One breath after the first. One centimetre at a time. Through blood thicker than wine, warm and tacky. Through rattling gasps that shake his body. Through the cold that has settled in his bones. Through it all, he drags himself.
No one will save him. Get up. Get up.
His gloves soak blood into the fibres. His arms tremble as he tries to push himself up. Get up, Câ
And he falls. Heâs falling fast into the thick fog, where his thoughts catch on mud and his consciousness is dragged below the bog. Heâs falling, drowning, dying, and no one will save him. No one can.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Close, but so distant. Boots stop before his hazy gaze. A knee drops into the blood pooling on the floor. A voice, so familiar, says somethingâbut through the cotton in his ears, he canât hear it. What they said. Who it is.
His eyes close.
And open to blinding white. It sears his eyes. His chest heaves, the clothes heâd been given drenched in a cold sweat. His hand touches at his throat and comes back dry.
He canât stay here. He wonât stay here. On wobbly legs he stands and leaves the infirmary.
The base is quiet. The moon hangs high in the sky. And Crow sits atop the hangar, legs dangling off the edge, eyes on the sky.
Itâs quiet. He takes a breath, laying back. Perhaps heâll close his eyes, just for a moment more. ]
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[ Crow had accepted it, when Price dragged him out of Verdansk as a dead man; he'd die forgotten in some battlefield somewhere. Either from a bullet or flayed skin, he'd die alone. He'd die deep in enemy territory. And every mission that goes sideways, he thinks--this is it.
Being taken by the Shadows had been part of the plan. Being interrogated by the Shadows had been part of the plan.
Being found was not.
Surviving was not.
And now, here he is. Picking up the pieces. Putting himself back together alone, as always. Staring at the bruises and the bandages in the mirror again, wondering when it'll end.
Hasn't he given enough? Hasn't he done enough?
Crow lets out a slow breath, the deep bruises and fresh wounds on his ribs screaming in pain. Not the worst he's been through, not by a long shot--incompetence extends to interrogation for Shadow Company, it seems. But still--it's enough. More than enough. It's enough to see another piece of himself slipping away.
He rubs his eyes. He leans heavy against the mirror, blood from soaked through bandages smearing on the glass. He breathes, even still.
No rest for the wicked, but damn--Crow is tired. And part of him hopes that next time--
Next time, he prays he doesn't come home at all. ]
[ Restocking their more remote bases, secluded and embedded deep within enemy lines, is always a challenge. Doing so without compromising their security, without prising the chitin from vulnerable systems and highly-classified procedures, doubly so. Doing so without compromising the shipment itselfâincredibly difficult.
Crow rides shotgun, the truck rattling and shaking on the remote dirt road. Trees loom high, swallowing their surroundings in foliage and bark. Winding and uneven, itâs no wonder theyâve had trouble restocking this particular base; the whole path is prime for ambush.
The details for this mission were sparse, butâCrow had asked for this. Asked for a mission short notice. Any holes in intel are the fault of his own impatience.
âYer a quiet one,â the driver says into the silent cab, accent thick and gruff. âLast lad they shipped me out with talked mâear off.â
Crow makes a small noise, sparing the man a glance. His eyes return quickly to the treeline. Somethingâsomething nags at him, though, so he plucks his phone from its pocket on his vest.
âYouâve been on this route before?â The text-to-speech asks; the man looks confused for a brief moment, eyes on Crowâs phone.
âAye, this is my regular route.â
âWhat do the ambushes usually look like?â
The man grunts, and for a second his hands tighten on the wheel. âTheyâll crawl out the woods like roaches, stick us up, and scamper off with our supplies. Only time theyâve gotten violent was when the last lad decided to fire on âem. Shot him fullâa holes, they did. Been on my own since.â
And yet, they donât send a convoy. Donât protect the supplies. Donât fight back. Donât even send more than one man. Crowâs eyes return to the treeline. He nearly tricks himself into thinking he saw movement.
The man is whistling, idle and lazy. Loud. Itâs giving Crow a headache.
Fortunately, the drive in is mostly quietâaside from the whistling, that is. The delivery makes it to the base just as the sun begins to set, and a grateful captain offers them a bed for the night. The man takes it without hesitation, wandering off with heavy footsteps. Crow lingers in the captainâs office.
And the captainâRichards, heâd introduced himself asânotices. âSomethinâ on your mind?â He asks, raised brow.
âWhy do they not send a convoy for these shipments?â
Richards makes a small noise before gesturing with his head to the small, almost ramshackle base. âYouâve seen the place. Weâre here for recon, mostly. Donât have the manpower to send out our own, and command doesnât care much about us down here. Enough makes it here to keep us goinâ, so itâs not a high priority.â
Crow hums a bit, eyes out the window. Darkness has settled on the small base, thick and impenetrable.
âLook, Lieutenant, I appreciate your concern,â Richards says, and Crowâs eyes flick back. âBut weâre fine. We get enough to get us by. Donât need to worry yourself about this, aye?â
Something pricks the back of Crowâs neck. But he nods, offers a smile hidden under his mask, and retreats to the cluttered barracks.
[ It was cold in Verdansk. Winter was on the horizon, the chill of fall giving way. ]
[ The mission was simple. Three teams: his, Priceâs, and MacAndrewsâ. The target was some ultra-nationalist, the right-hand of the leader of the whole cell. If anyone had information on where the leader was, it would be him.
Theyâd surround him. Flush him out of the abandoned apartment building heâd made his base. Capture him. Simpleâheâd done missions like this countless times.
The sergeant behind him was still fairly green, restless and uncomfortable. Anxiousâhe understands. Heâd been nervous for ops like this once, too.
âDonât worry,â he says with a smile, giving the sergeant a pat on the arm. âBe in and out fast, youâll see.â
The sergeant smiles, uncertain. âThanks, L.t.,â he mumbles.
âAll good on your end?â Priceâs voice comes from the radio. He hums.
âAll good, cap,â he replies, peering out the window. âNo movement. All quiet here.â
âGood. We breach in ten.â
Ten minutes is a lifetime in his line of work. A minute is a month. A second is a day. But heâs patient, always has been, always had to be.
A noise from the hall has him on alert, thoughâgun raised, he nods to the sergeant to cover him as he pulls the door open.
âEasy, doll,â MacAndrews says, with that lazy grin of his, hands raised. His gun is slung on his back.
âWhat are you doing here?â He hisses, bewildered. MacAndrews, on the best of days, has never been particularly carefulânever follows plans, always throws caution to the wind. But thisâthis is reckless, even for him.
MacAndrewsâ eyes flick to the sergeant, then back to him. âWanted to see you before the mission. That a problem?â
Yes. He feels a migraine building, thunderclouds gathering before the storm. But he canât say that, not to MacAndrews. Not when, on the best of days, heâs easily set off. Like holding a frag, pin pulled, he always has to maintain just the right pressure to keep them both intact.
âNo,â he answers, and MacAndrews grins wide, bullying his way into his space. A possessive hand at his neck. Another at his waist. An uncomfortable sergeant, clearing his throat and turning away.
MacAndrewsâ kisses always burn, like licking a lit butane torch. Hungry. Devouring. All-consuming. It makes him dizzy, weak in the knees, but MacAndrewsâ hand keeps him steady and upright. Right where he wants him.
âAh, fuck, doll,â MacAndrews murmurs against his lips, hand digging into his hip hard enough itâll bruise. âWish we had time for me tâfuck you good anâ proper.â
âFive minutes,â Priceâs voice calls over the radio, as if to prove MacAndrewsâ point. âStill quiet?â
Heâs about to reply when MacAndrews puts a hand over his mouth. âAh, cap can wait a bit, I think,â he says with a grin sharp as knives. The hand on his hip stops feeling possessive and feels more like a threatâand something twists in his gut.
He pulls back, a sharp step away that has MacAndrewsâ eyes narrowing. âWhy are you here?â He asks again.
MacAndrews sighs, rubbing his eyes. Anger isnât uncommon for him, but somethingâsomething doesnât feel right. âFuck, doll, you always make things difficult, yâknow that? Hate that stupid sixth sense youâve always got.â
And, before he can reply, MacAndrews draws his pistol and puts several rounds into the sergeantâs chest. Heâs dead before he hits the floor.
The gun turns on him, still hot from the murder. Still smoking a bit. He stares into the barrel because thatâs easier than looking MacAndrews in the eye.
âAll I wanted was to enjoy you one last time, but you canât even give me that,â MacAndrews growls as the sound of boots in the hall fills his ears. âTypical. You know the drill: guns on the floor, doll.â
Men filter into the room as he drops his rifle and pistol on the rotting wood floor. He raises his hands in surrender as three men clad in black flank MacAndrews. No patches. No identifications. Just heavy, black gear and grins on their faces.
âAh, I told you heâd be good for this,â one of the men says, accent thick.
âYou did,â another says with a light hum before shooting MacAndrews through the skull. Heâs dead before he hits the floor.
ââ? Sitrep, now.â
âYouâre a hard man to catch,â the third man says, stepping forward. âToo many men loyal to the clock that keeps them ticking, yes?â
He spits on the manâs face. The man simply seems amused. A hand snakes out, gripping his jaw hard enough to bruise. âYou know, boss thinks youâre more valuable alive,â the man says, turning his head this way and that, observing him as if heâs just some curiosity. "Personally, I don't see it."
Alive. They want him alive. He wonât give them the satisfaction; his thumb touches at the knife on his belt for a moment before he draws it, slashing at the manâs face. It slips through his flesh, easy and smooth, and the man swears. Guns raise on him, but they wonât shootâhe knows they wonât shoot now.Â
He sinks the knife into the manâs shoulder. Twists it. Relishes in the way he howls, a wounded mutt.
The crack of gunfire rings in the room; his arm goes numb, cold, and the man snarls and rips the knife from his shoulder.
âFuck what the boss wants,â he roars, lunging with the blade. It catches his arm, sinking easily into muscle. Another swipe, and it catches his jaw. Another swipe, and it drags a line across his side. Another swipe, and it drags along his face, through his lipâ
He stumbles back. One arm hangs limply at his side. The other presses at his face. Guns stare back.
No one will save him.
For a second, he closes his eyes. The fear, the fire, fades into acceptance. No one will save him.
The man grabs him by the hair. Sharp and unyielding. And when the knife rips through his throat, he knowsâ
[The gym is quiet as the base slumbers around Crow. Dim, with just the emergency lights that catch on the polished metal of the machines. Peaceful, without the ever-present stares and attention of his fellow soldiers that makes his skin crawl.
They watch him wherever he goes. Like a caged animal, there to be gawked at and kept just on the other side of the glass. Always at armâs distance, as if heâll bite. Always with that same dehumanising slant that pares him down to nothing more than a commodity. All he is, all he'll ever be to them, is just a topic for idle gossip.
He doesnât know how Ghost handles it, being around during the day. Being seen. Crow can hardly stand it.
With hands that shake more than heâd like, he slips his headphones in. Familiar bass riffs fill his ears and settle the gnawing unease in his stomach. The guitar blooms in his chest, hums in his bones, screams in his blood, and he settles on the treadmill.
Each footfall meets the kick. Each breath dances with the snare. Every muscle screams with the guitar. Every thought thuds in time with the bass. His lungs burn with the vocals, raw and aching. Fast. Faster. Faster, until heâs in a dead sprintâ
He hits the e-stop, sliding to the side before he loses control. Every breath is a battle, fighting and pressing against his ribcage. Fuck.]
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[Crowâs office is quiet, dim. The scratch of his pen is his only company as the hours slip away.
Warm. Too warm; Crow sighs and leans back in his chair, pushing his hair away from his face for any relief. The heat clings to him, sticks to him, tacky and thick and uncomfortable.
He doesnât dare remove layers, though. His gloves stick to the skin between his fingers. His sleeved shirt is damp from sweat. His mask reflects hot breaths back. His trousers chafe. All he wants is to retreat to his room and take the coldest shower he can tolerate.
Thereâs still more paperwork to be done, though. More, always moreâfrom operations to a private setting the microwave on fire again, thereâs always more to do and so few hours to do it.