Chapter Text
Smoke billows from the many craters of explosions, floating through the aftermath on the battlefield; I breathe it in and out, and it worsens my nausea tenfold. I lay against the broken wall of a dilapidated building, hiding from the opposing task force, and my own handler—I do not want to be found yet. I have many wounds to care for still, and he does not care about me.
I try to manage my breathing, to calm my rapidly beating heart, but it doesn't do much good, so I just persist in my struggles while attempting, with shaky hands, to stitch the gaping wound on my calf. I had gotten hit with a piece of shrapnel, flung through the air by a grenade. I know that this wound is not clean, that it has a high chance of infection, but I am currently more concerned with not bleeding out than anything else. I already feel light-headed, with darkness prickling my vision and making me feel more panicky.
I fumble with the small needle I brought along with me (which, fortunately, didn't poke a hole in my gear and fall out), and pass it through my skin, wincing a little bit every time I do so, though the pain is way more bearable in relation to my many other injuries I have gathered on this mission. I pull the stitches a little too tight than I probably should, and it is uneven and generally messy, but I only have so long before I'm caught. I finish stitching it up and tie a small knot, before wiping the needle on my pants and pulling my pant leg back down to keep it covered.
Taking a quick look around the brick wall, I make sure there is nobody in sight, before taking my mask and slipping it back over my face. It is one that I have worn for a while, and its edges are fraying a little bit, but I have had it for a few years and I refuse to let it go. Also, I'd probably just get punished if I threw it out, because then my handler would have to buy me a new one, and God knows I don't want that to happen. It is plain black, with two holes for me to see through—I think I look fairly decent in it, if not a little menacing, which is exactly what I want, thankfully.
I do not remember where the designated evacuation point is. They—my handler and squadmates—had drilled it into my head, by now, or should have, but things have a tendency to slip my mind. I do not want to go back, anyways. Maybe I can stay here, maybe I can—
"Oi, dog? What are you doing?" Someone pulls me back by the straps and I swallow hard when I instinctively use my hurt leg to catch myself. I turn around to see a fellow soldier, Aaron, one who I had grown somewhat close to in the past two years or so.
"I-I—" I begin feebly, voice not fully working yet. I was not prepared to talk right now, and didn't have enough air in my lungs.
"Evac's this way," he drags me along, still holding onto a shoulder strap. I follow, trying to disguise my limp. "These people are hard to beat, huh? Gotta get 'em someday, though, right?"
I nod, not entirely sure if I agreed.
Aaron turns his head to look at me. We are about the same height, though I am a bit taller than him in these combat boots. "You're not talking a lot."
It's hard to tell what he means; I don't usually talk a lot. I don't know what he's trying to say. Is he mocking me? Maybe I'm hearing things, probably hearing things. I am not good at sensing tones in people, though I think he might be mocking me. But, there is also something on my mind. I don't know whether I should tell him or not. Nobody in my squad really has any... empathy. Or sympathy. Or feelings in general, I believe. But perhaps Aaron is different?
"Well, it's... it's just," I begin, unsure of how to really say it. I don't want to bother beating around the bush, but at the same time, if I say something he doesn't like, he might report it to my handler. Which would be bad. But, again, I'm not good at talking, so I want to get this over with. "I don't want to do this anymore. Be this anymore."
He narrows his eyes at me a little bit, and my heart skips a few beats (although, that was happening before, maybe I'm dying or something. Hopefully, I am), before Aaron talks. "Be... what? On this team? A soldier?"
"I—well, I guess—" I am alarmed at his sudden change in mood and I want to backtrack but I've already confirmed what I said.
"You don't believe in our cause anymore, huh? Is that it?" he insists.
"No, no, I do," the words sound like lies, even to myself, and I know I'm so screwed. "Wait, I didn't mean it, I just—"
"You think you're better than us? You think that you're just gonna be able to walk away from this? Puh-lease," he snorts derisively.
"Wait, Aaron, please, don't tell him—" I grab onto his arm to stop him, and also hold myself up.
He shoves me away and laughs in my face.
I grab my sidearm and shoot him in his face.
Blood explodes from his head and he falls to the ground in a heap.
I stare down at him and sigh, rubbing a hand down my face.
God, why does this always happen?
Whatever, it's okay. He was kind of a douche anyways. I grab him by the legs and pull him a bit closer to where the big shootout happened, only mildly aware that there was probably at least one straggler left from the firefight that could kill me right now. I dump him there, posing him a little better to make it look like he was shot by the enemy, before I wipe the blood from my hands onto my shirt.
There. Practically hidden.
I throw my gun away, into the dirt, and walk back the way Aaron was leading me, hoping to find the others, waiting by a car or a heli or something. I do find them, but they do not look pleased, at all.
Oh, shit. Were Aaron's comms on?
My handler, a big guy with a bald head, comes over and grabs me by my throat, throwing me to the ground. I land on my hands and knees, gravel digging into my palms and surely into the little cuts on them. I cringe away from my handler and a boot thuds into my side, kicking me a foot or two away. I keep my momentum and keep rolling, stumbling back to my feet. I know I should stay down, but with the whole killing a bunch of people thing, I am feeling particularly rebellious today.
"You wanna fucking go? I'll kick your arse!" I know I have absolutely zero chance of winning a fight against him while I'm in this state but I think I'd rather die like this than let him continue abusing me.
My handler doesn't even say anything—he just takes out his gun and shoots me in the stomach. I feel my world spin and I lose all thoughts because of the unbearable, sudden, sharp pain. My head bangs into the floor (how did I get here?) and I lay there, staring at the sky and trying not to make a noise. I see a face show up in my peripheral, and it gets a lot closer. My thoughts are too muddled to think clearly, and the face, too vague, and the pain and blood loss is getting to me.
"Dad..." I slur out, eyes blinking sluggishly.
Two hands cradle my head; one on the bottom, cushioning my skull against the hard dirt, and the other beneath my chin, thumb rubbing my skin soothingly. I hear words being spoken, and I can decipher that they are directed at me, but I've never really been good at listening, least of all with a litre of blood gone. I feel a pressure on my mind and I close my eyes, trying to let all my feelings blend into one thing that is easier to bear.
"Please..." I hear the whimper in my voice; the breath catching in the back of my throat. I don't want to die, I don't want to die here. I don't want to die.
I hear a comforting sound, and then feel the stinging pain that usually comes with fingers digging into open bullet wounds.
The sudden pain makes me gasp and I writhe on the ground, struggling to breathe. "Stop, stop," I sob messily, loudly, broken. I have not cried in forever and I do not know how to. "Please, stop..."
Loud bangs make my ears hurt and I feel the fingers disappear, then hear footsteps, disappearing. God, there's so much happening. I don't know what to do so I lay there, soaking in my own blood, waiting to finally pass out and die. I close my eyes and stay still, taking only light breaths, hoping my demise will come quickly. As I feel myself begin to lose control of my body and mind, I hear foosteps near me again; whose? They aren't familiar to me... but then again, I don't think anything would be familiar to me right now. I hear people, men, indistinct voices, talking, and that's the last thing I hear before I, at long last, faint.