COUNTERING TERROR.

YOU  CAN’T  KILL  ME.

ADRENALINE ONLY GOES SO FAR to keep Anita on her feet, between alleys and streets, hearing distinct voices that eventually all blur together. The smaller woman that leads her like a good shepherd returning a stray to her flock. Helplessness isn’t an ideal condition, but even on her last legs, Anita can barely hold the pistol in her hand - slipping it back into its holster at her command.

Better off if she can’t even hold it.

“Roger,” Anita’s words become slurred, heavy on the tongue. The blood makes her shirt stick to her side and her wounds, aggravating them with every step. Eventually when she’s guided to the floor, Anita’s able to take a heavy breath, hand clamped to her side. She’s paler than before, and her vision feels fuzzy at best. At least this moment of reprieve gives her enough time to muster the strength, to pull herself together for the sake of SURVIVAL.

She has to. For herself. For Jackson. For the mission.

“I got you,” Anita murmurs, keeping her eye on the entrance, even as she feels like she’s slumping over, unable to keep herself upright. Over time, the sound of whistles and later, voices, Anita’s consciousness begins to fade. Her last vision is her savior returning the mirror to her pocket, and the sound of help arriving.

         —–

DESERT HEAT is the first thing that Anita notices upon waking; sand lingers in her clothes and boots, and sweat makes her skin and hair damp. The ache in her side feels taut - laden with fresh and raw stitches, and bandaged firmly. She’s alive, at least she thinks she is, but as for her current circumstances, she can feel the eyes on her.

Two guards, armed, watching over her with unreadable expressions from where she lies on the cot. She tries to lift herself but the pain in her side prevents it for the time being. She wets her lips - dry, stuck together - she clears her throat.

“Can I get some water?”

AND IT IS INDEED RAW PAIN SHE’LL EXPERIENCE.   the merciless gnawing of brutal reality.   they possess no adequate pain killers nor anaesthetic.   the force rely on their ability to makeshift and make do to survive.   whether that be digging bullets out with their own fingers or reusing bloodied bandages in emergencies.   farah had fully anticipated the stranger to die.   to bleed out upon arrival.   she’s far from naive  -  many of her people die each day.   𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐘.   the day karim sees those around her as merely statistics rather than family and friends is the day they all lose.   𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝  𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍  𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎  𝚑𝚎𝚛  𝚏𝚊𝚛  𝚝𝚘𝚘  𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎  𝚝𝚘  𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚘𝚟. 

         “ إنها مستيقظة يا أخت ”   darine informs her from the doorway, expression wary, for her leader has yet to confirm whether the wounded is trustworthy or not.   “ شكرا،, darine.  I will be there shortly. ”   farah gives a single nod, prompting her company to leave her.   naturally, she has questions.   there’d been little surprise upon learning americans were acting secretly within her country, however, one wrong move on their part could be misinterpreted by the russians  -  leading them to attack the ulf.   𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐇 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑.   her family had already paid dearly for the mistakes of others.

farah arrives in time to hear the wounded’s request.    𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁.   remaining hidden outside the doorway, she reaches over to an idle basket and takes one of the bottles of water standing in it.

❝        i    feel    anxious    around    you,          that’s  what  i’m  feeling,  iskra.        ❞                    she’s  a  firecracker,  for  sure,  but  she’s  someone  in  their  unit  he’s  taken  a  shine  to.  even  if  they  are  allies,  may  not  know  one  another  intimately,  the  man  worries  for  her,  even  if  she  is  more  than  capable  of  handling  herself.    ❝        hinterhältiger  idiot.        ❞          he  speaks  softly,  mostly  to himself.  head  nods  as  shoulder  is  patted,  careful  as  he  maneuvers  around  cover,  advancing  behind  brick  barricade,  ensuring  he  checks  on  his  teammate,  careful  not  to  drag  her  into  his  usually  chaotic  approach.  no,  he  has  to  be  tactical.  only  nikto  indulges  his  methods  of  work.

❝        don’t  worry  about  me,  sehr  geehrter.  focus  on  yourself.  i  will  move  forward,  wait  until  i  can  draw  their  attention…        ❞          always  caring  about  his  team.  never  himself.  he  may  not  be  loyal  to  the  allegiance,  or  chimera,  but  he  damn  well  is  to  the  unit  itself.  thought  is  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  mind,  attention  directed  to  the  operation  itself,  weapon  mounted  on  the  barricade,  warning  shots  fired  in  listed  direction,  but  to  no  response.  he  huffs,  frustrated,  hand  moving  from  the  trigger,  to  sign  for  iskra  to  halt.          ❝        he’s  not  taking  the  bait.  i’ll  go  ahead.        ❞          with  that,  the  austrian  moves,  advancing  to  the  next  barricade,  standing  a  good  few  feet  away,  but  attention  is  briskly  torn  to  an  unused  bunker,  gunshot  ringing  in  the  air.  weapon  is  trained  on  the  location,  not  quite  quick  enough,  as  a  bullet  grazes  his  arm,  causing  him  to  flinch,  getting  down  under  cover.          ❝        iskra!  bunker,  left  side!        ❞

don’t worry about me.   worry is not the word.   she cares.   it’s in her blood, born into a family who live to love and fight for those around them.   𝐊𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐌 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋,  she will die for those close to her  -  even if such isn’t returned.   nevertheless, she doesn’t reply and focuses on the task at hand.   a warm palm is pressed to the cover keeping her alive, channeling some of her adrenaline by rocking her wrist back and forth against the pressure.   “ he is a coward, this is why. ”   a statement that leaves her at some volume.   𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙘𝙪𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣  -  she can recall plenty of life-threatening insults she’d spat at barkov himself as a youngster.

                          iskra watches her teammate increase the distance between them and she’s aware of the growing predicament that, if anything happens, it’s going to be difficult to reach each other.   she peers out from behind cover to pull her weight and spot any gunfire.  unfortunately, when she does it’s too late as krueger gets hit.   she’s unfazed however, having witnessed far worse and is able to angle her own weapon in order to fire several rounds; only one of which actually making contact.   “ 𝗛𝗘'𝗦 𝗛𝗜𝗧 ! ”

it’s enough of a shot to cause the enemy to pull back to cover, allowing iskra to make her way over to krueger.   keeping her head ducked, she glances around for his injury, spotting the blood on his arm.   “ nothing a good drink won’t fix ! ”   she grins, tucking away her weapon in order to reach for a vaguely bloodied bandage in her pocket which she offers him.   it’ll do for now.