Author: Jordan
Title: Purgatory Part 3
Rating: R for language and character death
Pairings/characters: Colbert, Trombley, Griego, Fick, Espera, Hasser, Reyes, Eventual Brad/Nate, Hasser/Person, one-sided Trombley/Person, Reyes/Patrick
Summary: In which Brad and Trombley realize that they aren't alone.
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals. I do not own any person named in this fic, and I don't own the source material, except for a copy of the miniseries on DVD. This is for pleasure, not for profit.
--
To Part 2.
After the little episode with…whatever that was, Trombley insists Brad sleep the rest of the night. On their way back to the hut, Trombley tells him, against Brad’s wishes, that he never saw Nate, never heard the whisper. What he heard was a series of growls, like an animal. A jackal, he insists, or maybe a large dog. He admits that at first, the thing did look like Nate, but the façade quickly evaporated after Brad went to talk with it, becoming more grotesque. To hear him describe it, it was as if Nate was the walking dead, and was decomposing in real time. Trombley had tried warning him, but Brad kept brushing his warnings off. He warned him he was going to fire, which Brad doesn’t even remember. All this tells him is that Trombley wasn’t the target here, at least not yet.
Sleep does not come easy for Colbert. The experience leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and even though he saw the being for what it was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching Nate die truly, and the blame he feels for Trombley doesn’t falter for some time. When sleep does finally take him, it’s deep, and for the first time in nearly a year, he dreams.
”IED!” The word barely escaped Brad’s mouth before the world becomes chaos. An explosion rocks the road, and an area near the front of the convoy erupts into a column of dust and rock. Nate whips his head back to see where it comes from, fighting the sinking feeling in his stomach. As soon as he gets control of himself, the net becomes a rangled web of information, spewing interrogatives and orders on every level of command in the platoon. He can’t let this happen.
“2-1, this is Hitman 2 Actual, what is your status, over?” A simple question, and he prays to God that Brad answers. Instead, Corporal Person comes on the net after a few seconds. His voice is devoid of emotion. He sounds as shaken as the IED would allow.
“2 Actual, this is H-Hitman 2-1. The lead vehicle has been hit by explosive ordnance. A-a-a-a hidden IED in- the road. F-fuck! Break.” Nate waits agonizing seconds for whatever Person’s trying to put together, and as each moment ticks by that he has no clue of how things are going, he feels a bit of his control slip. This time, when Person comes back on the comms, his composition is much less than it was before. “We s-sustained a direct hit and have multiple casualties. How copy?”
Nate wants to head over to the lead vehicle and punch the sense back into Ray, but he’s trying to keep it together, himself. It’d do no good to lose it here. “Solid copy, 2-1. What is the extent of the casualties, over?”
“Uh…shit. Three causalties. Echo-4 Hotel has received shrapnel to the face, but claims to still be combat effective. Echo-5 Charlie and Echo-3 Tango are down. Say again, 2-1 Actual and Echo-3 Tango are down, and need immediate medical attention, over.”
As this is said, Nate can already hear shouts for Doc Bryan coming down the pipeline. The firefight is dying down, and people are starting to realize who exactly has been hit. He looks over at Wynn, who merely nods before giving Nate covering fire. Nate is off running now, his lungs burning with each inhale of the blistering hot air. Everything seems to be weighing him down more than usual.
By the time he reaches the lead vehicle, he’s breathing rapidly, though he’s done nothing that would bring him close to exhaustion. Hasser’s no longer in the turret, instead, sitting in the back with Person as the uninjured wipes his face clean, against the pained look on his face. Person’s in tears, but still trying to comfort Hasser, whose face is a red mask. The sight makes him feel queasy, for some unknown reason, so he brings his attention down to Doc Bryan and Poke, who are taking care of the other two. What he sees makes him wish that he hadn’t.
They’ve already given up on Trombley, and it’s easy to see why. It was obvious that he’s taken the brunt of the explosion. His face is charred and shredded, some of the skin still smoking. The smell is pungent, yet familiar. The smell ensures Nate will never be able to eat bacon again. He’s missing half of one arm, where Nate assumes Trombley had been leaning against whatever the IED had been hidden in. His SAW is obliterated, some of the pieces scattered about, others, Nate can’t help but notice, are embedded in Trombley. His left eye, the eye that’s intact, is staring at him in shock, as if he still can’t believe what happened to him. It’s a silly thought, and Nate can’t help but hate himself after it crosses his mind.
He turns his attention to Brad, who’s not as bad off, but there’s very small room for comparison. Some of Trombley’s exploding weapon hit Brad, as well, it looked like. The upper receiver is impaled into Brad’s right arm and has Brad pinned to the ground. A moment later, Poke pulls at it with enough strength to free Brad, but Bryan stops him from pulling it out entirely. “It’ll cause more problems than he already has,” he informs before opening up Brad’s vest, the movements of the SAPI plates much too fluid for Nate’s liking. He watches Bryan get to work, tearing away the DCU top and cutting open Brad’s shirt, only to see a field of shrapnel riddling his body. Hasser had been hit as well, but the areas hit were minor, or at least didn’t threaten something vital to the central nervous system. Brad…Nate could already tell he was a goner, even though he was still gasping for breath, struggling for life even now. It was the smell that informed him; one of his intestines had been punctured, and it was rare to recover from that, even in the most optimistic of situations.
There’s something wet on Nate’s face, and at first Nate brushes it off as sweat. The day is balls hot, and the stress only adds onto it. But when he drops to his knees, holding Brad’s uninjured hand like it’s the end of the world, Poke points out that Nate’s crying. He doesn’t care anymore. These men, these deaths, it’s it. Nate can’t take it. To him, this is the end of the world.
He doesn’t let go until the casevac arrives.
Brad wakes up with a start. Trombley’s nearby, looking out of the door to the hut. It’s morning now, and the look on Trombley’s face is odd.
“What’s the matter?”
“That thing from last night,” Trombley tells him. “It’s gone.”
Brad cocks an eyebrow. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“Gone as in gone, Sergeant. When the sun came up, it hit the body and she…I don’t know, turned to dust?” Brad stands up and cracks his neck as he moves next to Trombley. Sure enough, whatever it was is no longer there. In its place is a pile of ash, slowly scattering in the morning wind. “That’s not all, Sergeant.” Brad looks at Trombley, who moves from the door and waves him to the opposite wall, inviting him to look out a window. Brad expects…Hell, he doesn’t know what he expects anymore. This place stopped making sense as soon as he heard that transmission the night previous. What he does see is both a godsend and another puzzle.
It’s a road. An honest to God, paved fucking road. And on that road is a HMMWV. He recognizes it easily enough. The dark B0 on the side of the HMMWV and the MK-19 turret tell Brad that it’s not just a HMMWV, but his HMMWV. Brad doesn’t know whether to kiss Trombley, the HMMWV, or the ashen corpse out the front door.
“Where the Hell did this come from?” he asks Trombley, who merely shrugs.
“It popped up about the same time the body turned to dust,” he tells him. “So did the road. Do you know what this means?” he asks quietly.
It means that whatever has us here wants us to keep moving, he replies silently. He shakes his head instead and motions for Trombley to follow. They come around the house, moving to the location of the HMMWV-
To discover the road literally fucking starts at the end of the house. “What. The. Fuck,” Brad breathes out. This is just starting to become ridiculous now. He looks over at Trombley, who’s grinning like a motherfucking retard. “Trombley, while it warms my heart to know that you find this clusterfuck amusing, why the fuck does it look like you just popped your cherry?”
“It’s just like that one game, you know? Silent Hill.”
Great. He needs that comparison. Really.
--
The HMMWV has gas in it, and after a quick PMCS, they know that it’s in good working condition, so they begin their trek, Trombley driving, Brad occasionally playing with his headset as he leans out of the window. It’s a long drive, and, once again, there’s no sign of any life whatsoever. They pass the time mainly in silence, Brad occasionally singing, and eventually, Trombley joins in, and for a minute, Brad feels like it’s another day. Ray’s sleeping in the back seat, and Hasser’s on the MK-19, drumming out a beat on the roof.
”People wonderin’ why we broke ap-,”
“Sergeant, there’s something up ahead.” Brad looks ahead and sees that Trombley’s correct. It’s a lone figure in the road. It looks human, but then again, so did the Nate-creature from the night before. Its shirt is khaki, and nearly blends in with the expanse of desert around it. Its pants are an olive drab. It looks out of place in this barren environment, and probably would still be out of place if the area was teeming with life. Trombley slows and stops the vehicle about thirty meters out, and the two exit the vehicle, immediately leveling their weapons on the person.
It’s a man, Brad can tell immediately, but as to who it is, Brad’s never seen him. His hair is black and disheveled, and on further inspection, he can surmise his uniform is of Marine make, but more in the style of what was worn in World War II. The red insignia on his shoulders tell Brad he’s a Corporal. He’s of average height, but his build is thick. Not in a way that would suggest he’s fat, but built, like the dress shirt he wears is hiding a wealth of muscle beneath it. In his hands is a violin, with which a doleful tune is being played, a funeral song, Brad vaguely recognizes. As the two settle into a kneeling firing position, he stops playing and smiles warmly.
“Who the fuck are you?” Brad questions as he takes aim. The man shrugs, putting his hands up in mock surrender.
“I’ve seen many people come down this road, and it’s always the same question,” he states, slowly placing the violin in its case at his feet. Where did that case come from? “’Who’re you? Why are you just standing out here?’ It’s never ‘how are you doing?’ You know how disappointing that is? People are so selfish sometimes.”
“Given the circumstances, I’m pretty fucking sure the question’s reasonable,” Brad replies. The man laughs, the mirth reaching his eyes.
“I’ll give you that. But isn’t it impolite to ask for a name without giving yours first?” he asks.
“Fuck no, it ain’t,” Trombley tells him. “You one of those demons?”
The laughter stops, but the man’s smile’s still there. “I see you met some of the darker guys out there. Don’t worry about me, though. I’m not gonna do you any harm. The name’s Corporal Lew Juergens, but my friends call me Chuckler. What can I do for you boys?”
“You can tell us what the fuck’s going on, Corporal,” Brad suggests helpfully, and Chuckler nods.
“I can definitely do that,” he tells him. “You’re…well, I think it’s obvious you’re not home. And by home, I mean any Earthly place. This area is in between, the road all men who have sinned must travel after they die.”
“So…we’re dead?” Trombley asks. Chuckler clucks his tongue admonishingly.
“I don’t know. Are you?” he asks before he continues on. “Point is, this road’s a long one. It’s good you two came together. It’s a difficult path, and sharing the burden makes it easier. You’ll see things out there. Stuff that’ll tempt you. Make you not want to leave. You cannot succumb. Elsewise, you’ll be like them, lost, alone, and trying to tempt another to help ease your pain.”
“You seem pretty healthy to me,” Brad replies, and Chuckler nods.
“I finished my journey a long time ago. I found my peace. But something’s missing from there. It ain’t ready for me. Not quite yet,” he sighs and a wistful smile comes to his face. “Until then, it’s the least I can do to help those lost find their own way.” He gestures to their vehicle. “Best get moving. They gave you transportation. Usually means that it’s a longer way without.” Brad nods and motions for Trombley to retreat.
“I hope you find your way home…”
“Brad,” he supplies. Chuckler nods.
“Brad. Find your way. It’s worth it.” Brad nods as he enters the HMMWV. Chuckler moves to the side of the road and takes the violin from its case, playing the same sad song as when he left. It fills Brad’s mind as the distance becomes greater between them. He looks in the rear view mirror, to catch one final glimpse of this man, this Chuckler.
He’s gone, nowhere in sight in the flat desert land, yet the music plays on.
To Part 4
Title: Purgatory Part 3
Rating: R for language and character death
Pairings/characters: Colbert, Trombley, Griego, Fick, Espera, Hasser, Reyes, Eventual Brad/Nate, Hasser/Person, one-sided Trombley/Person, Reyes/Patrick
Summary: In which Brad and Trombley realize that they aren't alone.
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals. I do not own any person named in this fic, and I don't own the source material, except for a copy of the miniseries on DVD. This is for pleasure, not for profit.
--
To Part 2.
After the little episode with…whatever that was, Trombley insists Brad sleep the rest of the night. On their way back to the hut, Trombley tells him, against Brad’s wishes, that he never saw Nate, never heard the whisper. What he heard was a series of growls, like an animal. A jackal, he insists, or maybe a large dog. He admits that at first, the thing did look like Nate, but the façade quickly evaporated after Brad went to talk with it, becoming more grotesque. To hear him describe it, it was as if Nate was the walking dead, and was decomposing in real time. Trombley had tried warning him, but Brad kept brushing his warnings off. He warned him he was going to fire, which Brad doesn’t even remember. All this tells him is that Trombley wasn’t the target here, at least not yet.
Sleep does not come easy for Colbert. The experience leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and even though he saw the being for what it was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching Nate die truly, and the blame he feels for Trombley doesn’t falter for some time. When sleep does finally take him, it’s deep, and for the first time in nearly a year, he dreams.
”IED!” The word barely escaped Brad’s mouth before the world becomes chaos. An explosion rocks the road, and an area near the front of the convoy erupts into a column of dust and rock. Nate whips his head back to see where it comes from, fighting the sinking feeling in his stomach. As soon as he gets control of himself, the net becomes a rangled web of information, spewing interrogatives and orders on every level of command in the platoon. He can’t let this happen.
“2-1, this is Hitman 2 Actual, what is your status, over?” A simple question, and he prays to God that Brad answers. Instead, Corporal Person comes on the net after a few seconds. His voice is devoid of emotion. He sounds as shaken as the IED would allow.
“2 Actual, this is H-Hitman 2-1. The lead vehicle has been hit by explosive ordnance. A-a-a-a hidden IED in- the road. F-fuck! Break.” Nate waits agonizing seconds for whatever Person’s trying to put together, and as each moment ticks by that he has no clue of how things are going, he feels a bit of his control slip. This time, when Person comes back on the comms, his composition is much less than it was before. “We s-sustained a direct hit and have multiple casualties. How copy?”
Nate wants to head over to the lead vehicle and punch the sense back into Ray, but he’s trying to keep it together, himself. It’d do no good to lose it here. “Solid copy, 2-1. What is the extent of the casualties, over?”
“Uh…shit. Three causalties. Echo-4 Hotel has received shrapnel to the face, but claims to still be combat effective. Echo-5 Charlie and Echo-3 Tango are down. Say again, 2-1 Actual and Echo-3 Tango are down, and need immediate medical attention, over.”
As this is said, Nate can already hear shouts for Doc Bryan coming down the pipeline. The firefight is dying down, and people are starting to realize who exactly has been hit. He looks over at Wynn, who merely nods before giving Nate covering fire. Nate is off running now, his lungs burning with each inhale of the blistering hot air. Everything seems to be weighing him down more than usual.
By the time he reaches the lead vehicle, he’s breathing rapidly, though he’s done nothing that would bring him close to exhaustion. Hasser’s no longer in the turret, instead, sitting in the back with Person as the uninjured wipes his face clean, against the pained look on his face. Person’s in tears, but still trying to comfort Hasser, whose face is a red mask. The sight makes him feel queasy, for some unknown reason, so he brings his attention down to Doc Bryan and Poke, who are taking care of the other two. What he sees makes him wish that he hadn’t.
They’ve already given up on Trombley, and it’s easy to see why. It was obvious that he’s taken the brunt of the explosion. His face is charred and shredded, some of the skin still smoking. The smell is pungent, yet familiar. The smell ensures Nate will never be able to eat bacon again. He’s missing half of one arm, where Nate assumes Trombley had been leaning against whatever the IED had been hidden in. His SAW is obliterated, some of the pieces scattered about, others, Nate can’t help but notice, are embedded in Trombley. His left eye, the eye that’s intact, is staring at him in shock, as if he still can’t believe what happened to him. It’s a silly thought, and Nate can’t help but hate himself after it crosses his mind.
He turns his attention to Brad, who’s not as bad off, but there’s very small room for comparison. Some of Trombley’s exploding weapon hit Brad, as well, it looked like. The upper receiver is impaled into Brad’s right arm and has Brad pinned to the ground. A moment later, Poke pulls at it with enough strength to free Brad, but Bryan stops him from pulling it out entirely. “It’ll cause more problems than he already has,” he informs before opening up Brad’s vest, the movements of the SAPI plates much too fluid for Nate’s liking. He watches Bryan get to work, tearing away the DCU top and cutting open Brad’s shirt, only to see a field of shrapnel riddling his body. Hasser had been hit as well, but the areas hit were minor, or at least didn’t threaten something vital to the central nervous system. Brad…Nate could already tell he was a goner, even though he was still gasping for breath, struggling for life even now. It was the smell that informed him; one of his intestines had been punctured, and it was rare to recover from that, even in the most optimistic of situations.
There’s something wet on Nate’s face, and at first Nate brushes it off as sweat. The day is balls hot, and the stress only adds onto it. But when he drops to his knees, holding Brad’s uninjured hand like it’s the end of the world, Poke points out that Nate’s crying. He doesn’t care anymore. These men, these deaths, it’s it. Nate can’t take it. To him, this is the end of the world.
He doesn’t let go until the casevac arrives.
Brad wakes up with a start. Trombley’s nearby, looking out of the door to the hut. It’s morning now, and the look on Trombley’s face is odd.
“What’s the matter?”
“That thing from last night,” Trombley tells him. “It’s gone.”
Brad cocks an eyebrow. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“Gone as in gone, Sergeant. When the sun came up, it hit the body and she…I don’t know, turned to dust?” Brad stands up and cracks his neck as he moves next to Trombley. Sure enough, whatever it was is no longer there. In its place is a pile of ash, slowly scattering in the morning wind. “That’s not all, Sergeant.” Brad looks at Trombley, who moves from the door and waves him to the opposite wall, inviting him to look out a window. Brad expects…Hell, he doesn’t know what he expects anymore. This place stopped making sense as soon as he heard that transmission the night previous. What he does see is both a godsend and another puzzle.
It’s a road. An honest to God, paved fucking road. And on that road is a HMMWV. He recognizes it easily enough. The dark B0 on the side of the HMMWV and the MK-19 turret tell Brad that it’s not just a HMMWV, but his HMMWV. Brad doesn’t know whether to kiss Trombley, the HMMWV, or the ashen corpse out the front door.
“Where the Hell did this come from?” he asks Trombley, who merely shrugs.
“It popped up about the same time the body turned to dust,” he tells him. “So did the road. Do you know what this means?” he asks quietly.
It means that whatever has us here wants us to keep moving, he replies silently. He shakes his head instead and motions for Trombley to follow. They come around the house, moving to the location of the HMMWV-
To discover the road literally fucking starts at the end of the house. “What. The. Fuck,” Brad breathes out. This is just starting to become ridiculous now. He looks over at Trombley, who’s grinning like a motherfucking retard. “Trombley, while it warms my heart to know that you find this clusterfuck amusing, why the fuck does it look like you just popped your cherry?”
“It’s just like that one game, you know? Silent Hill.”
Great. He needs that comparison. Really.
--
The HMMWV has gas in it, and after a quick PMCS, they know that it’s in good working condition, so they begin their trek, Trombley driving, Brad occasionally playing with his headset as he leans out of the window. It’s a long drive, and, once again, there’s no sign of any life whatsoever. They pass the time mainly in silence, Brad occasionally singing, and eventually, Trombley joins in, and for a minute, Brad feels like it’s another day. Ray’s sleeping in the back seat, and Hasser’s on the MK-19, drumming out a beat on the roof.
”People wonderin’ why we broke ap-,”
“Sergeant, there’s something up ahead.” Brad looks ahead and sees that Trombley’s correct. It’s a lone figure in the road. It looks human, but then again, so did the Nate-creature from the night before. Its shirt is khaki, and nearly blends in with the expanse of desert around it. Its pants are an olive drab. It looks out of place in this barren environment, and probably would still be out of place if the area was teeming with life. Trombley slows and stops the vehicle about thirty meters out, and the two exit the vehicle, immediately leveling their weapons on the person.
It’s a man, Brad can tell immediately, but as to who it is, Brad’s never seen him. His hair is black and disheveled, and on further inspection, he can surmise his uniform is of Marine make, but more in the style of what was worn in World War II. The red insignia on his shoulders tell Brad he’s a Corporal. He’s of average height, but his build is thick. Not in a way that would suggest he’s fat, but built, like the dress shirt he wears is hiding a wealth of muscle beneath it. In his hands is a violin, with which a doleful tune is being played, a funeral song, Brad vaguely recognizes. As the two settle into a kneeling firing position, he stops playing and smiles warmly.
“Who the fuck are you?” Brad questions as he takes aim. The man shrugs, putting his hands up in mock surrender.
“I’ve seen many people come down this road, and it’s always the same question,” he states, slowly placing the violin in its case at his feet. Where did that case come from? “’Who’re you? Why are you just standing out here?’ It’s never ‘how are you doing?’ You know how disappointing that is? People are so selfish sometimes.”
“Given the circumstances, I’m pretty fucking sure the question’s reasonable,” Brad replies. The man laughs, the mirth reaching his eyes.
“I’ll give you that. But isn’t it impolite to ask for a name without giving yours first?” he asks.
“Fuck no, it ain’t,” Trombley tells him. “You one of those demons?”
The laughter stops, but the man’s smile’s still there. “I see you met some of the darker guys out there. Don’t worry about me, though. I’m not gonna do you any harm. The name’s Corporal Lew Juergens, but my friends call me Chuckler. What can I do for you boys?”
“You can tell us what the fuck’s going on, Corporal,” Brad suggests helpfully, and Chuckler nods.
“I can definitely do that,” he tells him. “You’re…well, I think it’s obvious you’re not home. And by home, I mean any Earthly place. This area is in between, the road all men who have sinned must travel after they die.”
“So…we’re dead?” Trombley asks. Chuckler clucks his tongue admonishingly.
“I don’t know. Are you?” he asks before he continues on. “Point is, this road’s a long one. It’s good you two came together. It’s a difficult path, and sharing the burden makes it easier. You’ll see things out there. Stuff that’ll tempt you. Make you not want to leave. You cannot succumb. Elsewise, you’ll be like them, lost, alone, and trying to tempt another to help ease your pain.”
“You seem pretty healthy to me,” Brad replies, and Chuckler nods.
“I finished my journey a long time ago. I found my peace. But something’s missing from there. It ain’t ready for me. Not quite yet,” he sighs and a wistful smile comes to his face. “Until then, it’s the least I can do to help those lost find their own way.” He gestures to their vehicle. “Best get moving. They gave you transportation. Usually means that it’s a longer way without.” Brad nods and motions for Trombley to retreat.
“I hope you find your way home…”
“Brad,” he supplies. Chuckler nods.
“Brad. Find your way. It’s worth it.” Brad nods as he enters the HMMWV. Chuckler moves to the side of the road and takes the violin from its case, playing the same sad song as when he left. It fills Brad’s mind as the distance becomes greater between them. He looks in the rear view mirror, to catch one final glimpse of this man, this Chuckler.
He’s gone, nowhere in sight in the flat desert land, yet the music plays on.
To Part 4