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socially-awkward-skeleton · 6 months

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All Along the Watchtower - Chapter 4

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 3.7K

Warnings: military jargon, angst, brief mentions of sexual activity, brief mentions of violence, smoking, swearing, human trafficking

Summary: Sgt. Sinclair and Capt. Price begin their stakeout on the gentlemen's club with ties to Zorokov, and with some help from Nikolai, they get inside.

A/N: Rory Sinclair is a dual citizen (both Canada and the UK) who's been living in the UK since she was 14. She is 28 at the time of this fic, Price is 32. This series is set in 2017 before the events of the first MW game. Rory's thoughts are bold and italicized, other italics are used for emphasis. Will also be available to read on AO3.

October 17, 2017 15:42 - Moscow, Russia - Coffeemania

Exiting the coffee shop with drinks in hand, the two soldiers took a seat at one of the outdoor tables. The umbrella above them rocking with the cold breeze, the material flapping in the current as they angled their chairs to get the best range of vision on the sight of the club across the street. They had to be vigilant. From the exterior it didn’t give off the vibes of an upscale strip club, it looked more like the average bar, making it all the more insidious.

Price placed his phone on the table, screen up, waiting for the ping that would notify them Zorokov was on his way. His eyes kept on the screen as he leaned forward in his seat, hands cupping the hot mug on the table in front of him. The notification was due to come at any moment, Zorokov liked to follow a schedule and it was only a matter of time until he showed up.

Rory tucked the brim of her cap down to cover her features a little more before lifting the cup from the saucer, and bringing it to her mouth, her lips pursing to blow at the hot steam drifting up from the beverage, stare focused on the building and any of the traffic coming and going from it as she rolled her shoulders back into the seat and got comfortable. Stakeouts, in her experience, were usually slow, providing a long window of silence or an opportunity to get to know the person you were suddenly having to trust with your life. Slipping her hand into her coat pocket, she pulled out her cigarettes and lighter, feeding that natural inclination of hers to keep her hands busy and her mouth shut when she needed to pass the time. With the coffee she was drinking, she suddenly felt entirely continental, having grown accustomed in her time living in England to drinking tea, to finally have a cup of dark roast that wasn’t the watered down swill from the base canteen was a welcome change of pace.

Lighting her cigarette, the flame flickered in front of her face, when she was caught off guard by John’s question asked out of the blue. His piercing gaze was still focused on the site across the street, not even glancing over at her before he spoke, "What did your unit call you?"

Her brow cocked as she scoffed, the cigarette jostling between her lips. "Why?" she mumbled, lowering the lighter.

"I'd like to know."

Eyes lifting to look at him, Rory pulled the cigarette from her mouth and blew out smoke as she rested it on the saucer. Her tongue dragged over her chapped lips, and she looked just as suspicious about his reasons as she had when he first asked. "What reason could you possibly have to want to know my callsign?"

"Consider me invested in you."

She rolled her eyes and looked away from him, returning her stare to the building across the street. "Lamb," she said with a heavy sigh.

Price had to have known all too well that most callsigns were generally used as a way of cutting someone down to the simplest part of them, in some ways it was there to tease a person. Her name was certainly no different. It was only made worse when “wee” was added to the front of it.

His brows knitted together for a moment before the smirk caused his moustache to twitch up. "Lamb?"

"Mhmm." Her mouth drawn in a straight line, she crossed her legs in her seat, composing herself to seem more relaxed as she took another sip of her coffee.

"Care to tell me why?" He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back with his mug in hand, staring her down from over it’s rim as he took a drink.

She scratched at her forehead before fixing the brim of her hat. “Not that you’d understand, but most people generally don’t pay much attention to me in the field.” She placed the cup down on the saucer, and picked up her cigarette to take another drag before speaking. “They see a woman first, not thinking about what I did to get myself there. They think I'm an easy target.” Her stare locked on him as if he were in her sights. “Prey. But that’s their downfall,” she said with a confident lift of her brow.

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing, eh?” A soft chuckle fell from his lips and for the first time he really smiled, his eyes twinkling. "I like it."

"Really?" Her head tipped to the side, surveying his reaction, checking if it was actually genuine.

"The world needs more wolves in it, Rory. Maybe it's about time you took that lambskin off."

His hardened gaze cut its way through to her, but he had no idea why she wore that fleece in the first place. The way it protected her from the things she’d done and seen, the shield it offered her.

“I don’t think you really know what you’re asking for, Price.”

His elbows came to the table as he leaned forward in his seat, backing her into the corner to make her bear her fangs, cutting the distance between them. “Why's that?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” There was sarcasm in her tone, but her words rang true nonetheless.

“The black missions, right?” Narrowing his eyes at her, he read her expression, speaking in a lowered voice. “You’ve been knee deep in the shit just like I have, seen the absolute fuckin’ worst that humanity has to offer, and you’ve had to react in kind. Leaves a mark on a person.”

She nodded, tapping the ash off her cigarette on the saucer, hiding the tremor that shook through her hands as best she could.

But it didn't go unnoticed.

“That’s why you were on desk duty, eh? And why the SRR recruited you?” He gave a sharp snort and leaned back, resting one arm over the back of his chair. “It’s certainly why Laswell picked you. I can see it now, it’s written all over you.”

“You have no idea.”

“Suppose I might find out.” He turned the phone on the table, spinning it so she could see the notification as he tapped his finger against the screen. “Zorokov’s on his way.”

Stiffening in her seat immediately, her eyes fell to the screen and the cigarette rose back to her lips. It was time to get serious.

Traffic streamed by, and the minutes passed, they had enough time to finish their coffees and their first smoke break before a sleek, black Range Rover with tinted windows pulled up outside the club’s building and the doors opened from the inside as two men approached the vehicle. As the back door opened, the first thing Rory spotted was the slicked back blonde hair. Zorokov. Climbing out of the vehicle, it was clear he liked to see himself as some sort of high class businessman as he was dressed in well-tailored clothing. Standing on the sidewalk like he owned it, he met with the two men from inside the club. Buttoning up his long camel coat, looking completely at ease, not caring who saw him there or who he was meeting with. Fucking brass bollocks was right.

Rory had already lit up another cigarette while waiting for him to arrive, and as hands began to shake and greetings were made her stare became piercing and cold, tapping the ash off her cigarette as if it were the trigger of her rifle. She was rigid, waiting for that moment to strike.

“Sinclair –”

Her eyes rolled from the target back towards Price. “Yes, Captain?” She brought the cigarette back to her mouth and took a long drag, her hardened stare set directly on him. The soft, sweet girl had faded entirely into the background, instead sitting before him was the resolute soldier. The woman who had been forged by the things she had seen and the brutality of war and the things it made people do. The amber rings around her pupils seeming to flare and swallow the warm, earthy green.

“We need to get in there, can only get so much while sitting across the street.”

“And are you volunteering for that part of the mission, sir?” She asked, eyebrows raised and smoke wafting from between her lips. “It’s not like they’re going to let me in.”

He grimaced at the thought. “Not sure I have what this type of establishment needs to get in.”

“You mean a criminal record and ties to organized crime, or just a massive fistful of money?”

“Likely both,” Price said with a tip of his head.

“Okay, so how do we get in then?” She tapped her pointer finger that held her cigarette against the table top. “Someone in there has something on Zorokov we can use, I’m sure of it.”

Sighing, Price rubbed at his brow. “Going to have to see what connections Nik might have.”

Rory’s mouth fell slack, genuinely surprised by the info drop the Captain had delivered. “Surely Nikolai doesn’t have ties like that?”

“You’d be surprised where allies can be made.”

Her brow furrowed further, lines settling in deep. “So we come back again later and hope that our consciences can deal with whatever we might find going on inside?”

“We hang back, alright? We don’t know what to expect in there. We aren’t prepared for a fight. Not yet.” John’s stare darkened, he could tell she was already prepared for battle. “We aren’t mercs, we’re soldiers. We do this right or we don’t do it at all.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good girl.”

There it was again, that choice of phrase, but this time she was in no mood to hear it. She wasn’t some gentle, timid little thing that needed the praise. Just like everyone else, Price still saw her as the facade she wore. ‘The Lamb’. He hadn’t seen past the sheep’s clothing yet, not really. In his eyes, she was still that twenty three year old girl in a bar – pretty and sweet on him – not a trained killer.

–

October 17, 2017 19:09 - Safehouse

There was a knock at the door of their safehouse room and Price stood to open the door, greeting Nikolai as the Russian entered. Giving Rory a friendly nod of the head, he placed the hard, black suitcase he carried with him down on the foot of Price’s bed and flipped open the latches and the lid.

“Did the best I could on short notice, Captain. It’s not exactly easy to gain access to Bratva territory.”

“I’m sure it’ll do, Nik.” John patted him on the shoulder.

Moving closer to the bed, she noticed the case was filled with wads of cash and a handgun with a suppressor along with fake ids. Her eyes went wide, surprised considering the connections Price implied Nikolai had. “Where did all that money come from?”

“Cash is easy to get,” Nikolai answered, not divulging anymore.

“Right.” She thought it best to leave it at that.

“I hope you still remember how to speak Russian, Captain. I had your new name added to the list.”

Price grabbed the fake ID from the case, flipping it around in his hands checking the details. “Bloody good work as always, Nikolai.”

“Spasibo.” <Russian: “Thank you”>

Rory sighed, sitting down on the edge of her bed and crossing her arms, still not entirely sold on the plan. “You know they’re going to remember your face, right? It’s not exactly like the mutton chops are a look most people try to pull off.”

The Captain’s stare shifted from the case back up to her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s why we have to make this count. Get as much as we can while inside the lion’s den and then get out. Nik’s heading in with me for backup, you’ll be on comms in the van.”

“I’m sure you won’t take part in any ogling while you’re there either,” Rory said with a roll of her eyes.

His stare landed on her, brow furrowed. “I’m not exactly interested in girls in short skirts anymore, Sergeant.” Giving her a quick smug smirk in return.

That should not have bothered her as much as it did, and yet, the way he said it felt more like a jab than it should have. A reminder that he wasn’t the man he’d been five years earlier, but also that she was no longer that woman. They had matured. Evolved. Hardened by their pasts. And yet…he was still looking at her, meeting her gaze. Surely he couldn’t have meant…

Her eyes fell from him and she grabbed her coat from the bed pulling it on. “Well whatever you do plan on doing in there, I suggest we get to it quickly. Time is being wasted.” She pushed past the two men and made her way for the door, receiving a raised brow from Price.

“What’s got you in such a rush, Sergeant? I already told you, we do this right or not at all.”

“I’m aware, Captain.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coats and gave a quick shrug of her shoulders. “But I’m also of the mind that when you have the shot, you take it.”

“Spoken like a true sniper. A woman after my own heart.” He grinned at her once more, breaking her composure slightly.

Feeling her cheeks growing warm, she lifted a hand to scratch at her cheek just below her eye, masking the sudden flutter she felt in her stomach. “Yes, well, no point in standing around, eh?”

The three of them headed down the stairs to the white cube van parked outside. Unmarked, unassuming, it had to be Nikolai’s. Circling the van, the Russian climbed into the driver’s seat, while Price took the passenger’s seat up front.

Opening the double doors at the back, Rory climbed inside and was met with radio equipment. “Well, this feels more like home.” She looked around at the setup and then at the back of the heads of the two men. It was oddly familiar being in a situation like this. Working overwatch was a position she’d grown accustomed to as an operative with the SRR, being the voice in someone’s ear during a recon mission. It was an important role, and not one to be discounted. It kept soldiers alive. Keeping calm in the storm around the operative she had been paired with, their source of intel, a second set of eyes in some cases, all of it was invaluable.

–

October 17, 2017 19:49 - The White Room Gentlemen’s Club

Price stuck out like a sore thumb in a place like this, and Nikolai wasn’t fairing much better. Inside the club it was all glitz and glamour, dazzle to distract from what was really going on inside the walls. Scantily clad women abounded, alcohol seemed to pour freely, and he was sure he spotted at least several people partaking in a white, powdery substance.

“Christ,” John muttered under his breath. “The sooner we get this done the better.”

Nikolai hummed, “My thoughts exactly, Captain.” Keeping his voice low so others wouldn’t hear them.

“Try not to enjoy yourselves too much while you’re there, eh? Still got work to do.” Rory’s tinny voice spoke in Price’s ear as he looked around. A scowl very clearly marking his features. This was absolutely not his idea of a good time. “I can think of about a dozen other things I’d rather be doing right now.” He teased quietly. “We’re gonna try and head in past the main area, see if we can’t find any of the back rooms.”

“Just don’t give them any reason to be suspicious or to see you as a threat. Try to look like you’re actually there for the girls or something.”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour, Sinclair.”

“Good man.”

“Time to act casual then, eh?” He pulled a cigar from his pocket and took out his lighter, cringing slightly as euro dance music started to play over the club speakers, a quiet groan coming from him.

Rory laughs, “Not a fan of the music selection?”

“Not my personal taste. No.” A smirk pulled at his lips before he could stop it, slipping his cigar back in his pocket, no longer feeling like wasting it in a place like this. “You know, Sinclair, you’ve got a voice for radio.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say I have a face for it too.”

“Anything but,” he said with a warm rumble.

Rory cleared her throat on the other side of the line. “Best get your head in the game, Price. Let me know when you’ve made it into the back.”

“Rog’.”

Price nodded his head in the direction of the bar, leading Nik over to order a drink and at least look as they expected to spend some time in the establishment. With two whiskeys in hand, they milled around the club until they noticed a door open down a hall and a collection of men came out, including the target.

“Well, there’s our man now.”

“Zorokov?”

“Yeah. Seems to be quite friendly with these Bratva, and he’s staying for a drink and dance. Charming fellow.”

“Can’t say as I’m surprised.”

“Right, that’s our in. Standby, Sinclair.”

“Copy.”

Price swigged back on his whiskey giving Nik the signal to act as look out. Making his way towards the hall and opening the door that led into the back, he took note of several doors that led to adjoining rooms and stairs that led up to another floor. Judging by the sounds of grunts and moans, he already knew what was happening in the rooms on the current floor and instead decided to head up the stairs, hoping for an office.

He sniffled and grunted in the awkward silence.

“Sitrep, Captain.”

“Heading upstairs. First floor seems to be a bit of a redlight district situation.”

“Ah, say no more.” Her voice was cool, the light that had been there earlier was missing now.

Climbing the stairs, he kept his weapon concealed for the time being, moving through the halls. In the upstairs, rooms were filled with crates and kegs of alcohol, supplies, and finally an office.

Closing the door behind him, Price began flipping through ledgers on the desk before turning to the computer. “Got a laptop here,” he whispered.

“Yeah? That could come in handy.”

“Affirmative. Ledgers too, something tells me whatever they have on the books isn’t exactly legit.”

“I have a feeling that’s the case for most things Zorokov has his fingers in.”

“I’m taking the computer. I can have Laswell take a look.”

“Copy. Just do it fast.” There was a hint of panic in her voice.

“Why? What’s going on, Sergeant?”

“Stay sharp. Company’s calling.”

–

Rory sat out in the van, radio earpiece in as she looked out the windows in the back. Watching as a van with blacked out windows pulled into the alley beside the club. The doors opened and half a dozen young women staggered out of it, seemingly strung out and barely stable on their feet. Drugged so they would be easier to control, to make them comply.

“Fucking hell.” Her brow furrowed at the sight, her stomach turning. Having to sit there and bear witness to yet more of the trade of human lives made her sick. There was no telling whether these girls were even of a legal age, and that made it so much worse. The blood started to roar in her ears and she went dead silent, the rage fueling her more than anything else.

“Sitrep, Sergeant.”

“Black van pulled up outside. Black tinted windows.” Rory sighed heavily, “It’s carrying more girls.”

She couldn’t drag her eyes away as the side door of the club opened up into the alley, and several men came out to meet the vehicle and drag the women inside. Rory clenched her jaw, the anger causing her eyes to sting. Roughly manhandled, the women were shoved through the door in a parade. Taking these women, selling their bodies, the idea of it made her whole body tense up, especially knowing that this place had rooms to act as a cathouse.

Once the women had disappeared into the club, the driver of the van rested against his vehicle and began to smoke, taking a break after he had done his job. Apparently, even pieces of shit get a smoke break. The tremor shook up Rory’s arm once more, her tongue stabbing into her cheek as the club’s side door creaked open and Zorokov stepped out, smiling ear to ear. She practically growled at the sight of him, her hand balling up in a fist, ready to strike. Eyes narrowing, watching him like a hawk. The blond man laughing as if he didn’t have a care in the world as he shook the driver’s hand, chatting with him briefly before moving to the front of a building where the SUV he’d arrived in earlier pulled up to drive him away.

“Target’s on the move.”

Rory couldn’t wait any longer, tired of having to sit by and watch this happen all over again. She pushed open the van doors and hopped out. Crossing the street, she rushed silently forward down the alley and snuck around the van, catching the driver by surprise. His cigarette falling to the ground, smoke was left to rise as the bones in his neck snapped under the smooth twist and pull of her hands, his body slumping to the ground.

Grabbing the driver’s body, she struggled as she pushed it up into the passenger’s seat of the van to keep it out of sight. The last thing she needed was to draw unwanted attention. The still smouldering cigarette was snuffed out by the crushing weight of her combat boot as she headed for the side door and pulled it open to head inside the club.

Slipping the pistol from the back of her jeans, she moved silently through the club’s darkened halls. Someone in there knew something and she was willing to do whatever was needed to get some answers.

#skelly writes #cod fanfic #john price #john price x oc #oc: rory sinclair #fic: all along the watchtower #chapter 4

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nerbs-the-word · 10 months

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OC Intro - Eights + Briggs

Hey y'all, haven't written anything in a few days (Been enjoying my long weekend), but glad to see I've been kinda growing. Likes and follows make the Nerb brain chug like the machine I am.

So anyway, new OCs, new short story. Once again, asks are open for questions/comments or constructive criticism if you have any. Just one last FYI, their full names are Sgt. Ashley "Eights" Pierce and Col. Sandra Briggs. Eights is they/them, and Briggs is she/her. Sorry for any confusion!

This story does take place in my worldbuilding project! Pixies be upon thee!

This does feature military themes, guns, blades, violence, gore, drug use and some 'colorful' language, so if any of those things upset you, please don't continue reading for your own mental health. And if you're not sure, please feel free to stop reading at any time if you feel uncomfortable.

STRIKE AT ZERO HOUR

WITH OVERWHEALMING FIREPOWER

THEY'RE FUELED BY THE FEAR

IN THEIR ENEMIES' EYES

ITS A SHOCK TROOP INFILTRATION

A FAST AND VIOLENT ESCALATION

OUT OF THE TRENCHES...

"The stormtroopers rise." the voice finishes as the intense metal music in the background blares, bass thumping in their ears. Emitting a muffled grunt under the several pounds of metal atop their head, the hefty marine slams their breaching axe down, sending a spray of blood the color of moldy bread across their Mythbreaker armour.

Eights slams their boot into the chest of the Other, and using their mechanically augmented hands, pulls free their axe. Their metallic hands, themselves the size of dinner plates, make the bladed weapon in their hands look tiny; even if it is a bulky tool for the average foot soldier. An average man would require two hands to deal any damage with it; Eights can use it in one, and a shotgun in the other.

"Welcome to the 25th century, dumbass" They sarcastically mutter under their breath with a seething rage in their voice. A quick slam of their metal boot and a crunch of bone confirms that the alien isn't getting back up off the floor.

Hunting remnants of these stupid extraterrestrials has been getting old to the young marine. It's been five months since the end of the war, and here they were, being dragged around Known Space to every hulk, ship or station suspected to have an Other aboard. But yet again, after Operation Ragnarök, they didn't have much else to do other than tune the suit's motors and clean their guns. These battles weren't even exciting anyway, the Others always fell back on melee weapons; meaning they were perfect fuel for-

"Sergeant!" Exclaims a familiar authoritative voice from the doorway behind them.

As if by muscle memory, Eights turns to face the figure, their hand pressed against their forehead in a neat and orderly salute. Their posture was as perfect as a marine could get in the bulky armour they wore.

"Yes, ma'am!" They aggressively yell back, every fiber of their voice screaming respect and a sense of duty.

The colonel looks across the room, their diminutive frame being held in the hand of some poor private. While she had a stoic look on her face, the private's face went pale.

The room was stained in blood. Every wall was covered in some sort of bodily fluid in some unnatural, inhuman color. Extraterrestrial corpses littered the room, many with massive tears across their bodies, others riddled with bullet holes. Some still flickered with fire, smoldering silently in the room. It reeked of death, blood, ash, and gunpowder.

"At ease, sergeant." Briggs responds, and as if by command, the hulking, ten foot tall figure before her relaxed their stiffened frame, using the opportunity to pick up a large rotary cannon on the floor. The chest cavity of one of the targets gives resistance, but with a whir of the trigger, the barrel cluster is able to mutilate the innards enough to rip it out with a disgusting squelch.

"Ship's clear." The marine responds as they affix the cannon to their back.

"I noticed. Private, pass me off to the sergeant, please. Then report to your lieutenant."

The still-shaken private nods swiftly, quickly passing the tiny colonel into the metallic gauntlet of the heavily-armed stormtrooper, like a bug into the mouth of a waiting lion. And while pulling their hand back towards their chest, they swiftly leave the room, as silently as they walked in.

It did dawn previously on the colonel that Eights could easily turn her to mincemeat like they do so easily and so willingly to anything the Republic deems dangerous. Pirates, terrorists, Blue Angel cultists, and now the Others. The difference is that Eights respects authority.

"Ma'am, 34 dead, 5 captured. The survivors have locked themselves in what I assume to be the armoury." The sergeant replies, lifting the tiny colonel to be at eye level. Their helmet was menacing; more machine than person. Covered in valves, with a hose running from the mouthpiece to the chest, every breath was accompanied by a whir, and every word echoed inside the hermetically sealed suit.

"Good." The colonel responds with a nod.

"And I'm ready to-" The sergeant begins, before being cut off.

"No. You're dismissed. Rest up, and meet me in my office tomorrow morning at 0600. We need to talk.

"Pierce, I'm worried for your health." The colonel continues, pacing back and forth behind her desk. With the sergeant looming over her, it looked like she wasn't in command here. But she, and Eights, both knew the truth. She outranked them.

Eights crossed their pale arms across their chest. They felt naked, missing the second skin the mechanized armour served as.

"So what?" They exclaim dismissively, their emerald green eyes staring downwards at their commanding officer.

"So what?!" Briggs yells back, the sudden aggressiveness catching the battle-hardened and grizzled marine off guard. "That shit, that fucking concoction, that *Flux*-"

Flux. She spat the word like it was a curse. Some combat drug brewed up by the battalion stranded on Taurus-4 during their deployment. Before Eights was placed under her command.

"You're smart enough to know what it'll do to you." She finishes with a disappointed sigh.

"What I put in my body is my business. It helps me get work done, ma'am." They finally reply after a moment of silence.

A moment of silence that returned to the air, deafening, blinding, choking. Horribe in every regard.

But finally, with a deep breath, Briggs spoke again, her commanding voice easily heard despite her small size.

"I didn't want to, Pierce. But I'm ordering you. You will report to the ship's medical team, and you will seek treatment for your addiction. Understood?"

"Yes ma'am..."

#g/t #giant/tiny #Nerb OCs #Nerb OCs - Eights #Nerb OCs - Briggs

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red-riding-wood · 2 years

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Heroes - Chapter 3

Chpt. 1 , Masterlist , Chpt. 4

Pairing: Sgt. Elias Grodin x Female OC (Alexis Ryder)

Fandoms: Platoon (1986), Cherry (2021)

WARNINGS: I'm just going to put down a blanket for the entire book/all chapters: graphic depictions of violence and gore, torture, explicit sexual content, attempted sexual assault, language, marijuana use

Dawn was rolling over the horizon, filtering in through scraggly branches and needled boughs with its warm, soothing touch; and although it made my eyes dart less nervously around at the shadowy brush, it did nothing to help the sweat that funneled in rivulets down the grooves of my back.

My armour, helmet, rig, and rucksack lay in a heap beside my shovel, which I thrust into the earth with another lethargic swing.

I’d barely gotten any sleep since my turn on last night’s watch, and I was running off of adrenaline.

Wolfe and the sergeants of each squad had met early in the morning to discuss a converging mass of al-Qaeda on our position, and had been strategizing – though mostly bickering – about how we would tackle this threat.

Most of us new fry were tasked with digging foxholes, while the more experienced soldiers would flank the hostiles and flush them towards us.

O’Neill had stayed to keep an eye on us, make sure we were doing our jobs, but really, it was just so that he could kick back his boots and leave the work for someone else.

I huffed out a strained breath over the handle of my shovel, arms quivering over it. My head felt as if it were growing light, from my lack of sleep and from not allowing myself a single break over the past two hours.

“Hey, Sweet Cheeks!” O’Neill’s voice cut through the air, and with my back turned to him, he couldn’t see my wince, the curling of my gums over my teeth as I panted out each laboured breath.

“Get back to diggin’ that hole, will ya? I was enjoying my little show,” the sergeant remarked, and I clenched my jaw, but said nothing.

This was precisely why I hadn’t allowed myself any breaks.

I drove the shovel deeper into the soil, and with reluctance, bent my aching spine with it. My shirt rode up at the base of my spine, catching on the stickiness of my perspiration, and a cat-call behind me signalled that I’d appeased the NCO.

As I went to heave another load of dirt from my shovel, I caught sight of a flicker of movement across the dirt, and I heard the guy next to me – Taylor, his name was – suck in a sharp breath.

I stilled for a moment, watching as a scaled, mud-brown rope curved and slithered its way around his boots. I narrowed my eyes, studying the dull patterns on its body, and then flicked my eyes up to meet the wide, fearful ones of Taylor.

“It’s non-venomous,” I told him, under my breath. “It’s just a dice snake… I think.”

A week into basic, some of my fellow recruits had found out that Taylor had a fear of snakes, and had gathered a few cobras from the outskirts of Kandahar and stuck them under his blanket. Poor guy hadn’t seemed to shake the feeling of scales on his flesh for a good couple days after that.

That was when I’d learned that you never told people of your fears in the army.

Taylor was the transfer that had taken Cherry’s spot in Two Bravo. I hadn’t properly been introduced to him yet, but we were digging the same foxhole and had been working alongside each other all morning. He wasn’t like Bunny, or Junior, or any of the other guys that had been giving me grief all morning. He was quiet, shy, kind of like Cherry, and seemed to be just as rattled as I was by everything that was happening.

And though everyone got their fair share of teasing, Taylor was one that everyone loved to just take out their aggressive, restless energy on. He’d been some rich kid, apparently, had shown up on his first day smelling like La Chatelaine soap and sporting luxuriously-styled locks of hair that had since been mercilessly buzzed like the rest of the new men.

As rough as I had it, I didn’t have it as rough as the rich white kid amid a platoon of uneducated men who’d joined because they had no money or no place to be.

Taylor nodded at me, though the fear didn’t leave his eyes until the snake had, its lithe form disappearing beneath a few fallen branches.

I resumed my digging, though Taylor, in his gratitude, said to me, “Thanks. I still don’t know which ones are the gonna-bite-your-dick-off kind or not.”

My lip curled into the slightest of smiles, and I said, “Well, I’m not really an expert on that myself.”

“I’m Chris,” he said. “Chris Taylor.”

I looked up at him from where I laboured over my shovel, and nodded. “Ryder,” I reciprocated.

“Heard some talk ‘bout snakes over here?” Bunny cut in, sauntering over from the foxhole he dug with Junior. He flashed me a toothy grin, and added, “Taylor bein’ a pussy again? Might have to shove it down his pants, this time. Heard there’s plenty o’room.”

I eyed the man warily, and said, “Snake’s gone.”

“’Course it is,” Bunny said, wild eyes flashing and fixing me with a look. “What’re you two chummin’ ‘bout, anyway?” The wiry soldier shoved his way between us, knocking my shoulder with his.

“We’re talking about books,” Taylor said, and I caught his eye over Bunny’s shoulder. In our gaze, for a mere second or so, flickered the seed of an alliance, and I forced back a smile.

“Fuckin’ books? ‘Course fuckin’ rich boy’s yabberin’ ‘bout books. You don’t really wanna be hearin’ ‘bout that, do ya, Sugar Tits?” Bunny jostled my shoulder again, intentionally this time, and I felt his fingers graze the sweat-slicked fabric on my lower back.

I hoped he didn’t notice how I’d stiffened, and I cast a glance back at O’Neill. Was he not going to tell Bunny to get back to his foxhole?

O’Neill simply flashed a wink at me, leaning back against a pile of rocks like they were a throne.

“No,” I told Bunny, because disagreeing with this maniac would’ve been suicide. “I don’t wanna hear about books.”

With Bunny’s attention now fixated on me, Taylor went back to digging, trying to mind his own business. I wish I could’ve. Suddenly, the physical toll of working the shovel didn’t seem so bad if only Bunny’s wandering hand and the stench of his sweat would take their leave.

Instead, I found myself fake-laughing at some fucked-up joke he made about one of the al-Qaeda he’d killed yesterday. Something about them sucking air through the hole he’d blown in their spine, how he’d thought of sticking his dick in it for a quick blowjob… I had a feeling that Bunny’s creativity would never cease to amaze me, nor would his blatant lack of regard for human life.

But I shouldn’t have been talking. I’d blown away three men yesterday out of peer pressure and hate.

“You like that one?” Bunny said, grin spreading from ear to ear. “Wait ‘til I tell ya about – “

Thwack.

My head snapped around to glimpse the remnants of a tree’s bark exploding in a puff of air, a gunshot announcing its presence along with the sound it made against the wood.

I dropped my shovel, and dove into what Taylor and I had managed to dig so far of our foxhole, fingers dragging across the earth and soil lodging itself beneath my fingernails as I grasped desperately for my M-4.

My heart thudded rapidly in my chest, but I couldn’t hear it over the ringing in my ears; more gunshots followed suit, and equipping my headset wasn’t my priority at the moment.

The gunfire was coming from the trees to the north of us, where the platoon officers had said the al-Qaeda would be headed from. But if these were the same ones, they’d arrived much earlier than their estimation.

Bunny was shouting something; I could tell that much from the way his ribcage expanded and contracted so fervently against my side, where he’d fallen into cover between Taylor and I, and I was just propping up my elbows to open fire when he stuck his head up and began reefing on his trigger, spraying the forest wildly with rounds. Casings landed beside me in the dirt, and I tried not to flinch every time the brass caught a wink of sunlight.

With him laying cover fire, I had enough time to toss my helmet and headset on and pull my plate-carrier around myself before getting myself back into position to shoot.

I was working up the nerve to poke my head out from my foxhole, but seemed to be frozen.

Just do it for a second, I told myself, but another part of me caught the splatter of blood and the violent whiplash of a skull and I also thought to myself, I don’t want to die.

So I thrust my arms up so that barely my wrist was showing, and my gun was held over my shoulders, and I fired blindly into the trees.

When I was out of bullets, I pulled my rifle back down so that I could grab another mag from my rig, little rivers of dirt cascading down around my face as I did so. My eyes and sinuses burned as I inhaled, and a cough wracked my body, but I shoved the mag into place with a relieving click.

With my headset now protecting my ears, other sounds were starting to trickle in past the gunfire: the frenzied shouting of al-Qaeda, the hammer of sandals and boots against earth above me.

And suddenly, my M-4 was being kicked from my hands, and I was staring up at one of the terrorists, their dark eyes wild from where they peered at me beneath their distinguishable black niqab, though the rest of their uniform was camouflaged, designed to mimic U.S. soldiers.

But darker than their wild eyes was the barrel of the AK-47 that stared down at me, maybe a foot from my face.

Though my heart had been palpitating wildly, I thought for a moment that it might have stopped.

I was being yanked upward by the collar of my uniform, and I gritted my teeth, hands lunging for their arms, their throat, but all in vain, for I was seized, not just by one soldier but by three.

But the gunshots had finally ceased, and the al-Qaeda had descended on us like an inexorable tide. Grunts and screeches of defiance mingled with their shouting as my fellow soldiers fought against their clammy, choking hands and their ruthless shoves.

One of these shoves sent my body flying to the earth, a spray of dust raining around me, coating a tongue that was exposed by my panicked breaths, and wedging itself between rheumy eyelids.

Beside me lied a bloodied and mangled Gardner, his chin quivering as he rolled his head to meet my gaze past dying eyes. I swallowed bile as the metallic stench of his blood and the sordid tang of his punctured guts filled my nostrils, and I reached for the rifle that rested beside him, his fingers attempting weakly to close around its stock.

But Gardner shook his head at me, fear laced brightly into those dying eyes, and I hesitated, pulling my hand back beneath me.

Don’t try and be a hero, some part of my mind narrated this action. Just live.

So I was yanked viciously back up, empty-handed, my unlatched helmet falling to the earth, and then my world became blackness; my breaths were coming hot and fast against burlap, and someone’s hand tightened the bag around my throat for a moment just to choke a sputtering cough from me.

But I conceded, allowed rough, calloused fingers to shove me forward over perilous terrain that I could no longer see, and allowed the compensator of an AK to rest assuredly against my spine.

---

Brilliant light blinded me as the burlap sack was torn from my head, and I cringed, wincing against the flashlight that someone was holding to my retinas. It strobed a few times, and I blinked hard against the rheum and dirt and dried mucus that rimmed my eyes. I felt my head roll like a bobble-head’s on an unsteady axis, and a knife split my skull, hot and fiery. My jaw gaped open, and I inhaled the musty stench of straw, the staleness of the air, the faint yet rotten tang of dried blood that my weary eyes now glimpsed beneath my bound legs.

The room was dim, brighter than the burlap sack only by a few shades; it took my eyes a second or two to adjust since the flashlight, and as they did, I dragged them deliriously across the fractured seams of the walls, where daylight spilled in and highlighted clouds of dust that clung thick to the stale air.

My legs burned as hot as my skull, and I was almost certain that I’d torn a ligament or two when they’d escorted me down the rocky terrain of the mountains. Though I’d no idea what direction we were facing, we’d lost plenty of elevation.

Two men stood in the room with me. One uttered unintelligibly into his partner’s ear, though I recognized a few of the syllables, the cadence of his language, to be Arabic. I was fairly certain he’d been the asshole with the flashlight.

The other simply stared at me from those dark eyes, nodding along to who was probably his superior. I couldn’t really tell apart from their body language; their uniforms mimicked ours, though they bore no badges of honour. As far as I knew, terrorists had no real honour.

Fucking pigs, I thought to myself, though I kept my lips sealed. And it was only after my mind uttered these words did I recognize them to be Barnes’.

Once the first man had spoken into the second’s ear, the latter of the two revealed himself to be a translator, for he spoke to me in accented, broken English:

“Tell us mission. How many of you? Where? Purpose here?”

I swallowed past a dry throat, and my gaze flicked to the man who now left the translator’s side to pick from an array of tools on a splintered, deteriorating bench. He was the torturer, and I was his prisoner of war. If I didn’t talk, he would make me.

I hissed in a sharp breath, and clenched my teeth, now glaring up at the torturer’s dark, emotionless eyes and bracing myself for whatever was to come. But something in those veiled, glassy eyes, something in the way he walked toward me told me that there was no way, not even from the training that I had received, that I could prepare myself for anything that was to come.

The torturer held an iron rod that glowed hot with fire; he muttered something to the translator.

“Look down,” the translator told me. “Don’t look in his eye.”

I furrowed my brow, confused, but dropped my gaze to the floor, my eyes once again tracing over the dried blood that had spattered the dirty floor beneath my chair.

They were trying to ingrain subordination into me, I realized; it was their first attempt to break my will.

Though my gaze never left the floor, I promised to myself in that moment that I wouldn’t break, that I wouldn’t compromise any of the men that I had trained and fought with. Not Barnes, not Elias, not even Bunny, who would’ve probably given my name up without a moment’s hesitation.

I felt the heat of the iron grow closer to my flesh, to the sleeve they had ripped upward on my arm.

“Start talking!” The translator screamed at me, and the torturer gripped my jaw in his firm, merciless grasp, dirtied and bloodied fingernails digging past the flesh and feeling as if they might scrape bone.

I gasped, pain searing along my jaw, but I kept my gaze on the floor, and my tongue bound.

A pair of knuckles struck my cheekbone, and my head whipped to the side, but I merely breathed, listened to the sound of my heart drumming against my ribcage, counted the beats and kept my mind off of the horrors that were only beginning to unfold.

Then, it was the iron that struck my flesh, and I convulsed in my chair as pain greeted every nerve of my body, and I wailed, screeched, lamented my pain until a filthy, sour rag that tasted of urine and grime was stuffed between my molars.

When the iron left, its searing pain did not; I glanced down at my arm, at the reddened, swollen skin that seemed to be starting to peel away like old leather. I panted short, frenzied breaths around the rag in my mouth, and I counted the beats of my heart again.

One, two, three, six, eight, eleven… I couldn’t keep track anymore.

“Talk!” the interrogator yelled at me again, but I remained still, my body a statue in every way but the fervid heaving of my chest and the shaking, quivering curling of my fingers into a loose fist.

My shirt was torn from my torso, which, for a moment, was almost a relief, for the room, in the heat of the summer and its stagnant air, was like a boiling pot. Sweat glistened across every inch of my flesh, beading and collecting to form rivulets down the grooves of my abdomen and back.

But then, next came my bra, and my trousers, and even my boots and socks. I shivered, the sweat that had beaded on my flesh beginning to chill me, the sensation so alien in contrast to the magma that boiled on the flesh of my arm.

My whimpers were made into what I was now convinced was a urine-soaked rag, and I resisted the urge to curl in on myself, to appear weaker to my torturers. They wanted to humiliate me.

And then my world tipped over, my head growing light as it fell like an iron weight to the floorboards, the backings of my chair digging harshly into my bare spine and the impact sending a jolt through my quivering body.

The rag was ripped from my mouth in time to unleash a cry, but then blackened my face, and my heart, which was already running in time to a racehorse, skipped a beat in my chest.

In survival training, every soldier had been water-boarded for a number of seconds to prepare us for times like this. Even in training, nearly every recruit had given in to this method of torture. I’d hoped and prayed that day that it would’ve been the last time I ever experienced it.

I wormed beneath my bindings in anticipation, the ropes twisting into my flesh and allowing bubbles of blood to emerge along my wrists, hot against my skin, metallic in my nose.

Someone’s fingers were laced into my hair, holding my head down, and the rag flattened against my face, curving around the orifices of my mouth and nostrils as a cold liquid poured across it.

And I began to drown.

Oxygen became nonexistent, though my lungs fought for it like a ravening wolf would its prey; they filled, tightened, and convulsed, and my mind could not even count to one with the beating of my heart, because all I knew was panic. All I knew was helplessness. All I knew was the flood, the burning of my nasal cavity and the absence of life from my lungs.

And finally, after an indeterminate amount of time, the cloth was removed, my bulging eyes darting across the cracks in the overgrown ceilings, and an elbow struck my abdomen, made me heave the watery contents of my lungs or my stomach or both onto my chest and the floor next to me.

The torturer pulled me up by the roots of my hair, contorting my face in pain, and he asked me again to talk.

When trained for becoming a POW, every officer always told you that there was a point you would reach when you needed to start talking for your survival, but to only give up information that was irrelevant, that bid you time.

With my body trembling, my flesh on fire and my muscles seizing and my lungs burning so intensely that tears poured from my eyes, I realized that now was this time.

“My name is Private Alexis Ryder,” I coughed, spurts of water flying from my lips. “I am a soldier in Two Bravo, a squad in the second platoon of Bravo Company.” I panted out a couple more frenzied, wet, gurgling breaths, and then recited my serial number.

Spittle landed across my cheekbone as the torturer communicated some words in Arabic, and his translator said,

“More, girl. More, or your punishment won’t stop.”

My trembling lip curled over my teeth, and my eyelids fluttered, delirious, but the torturer’s hold tightened on my locks.

I thought of my father. He wouldn’t have given up the details of his mission, wouldn’t have been broken.

I thought of Barnes. He would’ve spat back in their faces.

And, strangely, I thought of Elias, and his bright, blue eyes, and the stars that glittered above him in a hollow, black sky.

And I wanted to ask him what he saw in them. I wanted to ask him if he ever looked up and thought about Heaven, or a life after death. I wanted to ask him if he feared death as I did, in this moment.

The torturer released my scalp, but landed another blow to my stomach, and I keeled over, ropes tightening against the abrasions on my wrists.

And then the two left, and my tears pooled on quivering, naked kneecaps before trickling down aching calves like venomous snakes leaving a lifeless corpse.

---

I had blissfully nodded off, and when I peeled back crusted, tear-ridden eyes, I noticed daylight again through the seams of the walls, and the air around me felt cold, frigid against the sweat and tears and blood that had congealed on my bare form.

It must have morning again.

The first sound I noticed was the screaming.

The wails that echoed down the halls, beyond my room of isolation. The howls that were likely from the rest of my teammates, the “cherries” that had been digging the foxholes.

Taylor was probably one of them.

And then I heard the faint humming of music, so low that for a moment, all I could do was close my blurry eyes and listen, gulping against the dryness of my throat and the taste of bile and urine on my tongue.

Ever-so-softly, “Heroes”was playing, and with how heavy each limb weighed, with how much pain still coursed from the charred flesh of my arm and the chasm that split each leg, and the sting that had formed beneath each rope, I wondered if this was my passing, my ascent through the pearly gates themselves.

But when I blinked open my eyes, forcefully blinking the rheum from them, I saw one of the al-Qaeda men sitting with his back leaned against the wall, and a niqab pulled back around his ears to make room for a pair of headphones. He rocked his head gently to the beat.

“Hey,” I snapped, though my voice came out quiet, weak from my strangled lungs.

“Hey,” I spoke, louder, collecting the deepest notes of my diaphragm and thrusting them into the stale air between us.

The al-Qaeda’s head snapped up, and he set the headphones and the iPod aside next to my other belongings.

“That doesn’t belong to you,” I hissed, and swallowed again past the taste of bile as I bravely – or perhaps foolishly – met his eye.

“You belong to us now, girl,” The terrorist growled as he strode forward. His English sounded crisper than the last, though I couldn’t tell them apart. They all wore the same thing, all shrouded their faces in darkness. I’d begun to wonder if it was more than a cultural custom, or a means of obscuring one’s identity – if, perhaps, it was yet another variable to drive one mad.

“So you’d better talk,” he added, his fingers wrapping around my throat and emptying my lungs of any breath.

Past my strangulation, I mouthed a few vulgarities, and this caused his grip to loosen, his eyes to narrow from between the dark lines of his niqab.

I remembered how helpless, how useless and impotent I had been after my first firefight, and I refused to be that pathetic, scared child again. I refused to be anything less than my father, or Barnes, or the hero that I’d set out to be.

“No,” I panted.

Rage danced in those beady, dark eyes, and a clammy hand ran down my flesh, streaking blood across it. A dirtied fingernail dragged over my nipple, and I winced.

“I’m going to rape you, if you don’t talk, girl,” the al-Qaeda warned, his thumb now hooking the hem of my underwear and his filthy fingernails digging deep into my hipbone.

I swallowed. I panted. I counted my heart-beat again. And I closed my eyes.

The jingle of a metal buckle nearly made me flinch, but I steadied myself, forced a calm to wash over my trembling form that nearly rocked from each beat of my heart.

I heard the thud of a rifle being placed on the ground, felt the brush of its wooden stock against my toe.

My wrists began to fumble with my bindings, pushing the rope past the abrasions of my flesh. They were looser than they’d been before, perhaps from my struggle, and hope flared from somewhere deep inside my chest. Somewhere dark, somewhere buried, it blazed to life, a sole light in an endless expanse of black.

As the belt hit the floor alongside the AK, I jolted, not from the sound but from the freeing of my wrists; the rope had sidled down and was now cradled delicately over the hillocks of my knuckles.

And then, shouting, and the hammering of boots against the floor joined the echo of wails, and my eyes shot open, gazing past the al-Qaeda torturer and to the door that remained closed.

Gunshots rang in my ears, and his head snapped to the door, too.

This was my chance, and I took it.

I tore my bloodied wrists from my bindings and lurched forward, sending my chair tumbling over where my ankles were still bound to its legs. My finger wrapped around the trigger of the AK, and the others elevated it enough to fire a round into my captor’s leg.

His scream curdled my blood, but it also stoked something in that abyssal wasteland in my chest, a human instinct to survive, to hate, to kill.

I shot a couple more rounds somewhere into his chest, and he collapsed on the floor beside me, blood pooling at my fingertips and staining the long strands of blonde hair that clung to the floorboards.

I took the butt of the AK and began slamming it against the rope that bound my ankles, my muscles straining with each effort but adrenaline giving every cell a newfound strength.

Finally, I scrambled free, frayed ropes falling from bruised and bloodied ankles, and with one hand cradling the AK, I reached the other to pull my khakis over my legs, and hastily pulled my shirt around my shoulders, but didn’t bother with the buttons.

My head spun, and I teetered, but I steadied my shoulder against the wall. Even though every instinct told me to curl up against it in the fetal position and let the battle rage on outside the door, I forced myself back into the fray.

I shoved the iPod into the pocket of my khakis, hooking the headphones in their hem, and then thrust the barrel of my weapon towards a door that rattled and shook on its old hinges.

My finger tensed, the iron sights moving and blurring out of focus as I fought to steady my breath.

And then a cloud of dust rained down on me, and I raised the barrel of my weapon to the roof, because the uniforms that greeted me bore the stars of the American flag, and the faces that stared at me, though once intimidating, were now so wonderfully familiar.

“Clear!” Warren – the sergeant of Two Delta – shouted, before moving on through the halls with a cluster of followers.

A few others rushed in to my aid, but one gestured the others away.

“Get back in the fight,” Elias barked at them. “Go, get the other prisoners, now!”

A sigh of relief escaped my aching lungs as my gaze settled into blue eyes, and my grip loosened on my rifle as a dizzying wave struck my skull.

“Ryder,” he said, his eyes raking across my form with urgency. “Are you injured?”

“Elias,” I breathed, and as I staggered across the floor, my fingers reached for him, brushing the fabric of his shirt and grazing the hot flesh of his neck.

“Alex,” he repeated, and asked me the same question as his hands wrapped around my waist.

“I don’t know,” I breathed, my words barely a whisper as darkness teased the edges of my vision.

He smelled of sweat, but also of wildflowers, and earth; and when I inhaled, my head reeled again, the darkness threatening to consume me. But I was okay with that. I was okay with being transported from this nightmare into a place where I could embrace those beautiful scents of nature, where I could be cradled by the warmth of his touch – it soothed my aching body, like honey melting and oozing through every pore.

I wasn’t thinking anymore. My world was being fed in broken fragments to me.

The baritones of his voice murmuring above me, the brightness that streamed through the cracks in the ceiling, the weightlessness that seemed to consume me, the warmth of that honeyed-touch lulling me into sleep as the final thread of my consciousness snapped like a wire.

#fanfiction #elias grodin #platoon #platoon 1986 #my writing #heroes #oc: alexis #sgt. elias #mdni #there's smut in this story i'm just not saying where because spoilers but you've been warned

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