#immediate-action

Kestrel, being the pinnacle of integrity and good-will, has of course, stolen a fair few bits of kit in his time. Be it the orange juice cartons from the Mess Hall to the occasional piece of military kit.

"Hey! Lyssa! Wait, come back!"

"Oh my god. What is it now?" A little girl snapped back at the boy who was now trialing behind her. She had a bag of heavy (at least, heavy for a 13 year old) groceries on each arm and seemed annoyed just having to make any extra movement with them, "Come on, I just wanna get home."

Her brother was standing at the entrance to a filthy, garbage filled alleyway with a curiously worried expression on his face similar to the time when he watched his uncle drunkenly projectile vomit a few months back.

"Wow. Cool. Garbage." Alyssa groaned and rolled her eyes, turning back the other way to continue walking home.

"No, shut up for a second," He grabbed her arm and pulled her back next to him. He dumped the groceries on his arms on the ground, pointing at a beat-up cardboard box poking out from behind a trash can, "You can't hear that?"

It almost looked like the box was shivering. There was a light thumping and rumbling coming from inside, along with short, quiet whimpers. 

"Adam, don't." Alyssa said more out of annoyance than concern, reluctantly putting her groceries down besides the others and following her older brother into the alleyway and up to the box. They stood side by side as they peered into the box, then quickly back at each other with their jaws dropped.

"Who the hell would abandon puppies?" Adam knelt down, picking up one of the three and cradling it in his arms. They looked only a few weeks old, and luckily they looked like they were in okay shape too.

"Should we take them home with us?"

Name: carver black.

Gender: male.

General Appearance: serious looking eyes for a kid, a mop of shaggy brown hair, average height.

Personality: strangely enough (to his parents at least), very shy, mostly around people he doesn’t know well. nice, polite and wellmannered. took more of an interest in books at a young age than running around outside with the other kids, though jackal is just happy carver is doing something safe than getting in trouble on the streets.

Special Talents: he has one hell of a talent for staying quiet and being able to sneak up on his parents, and when he’s feeling particularly playful, uses that to creep up behind one of them, shout and then laugh at their reaction.

Who they like better: he’d never ever imply he loves one parent more than the other, but he is always around his mother.

Who they take after more: watching him grow up, jackal is thankful carver ended up being more like dust than how he was growing up.

Personal Headcanon: when carver was a toddler, jackal went to read him his favorite bedtime story, realizing when he got to the middle of the (cardboard) book, that carver had eaten nearly two of the pages.

The 4x4's engine strained and roared as Jackal's foot planted against the accelerator. The roar of a PKP boomed over the whining engine, and empty brass casings bounced along the runway. Jackal and Kestrel's 4x4 was racing towards a C-130 which was already taxing down the runway with it's cargo ramp lowered, effectively scraping along the tarmac, leaving large carved trails behind it. Jackal's head was almost shot off as a lucky shot ripped through the already-shattered windscreen"You wanna kill those fuckers, Kestrel?!" he shouted over the booming gunfire coming from the Russian"If you would drive better there would not be anybody chasing us!" Kestrel replied as he loaded a fresh belt into the machine gun.

The gunfire resumed, and the 4x4 edged closer and closer to the C-130, and caught onto the ramp and with the already-speeding momentum, launched the 4x4 into the rear of the plane. Jackal immediately clasped a thumb over his radio"We're in, go!!" he exclaimed to the pilot, who began to pull up. The entire plane shifted as they went airbourne, and the cargo ramp began to close. They were now safely out of range of the small arms that cracked out below them. The two gave a sigh of relief, and exited the 4x4. The PKP's barrel was glowing red as Kestrel sat it down, and empty casings rolled onto the cargo bay floor as Jackal opened the driver-side door."Didn't go easy, did you?" he sarcastically commented as he locked the 4x4 down, to which the Russian just grunted in return.

The entire plane rocked suddenly, launching the two across into one side of the plane. Jackal thumbed his radio as he strained to get up"What the fuck was that?!" he barked, but was met with white noise. The C-130 began to roll, and the contents of the cargo bay began to follow the motion. They were then suddenly thrown upside-down, and from what they could make out, were heading back to earth. Kestrel managed to peek out the window long enough to see that they were missing a wing."Shit."

Jackal, moi droog.

It has come the time where I must depart from Task Force. I am not leaving for work reasons, nor for reasons of compassion.

I am leaving because the nightmares are too much to bear. They are leaking into my waking life; I see my fallen friends at corners of my eye, or catch their glimpse as I turn a corner. I hear their shrieks and screams as I sit in silence. I smell their burned flesh and the metal-like stench of blood which hangs around me like rain cloud.

Do not allow anyone to find this out. I trust in your secrecy and have no problem telling you these things. I always considered you a very close friend, and trustworthy cohort, and I will leave knowing the Task Force will not hinder under my absence.

Jackal shifted uneasily in his chair as the timer reached zero. The television set buzzed with cheers and applause as once again, Great Britain lost the football world cup. Or was it the European league? 'Bah, fuck it' Jackal grumbled to himself as he raised a shaking hand and pressed the 'channel up' button on the small device to his side. 'Bloody foreigners beating us again,' he growled as images of cooking shows, family feuds and daily stocks flashed before his eyes as he changed channels with haste, looking for something to satiate his already-shot concentration. Nothing interested him nowadays; apart from one certain lady, but she was at the local market purchasing tonight's meal – after all, she was the most mobile and the better chef of the two. As the videos of futuristic-looking soldiers leaped and dived their way through virtual-reality environments on the Military Channel, Jackal released the television remote. Scenes of men wearing outfits that looked like wetsuits with armour sheets under the material all stood to attention as a bald-headed man pointed and explained what each part was to the camera. Jackal frowned and reached to his side for his bottle of water

“Stupid new armours...” he said between sips of water “Back in my day Kevlar and your brains was the best you had.” he placed the water back down “Wouldn't you agree, Bailey?”

He paused for an answer before catching himself and letting out a saddened sigh, she had already left for the market. Right. I forgot.

Before Jackal could go back to hating the television show's presenter, there was a knock at the door. Jackal's ears pricked up like a dog's as he rose to his feet, arms trembling as they supported his frail frame. He snatched up his walking stick made from parts of his old rifle and advanced to the door, almost grinning with excitement, 'I can almost taste dinner' Jackal whispered to himself as he unlocked and unbolted the door. He pulled the door open to see a tall gentleman dressed in a dark cloak – a stark contrast to the bright summertime sun.

“...What do you want?” Jackal asked, squinting his eyes slightly as he tried to get a look at the man's face

“Hello, my old friend.” came the man's reply. Jackal was take aback, he recognized the voice from somewhere.

“Do I know you?” he asked, opening the door wider. The man stepped forward

“It would be best if I came in.” he said, lowering the hood that masked his face, “It is rather important news.”

Jackal's mouth fell agape as he realized who he was talking to

“You son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, ushering the man into his house “Come, come in!”

The man silently entered Jackal's house, the door closing shut behind him as Jackal led him into the living room. Jackal motioned for the man to sit as he did the same, sitting into the mold his body has formed in his chair.

Jackal turned the television down as he turned to the man

“...Tell me,” he began, clearing his throat “Why are you here, Kestrel?”

Kestrel smiled gently “I have a confession to make,” the Russian began, his words drawn-out and deliberate “it is more business than pleasure.....and I'm not just Kestrel.” he rose to his feet, and opened his hands in a friendly gesture “I am death.”

Jackal let out a laugh

“You always said you were, you arrogant old git.” Jackal commented “I am become death, destroyer of Chechens!” he mocked in a Russian accent, leaning back into his chair, the moan of old leather agreeing with him. Kestrel chuckled with Jackal before speaking again

“No, no. Not quite.” the Russian lowered his hands “I'm what you imagined death to look like.”

Jackal gave him a 'what the hell are you talking about?' look

“You mean...What I'm seeing now....Is what I wanted the Grim Reaper to look like?” he asked, rubbing his chin. Kestrel nodded slowly. “Well that's a load of bollocks!” Jackal exclaimed, throwing his hands up into the air “'cause I always wanted to die with tits smothered over my face!” he exclaimed “Cheers for making my death under-fucking -whelming.”

Kestrel raised an eyebrow

“You're taking this rather...well.” he said, standing up from his seat.

“...Look, Kestrel mate.” Jackal began, slowly standing up with Kestrel “I'm old. I've lived past what I predicted, and don't get me wrong – I'm thankful for each second that I'm living, and every day I wait for my heart to stop beating, or my brain to finally stop sending little bursts of electric into my spine. I have literally lived in waking misery with this knowledge.” Jackal paused, placing a thumb and finger to his eyes and wiped the small pockets of moisture from their corners “So please...Please just let me die in my sleep alongside the woman I love...and I promise I'll come quietly; or however else I'm supposed to go.”

Kestrel lowered his head for a moment

“I understand, my friend.” he said, placing the dark hood over his head “But, I have a tight schedule.”

Jackal took a deep breath “......There's that fucking senior NCO side of you talking.” Jackal pulled his trouser up, and adjusted his shirt “And I can't stand to be late.”

Kestrel placed his hand out in the handshake position

“It has been nice meeting you again, my old friend.” the Russian said as Jackal took his hand and gave it a good shake

“Likewise, you cantankerous old shitbag.”

“I will see you on the other side, Matthew.”

The sound of the front door echoed through the house, drowned out by the sounds of virtual warfare ringing from the front room

Jackal had gone in alone while the rest of his team secured an all-round defensive perimeter around the small settlement, made up of several small two-story buildings and a farmhouse - the livestock inside slaughtered by the Ultranationalists, who now shared the same fate mere seconds ago. Jackal had his team watch the perimeter of the settlement while he searched each house for intelligence, maps, troop directions; anything to help the SAS and Loyalist momentum into Ultranationalist territory.

He had cleared every other building, and now just one remained. He had already swept the ground floor, and with his USP and knife at the ready, crept up the stairs to the first floor. He could hear the muffled noises of an intruder coming from behind a door - which had the prints of a pair of blood stained fingers which lead to the tell-tale sign of bloodied finger trails - which ended at a bloodied corpse. Jackal knelt beside it, and brushed a mess of blood-spattered hair aside - the corpse was of a woman in her late twenties, several bullet holes carved into her back. Jackal looked up at the blood-stained door. There were bullets embedded into it, one of which had gone right through. Jackal’s heart dropped as he caught sight of blue wallpaper adorned with little bears piloting propeller airplanes, and a crib which sat at the far end of the room - a figure hunched over it.

Jackal slowly opened the door, and the gentle sounds of muffled weeping filled his ears. The figure had a hand in the crib, and was stroking whatever was in it. The figure was tall, lean, and covered in military gear. The camouflage was hard to make out - mainly because the only light available was coming from the moon, which shone into the room through a broken glass window.“Hands up!” Jackal ordered, raising his USP to the figure. There was at least two meters between them. The figure didn’t react, and placed a hand to their eyes; presumably to wipe them dry.“Oi, you deaf? Hands up!” Jackal ordered again, this time cocking the USP’s hammer back. The figure stopped weeping, and sniffed the snot back“…Why…” the figure whispered, still stroking whatever was in that crib.“War’s hell, mate. Life sucks, people die. Now let me see those fucking hands!” Jackal replied, gently placing pressure on the trigger.

Before Jackal’s heart could pump another beat, the figure had lunged at Jackal, his fist catching Jackal square in the side of the head, almost ripping his helmet off. Jackal crashed to the wooden floor, firing off his USP as he fell. Suppressed shots spat out, embedding themselves into the concrete wall. Jackal slashed with his knife as the figure leaped at him, catching the figure in the mess of webbing, the blade snagging on some shoddily-attached netting which was wrapped around some buckles. The figure pinned Jackal’s arm to the floor and delivered a hard punch to the underside of Jackal’s wrist, causing him to lose his grip on the knife as his tendons spasmed for a second. Jackal swung a clenched fist at the figure’s jaw, a crack echoing among the struggling sounds of boots and cloth connecting with each other. The figure - whom Jackal had ID’d as a Loyalist by the patch on his upper arm - didn’t even register the hit, and proceeded to bring a clenched fist down onto the throat of Jackal, who lowered his chin instinctively - he could still fight from a bonk to the chin, as one to the throat would possibly collapse his windpipe; killing him.

The blow hit hard, and for the briefest of moments, Jackal saw stars. He managed to bring a knee up and pushed the Loyalist away with such force that he knocked him back into the crib. The Loyalist stopped himself from even touching the crib, and tackled Jackal into the wall, both soldiers slamming their heads into it from the momentum. Jackal unleashed a quick flurry of punches, each one hitting the Loyalist in the face. The Loyalist momentarily slowed his assault, but his fire quickly rekindled as he threw the SAS operative to the ground once more. By this time, the fight had been going on for thirty seconds or so, but Jackal hadn’t slept or eaten properly in almost three days, and as reluctant as he was to admit it, it was taking a toll on him. By now he’d of incapacitated the Loyalist and would be on his way to extraction with his team, but instead he was locked in a brutal melee with a grieving psychotic Loyalist. He’d hoped that his team would hear the fight, and could almost picture them storming into the room to save him, but they didn’t come. Hell,  even that Russian he met earlier would be a God send. What was his name again? Kestrel? 

Jackal’s head was forced to the right by another fierce punch, sending him into the chest of drawers that sat beneath a large painting of a steam train. On top of the drawers was a photograph, framed inside a gold-plated picture frame. It depicted a man, woman, and a bundle of blankets with a small baby’s head poking from the top. He recognized the woman as the bloodied heap outside the room, and could guess that the kid was in that cot - and by the situation at hand, the poor boy was probably dead. So where was the fath-

It then dawned on Jackal. Why would this Loyalist be so angry over a dead baby and woman if he wasn’t the man in the photograph?

He was dragged from the drawers by his vest, and was span around clockwise into a haymaker punch, knocking Jackal out.

——————————————————————