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"They don't act up for the camera // They just sit back and command ya"
Rain plummets the pavement, accompanied by the ricochetting sound of a hundred pounding boots.The whole city is usually drenched in a calm, clear skies or gentle rain - but not tonight. Tonight a hallowing fog incases the spectating buildings, entrapping any wayward pedestrians in the brewing chaos. The surrounding air is thick with an expectant unease, the trees shake in the unsteady breeze.
A mass of soldiers thunder down the streets, everyone moves in sync. It's hard to tell person from person, limbs moving robotically and black uniforms kept identical. Finn is no different, falling in line with the rest of them like green plastic toy soldiers carefully ordered by a particularly meticulous 5 year old. Any agency they could have over their actions having long since been stripped away.
Memories flit dangerously behind Finn's eyes, his fathers constant reminders of how he was “destined for greatness.” Somehow it landed him sweaty and running through desolate streets, pumped up on adrenaline and common room coffee. Being “here” often leads him to think about what dragged him to where he is. His mind becomes a broken VHS player, only showing him sparse moments in his teenage years and early career. Relentless studying to become a submarine mechanic only for it to become redundant after one payrise promotion
Distantly, a part of him knows he's doing it for his younger self, so hopeful, so anticipative, so perfectly intoxicated by the thought of the future. When he joined the army it was like a sequel to his life, an entirely fresh start, but despite his attempts to cut ties with who he was, his adolescent years still linger. A sour, bitter aftertaste stuck in the back of his throat. Something he’ll spend the rest of his life choking on or forcing back. In a way it's what keeps him so controlled - he needs to live up to standard or die trying.
Pulse in his fingertips, Finn leads his team into the open-armed shadows and waits for the signal, the crackle of radio static that his body automatically reacts to. It takes a few antagonising minutes before it comes in but eventually it does. “Charlie team. Move out” His Captain commands, prompting Finn to signal to his privates to scatter into the roads and alleyways.
After making his way to a vantage point (the gap between a WHSmith and Sainsburys Local) Finn watches as his men are shot down. It's few enough not to be considered a threat to success but it's more than none. Disturbingly, he should be okay with this. Lieutenant is a high enough rank for him to be used to it. Why would a few toys getting knocked over have any impact when they have a whole, evergrowing tub of replacements. More people for Finn to train, to watch grow, to watch fall.
“Evac on its way, Alpha team out. Do not retreat until I call. I repeat, do not retreat. Maus lead beta team, Sharkie is WIA.” The use of his callsign allows Finn to detach from the situation enough to kick him into gear. “Maus” is the german for mouse, given to him due to his comparison to the only other german at his basic training. She was dubbed Katze (cat) for her cut throat tendencies and overly destructive ways. Finns are very antithesis. “Maus” is a constant reminder of what's defined him - what's defined everyone - since he arrived. Who he is to other people.
Muscles screaming for pull back, FInn runs out of cover and rounds up the persisting soldiers. Barking out orders, his vocal chords desperately trying to hold in, he guides his group around the suffocating streets. Playing an unholy messiah, parting the sea of red bloody bodies. Some friends - mostly foe.
Blood coats the soles of his shoes, the base of his trouser legs, the cracks in his palm that no soap could even hope to reach. Bullets fly blindly out of his rifle - aiming for the general vicinity of the enemy and screaming silent prayers. There’ll be time to stare at his trembling alien image in the mirror later. Now he has to kick over the brittle lego tower of his morals. Now he has a job to do.
Every enemy shot down is another ally lost, every attempt at pushback is met with equal pull from the other side. Any good shot is redundant and reduced to a statistic at the end of the day. All battles end with the pieces put back in minutely different formations. All wars end in debt and handshakes and promises to never repeat the endless cycle. All winners write a justified history and blot out the asperse actions they took. They commemorate criminals; make heroes out of mass murderers. And the wheels keep spinning. The child's game of vulgar violence continues for another round.
After all is said and done, alone in your cramped barrack, who's to say whose blood is on your hands?
“It has to be someone. Do it so someone else doesn’t have to.” This sentiment is practically tattooed into Finn's brain. A passing thought as he enlisted morphed into a mantra, a phrase he clings to like a lifeline. Distracting from his ultimate fungibility it provides a morbid comfort to him. The thought of someone having to receive a K.I.A letter about any of his siblings bars him from the notion of letting anyone else receive one. Hypocrisy is laced in his ideology but he doesn't allow much room for faults in it.
Soldiers, by definition, are made to serve a hierarchy. To those deemed “above” the rest, a hundred men is a number, one fallen man is barely a blip, one lost game piece in an activity with endless parts, a chip in the cogs of a massive machine. Their soft uniforms working as thicker armour against empathy than any bloody bulletproof vest could. Backs - now healed with years of compensated PT - would crumble under the weight of what FInn has to carry day in day out. Subordinates are entirely helpless, entirely, insignificant, entirely careful. Ordered in neat rows, the ever looming threat of death if they step out of line.
Every move is calculated, every move is precise. They can’t afford to be reckless. Some veterans talk of a “6th sense” , some higher power that guides them to safety. It's comforting to think of a force that shows them the way, conditions are often too dangerous for the average person to make it out of. Bulls in China shops full of semtex. Finn made the choice to follow it blind long ago.
A bullet whistles past his ear, his hand comes back soared when he reaches to check it on instinct. His conviction is rewarded with minor wounds instead of gaping holes in his head; more radio static. Muffled directions and commands blur into a mess of noise, reflexes kicking in and dragging his body in the right direction. Twisting his hands into signals and yelling orders he doesn't remember saying - spending fleeting time on an insurance that his men are as safe as he can get them.
They all fall into the city park. Grass quivering as a British military helicopter settles into the open space. Spinning blades drowning out the various conversations scattered about the area. Finn doesn't need to hear them to know what they're saying. The hushed yells are echoed in every stolen heartbeat he has, it's the same thing he's told - and been told - dozens of times. Approximated calmness muddied with desperate promises of safety and sunny days. COuntless wishes for “when this is all over…” Vows for tommorows that only exist in condemned futures - pain induced hallucinations.
The heli parks and people begin hurriedly filing in, distressed and desperate. A gentle hand on Finn's shoulder keeps him at the back of the pack. Turning to see the face of a pained private, Finn accepts the momentary wait.
“Sir-” Private Jones’ voice cuts off as he attempts to swallow a sob “How do you do this?” It’s his first mission, Finn recalls. There's a stark difference between training dummies and flesh and bone. Another instinct controls Finn's arms as he pulls him into a hug, it's not the kind you could find in a textbook or his Commanding Officers playmat. It's pure. It's good. It's human.
Taking his seat in the heli, Finn thinks of his superiors once again. In order to be such of a high rank they have to have decades of service behind them. He wonders how their memories of active duty can fade to amusing stories of mass murder. How can they let their unlucky comrades imitators become nothing but pawns?
Finn makes a promise to himself at that moment. Alone in a silent heli packed with people, hand on Jones’ shoulder. The cycle won't repeat with him. Living out of spite and imperative for change, power and a common voice.
He resigns from the game. He drafts his own rules. He kicks over the delicately placed dolls.
Checkmate.