days, amidst the sounds of gunfire and agonizing screams not too far away, she would come back for it.
~
Bold isn’t what always men are attracted to. Some prefer plain and simple. Some prefer sweet and feminine. The ones who are drawn to the seductive, voluptuous type are the easiest ones to manipulate, and most often than not are the most boring and amateur. Regardless of preferences, she has learned through experience that the key is confidence. Nothing commands attention and admiration like a woman who is sure of herself. Get them to pay attention, and the rest shall be easy.
And so she wears red— a color that makes her feel the most confident. Combined with the sultry sway of her hips and the brush of her hand on certain places, she silenced their intuition and got them to abandon their doubts about her motives.
For some reason, the color also reminded her of new beginnings, but she does not remember why.
She wore the most beautiful red dress to Spain, knowing that she’d run into him again.
He thought that he’d seen right through her, seen her as more than the manipulative and cunning spy that she was. And for that she had two missions in her mind the entire time— to obtain the sample as she’s been hired to do, and to prove him wrong for ever thinking that he had successfully broken down her walls back then in Raccoon.
And as the helicopter whisked her away from the island, the sample that she stole from him at gunpoint safe in her hands, she had a smug smile on her lips. She was successful. She had won this time, left him feeling like the fool he is for daring to proclaim that he knew her beyond anything than what she projected herself to be.
But then again, she also left him with a means to escape death, just as she did before. That, and she’d saved him from the shadows countless times, ensuring that he was successful in his mission that was again vastly different from hers.
So who’s the real fool here?
Don’t worry, she tells herself as she looks in the mirror, admiring herself in her beautiful red armor. There will be a next time, as he had proven himself to be more than capable of surviving even without her help. Let him think that she uses and abuses him for her own merit. Let him think that she enjoys toying with him in the process, and that to her it’s nothing more than a game of wits.
There will be a next time— and she’s very much looking forward to it.
~
She observes the old fool from afar every day while hiding amongst the thick trees of the jungle.
His gait was unsteady as he had gotten bow-legged from old age. His back was arched as well, and he wore the same dark blue beret as he did the night that they met. He worked as a farmer in the fields nearby, as the majority of the people there do, but he was certainly a little too old for it, she thought. He rose in the wee hours of the morning and comes home pretty late, as his legs were a little too slow for travel.
Maybe the red raincoat belonged to his daughter, or a granddaughter. Whoever it was, she was gone, as he lives alone in his mud house.
She never stole from him again, but sometimes she would take a peek in his open window just to make sure he’s alright— and she couldn’t help but notice how lonely he looks, those downturned eyes constantly wearing a sad, almost pleading expression. She felt for him, but she does not understand why.
One morning, the squad leader and the two other boys that went with him to be on the lookout did not come back.
What do we do now, they panicked. Maybe they found food and shelter and abandoned us, some said. Maybe they’re dead, she said. Most often than not, that is the correct answer. After being threatened with weapons, one of the girls had no choice but to go after them and find out what happened. She too, did not come back.
Abandon ship, said the majority. Stick together for a higher chance of survival, said the rest. Neither will work, she says, but only to herself. They were fools, all of them, as they had been the day that they joined the cause that none of them understood.
In the dead of night, she was woken up by odd sounds coming from far away, masked by the sound of rainfall and thunder. As her senses woke up one by one, she slowly recognized the sound of war. Her comrades lay still in slumber, oblivious to the sound that they should all be familiar with.
With her cat-like grace and lightness, she gets up and runs to the village where her suspicions were proven correct.
The military had made its way there, most likely from intel on what The Leader had planned to do. Screams of women and children flooded her ears, and for the first time in her life, she wished the sound of thunder was louder so it could drown out their painful cries. She clutched hard at her weapon as she makes her way to her usual spot during patrol, shielding her eyes from the rain.
But the old fool was nowhere in sight, and his house was ablaze.
She runs to change her vantage point, desperately trying to make out his form among the countless shadows that ran and fell from the gunfire. But she did not find his familiar waddling, unsteady gait, and her heart broke into a thousand shards at the realization that had he made it out of his home, he would not be able to outrun the spray of bullets.
He’s gone. And if he isn’t— he will be soon.
Embracing her weapon, she makes her way through the thick forest. She finds the stones she stacked on that spot days ago and furiously dug for her treasure— his present.
Donning the red raincoat, she rests her weapon against the young banana tree. With both hands, she pulls the hood over her head. Her eyes burned, and she blinks a few times, wipes the tears— no, the rain, she tells herself, with the back of her hand.
An old fool like him wouldn’t survive this world, she assures herself. There was nothing she could have done to change his fate. He invited death the moment he showed her kindness, and maybe she should have repaid him with a quick bullet to the head that night, to spare him this fate that was not as swift and graceful.
But maybe she had been the bigger fool for ever showing him weakness in hesitating, for ever thinking that she could protect him and that they could be allies as she watched over him, for running to his aid tonight, thinking that she could guide him along this maze of a forest to escape with that slow, bow-legged gait of his.
Next time, she promised herself, as she wipes her eyes again, she won’t be a fool like him.
She maps out the direction to where her squad was camped and runs the opposite way.
~
Ever since their encounter in Spain, she developed a new past-time: watching his every step in stealth.
It feels like her own little reconnaissance mission. Sometimes she uses her binoculars, perched on top of a building right across his high-rise apartment; sometimes she’d be in disguise among the crowd, testing to see how close she could get without blowing her cover. It had become her favorite game.
His adventures as a normal person fascinated her entirely. Sometimes he’d go to the movies and dine out, most often with that girl he survived Raccoon City with. Other times it would be a random woman who he never sees again, but those times are seldom, and she deduced that he isn’t the type to fool around, contrary to how he carries himself.
But most times he preferred solitude. He’s also a man of routine. In the morning he goes to run in the park. In the evening, at least every other day, he goes to the liquor store, or to his favorite bar down the street, sitting by himself for hours. She had to stop herself a few times from showing up and walking up to him as he seemed to enjoy his solitude that much. That, and she’s afraid that she might not be the companion he’d prefer.
And then it got old. Simply watching from a distance failed to fulfill the connection she’s looking for. She longed to see the place where he lives, to feel much closer to him than ever before.
So she used her skills to her advantage, breaking in his apartment like a thief set out on a heist. She’d remove her stilettos, careful not to leave marks on the carpet; she’d skip wearing perfume to avoid leaving a trail of her scent. She roamed about in silence and couldn’t help but feel warm inside from being in the same place that he calls home. She looks at his small dining table and imagines enjoying a meal with him; she saw his pristine kitchen and wonders what he craves to eat after being away from home for so long. She peeks into his bedroom and chills immediately ran down her spine from the thoughts that invaded her head. When his grey little kitten brushed itself on her leg, she had to stop herself from cooing as she picked it up and caressed it. All these years she had imagined him to be a dog person, and that he, like a typical bachelor, was untidy; but in her exploration she realized that he was the complete opposite of the image of him she had formed in her head, and thus felt disconnected from him even more.
In the solitude of her own bedroom, she hugged herself at the thought of craving that connection— something she felt only with him. Maybe she had felt it before, and if she did it was such a long time ago that it had buried itself in her mind.
Maybe one day she’ll have the courage to announce her presence, and hopefully he’d let her stay for the night so she could leave at dawn so as not to overstay her welcome, hoping that there will be a next time.
And that’s when she realized that she had doomed herself by feeling this way, stuck in an endless loop of being his savior, his guardian angel, his secret admirer who’s too much in denial to come out of the shadows. For he had made her feel human again— just when she was so sure that her humanity had left her a long time ago.
How dare he bring about this confusion in her, to compromise her, to make her life complicated— she thought bitterly as she wallows in her conflicting feelings of burning desire and passionate hatred of him. And in the peak of this internal struggle, she wished he’d just die— she should’ve left him bleeding in the sewers, shot him on the bridge, left him to be killed in Spain for her own good— so she could move on and live her life like she had always known it— alone and in need of no one.
He broke her, and she would never forgive him for it, just as she would never forgive herself for allowing him to.
If the day comes that she finds it in herself to forgive both of them, then she’ll allow herself to be saved by him— to pull her out of the dark hole that she had been in all her life.
Until then, she will fight him to the death, use him every chance she gets, tease him to come close and cruelly abandon him after, leaving behind a trail that she prays he’ll keep following— up to the day that she’s ready to run into his arms.