Jordan

Recovery

needagasmask — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 10:46:06 GMT

Author: Jordan
Title: Recovery
Rating: PG-13 for safety
Pairings/characters: Mass Effect 3 Main cast, Shepard/Cortez
Summary: Pretty much an alternate ending to Mass Effect 3 and ten years after the fact. Hastily written. Please forgive me. I needed a sweet ending to counteract the sour taste the ACTUAL endings gave. SPOILERS EVERYWHERE
Disclaimer: Everything is Bioware's. Don't sue because I'm not making money from this.

Ten years later, and the dreams still came. The details changed every now and then, showcasing comments, praises, and accusations from the many people he’d encountered, and ultimately failed, during his time as a member of the Alliance and as a Spectre. The people he encountered would always change- Ashley, Captain Kirrahe, Wrex, Mordin, Miranda, Kelly, that child back on Earth- but the end was always the same. A great red light would engulf that bleak forest before the world was purged in fire. And always-- always, it was precluded by the soul-rending call of the Reapers. He’d wake up in cold sweats, panicked, only to find himself in bed next to Steve. The two never discussed the nightmares, and if Shepard didn’t know his husband, he’d think the man was entirely unaware. The next morning, though, Steve would show more affection than usual, give silent affirmations of Shepard’s worth but never hint at where this came from. Shepard figured it out, but never called him on it.

The time after the fall of the Reapers was chaotic. The battle was costly for those fighting for survival, and the final push toward the beam cost so many lives, so many people that he’d never even met, all determined to get him to the Citadel. That was perhaps one of the hardest things for him to accept. Out of countless trillions of sentient lives, he was the one that mattered. Every single other person in the entire galaxy was depending on him to perform miracles, to save their species—their entire civilizations as a whole. It didn’t matter if the entire combined forces of the galaxy were wiped out, be they Batarian, Asari, Krogan, Quarian, or any other number of volunteers, none mattered more than him. What if he’d failed? What if the Reapers won, or the Illusive Man got what he wanted?

It was usually around this time that Steve would remind him that they didn’t fail. The price was high, but it was worth it because the clock kept ticking for them. The cycle was broken.

It didn’t stop him from thinking about that day, though. Earth in ruins, and an unrelenting opposition of indoctrinated creatures pushing to stop Hammer from reaching the Beam. The force was all but obliterated, Harbinger working with all its might to protect the location, but he still made it.

Waking up in a service tunnel, barely able to move.

Finding the Citadel piled with heaps of bodies of creatures from all walks of the galaxy higher than he was tall, tended to by the Keepers.

Killing the Illusive Man before he could do so to Admiral Anderson.

Finally activating the Crucible.

It was both assuring and terrifying at the same time. They knew it was a weapon, but its scale and what it would do was unknown to anyone. Energy began to run through the Citadel at levels Shepard couldn’t believe. The Citadel was technology created by the Reapers, as were the Mass Relays. When the Crucible fired, it unleashed a signal—anything based off of Reaper technology was shorted out. The Reapers, the relays, the Citadel—all of it came to a screeching halt as the chain reaction built up. The only reason Shepard didn’t join the dead was because Citadel life support was something added in by the asari and salarians.

Shepard and Anderson watched as the Reapers and Geth began to float aimlessly, soon to be trapped amongst the debris orbiting Earth. The indoctrinated simply fell where they stood, dead now that their cybernetics were damaged. Those who had merely fallen under Reaper influence went comatose. Shepard had thought about that day many times before experiencing it, wondering if he would celebrate, cry, or any of a thousand emotions. Instead, he sat next to Anderson, watching the ruined world below them revolve. He felt the man’s final breath escape him, and it wasn’t long afterward that he joined him in heading to the darkness.

However, it wasn’t meant to be. Shepard was eventually found with Anderson after the fleets managed to reopen the Citadel some time later. Over 44 kilometers were combed before Garrus and Tali discovered the halls of the now-deactivated Keepers and began sorting through the bodies. He spent the first year on Earth being treated in one of the few still-standing medical treatment facilities, recovering from his wounds. The only thing that saved him from Harbinger’s blast was the implants Cerberus had used to return him to life. It was about the only thing he had Cerberus to thank for.

Tali and Garrus visited him often. The fling they started began to mature, and the two actually fit together. Together they coordinated aid for each species and became ambassadors for their races on Earth, ensuring that respect was given and received by everyone working on getting back home. Tali’s boundless creativity and Garrus’ ingenuity became great assets to the effort, and were instrumental in making sure peace was maintained.

James Vega became an N7 after what remained of Alliance Command discovered he was part of Shepard’s crew. He returned to Los Angeles a week after Shepard was allowed visitors, but maintained communication with Shepard. He coordinated security and disposal of the cybernetic indoctrinated in Los Angeles, and was promoted to Major for his efforts in the conflict.

Samantha Traynor and Diana Allers became an item over time and visited often. Traynor became Hackett’s personal attaché, responsible for intelligence collected regarding the repair of the relays. Once a week, she would sit down with Shepard, and the two would play chess, while Diana sat by and tried not to spring an interview on him. It was three months after the visits became regular that he finally broached the subject. The interview was later added to a documentary on him that neither the Alliance News Network nor he approved of.
Liara became his confidante, and though the two weren’t bondmates, their shared experiences made them closer than he imagined initially. She maintained her duties as Shadow Broker, and ensured that the goodwill garnered during the Reaper invasion was maintained.
Joker and EDI also visited to lighten his day and update him on the goings-on of the outside world. The two always managed to make him smile no matter how bizarre the questions or subjects the two broached. Joker retired from the Alliance after Shepard revealed he wouldn’t be returning to the Normandy. EDI followed him, and the two became pilots for various non-combat missions.

Cortez rarely left the hospital, visiting him daily. The two had met only just after he was reinstated in the Alliance, but the time they spent became what he valued most. The man took everything in stride; when he was angry, happy, depressed, and everything in between. Cortez grounded him, made him feel safe. It was something he never experienced in his entire life. Cortez had been reassigned as a medevac pilot for the hospital after a near-violent altercation between his new commander, demanding him spend less time at the hospital.

Kaidan eventually found a stable relationship during the aftermath of the Reaper attack. Oddly enough, it was with Major Coats. The two coordinated commando assaults with the remaining Hammer forces and began working in strategic meetings together. They began to mesh, and left to Vancouver to sort out the survivors. Kaidan never did find his family.

He received many visitors during his time in the hospital, but they all soon began to peter away until only his companions from the Normandy were his visitors. A few days after he was discharged, they held a ceremony, honoring him and all those who contributed to the war effort. He received commendations from every race that participated in the assault, though their thanks felt somewhat hollow to him. He was running on steam by the time he was discharged, and by then, he no longer cared for any of it.

It was another two years of studying Prothean technology and the VI which informed him of the Catalyst before the Mass Relays were functional again, and a year after that before many of the intact ones were fully operational again. Tensions were high as study of the relays took place. Urdnot Wreav wished to begin his assault on Earth, but the situation was not one that could facilitate it. Every race had their eye on one another, and while old grudges started popping up once more, the united threat of each individual race was enough to keep each other in check.

When the relays were once again operational, the fleets began to return to their home worlds one by one. The Citadel was returned to the Serpent Nebula, and once again, it became the hub of galactic civilization. A memorial service was given there for their victory and for those lost to the Reapers.

Shepard didn’t go.

When galactic travel was possible once more, he formally resigned from both the Alliance and the Spectres. He had many favors owed him, but the only thing he wished for was to get away from it all. Everything. He and Cortez married the day after Shepard’s contract was over in the Alliance. He’d cut ties with the Spectres months before. The wedding was small and kept secret. Using their clout, the two left Earth for Eden Prime under assumed names, Steve to become a pilot and Shepard assisted in the rebuilding efforts there. There were bumps along the way, but the two managed to overcome.

After the Krogan DMZ was reopened, Urdnot Wreav attempted to restart the Krogan Rebellions, but the females of Tuchanka took a stand. They proved just as great of warriors that the males did, causing a civil war over the fate of their race. A female of Clan Urdnot managed to kill Wreav, effectively gaining control of Clan Urdnot, and the other clans by extension. The power shift was a rocky one, though tensions lowered between the Krogans and the rest of the galaxy.

After the actions of Mordin Solus and the Dalatress, the Salarians began to view their actions on Tuchanka in a different light. Though far from friends with the Krogans, the new Dalatress managed to reach out an olive branch to the new Krogan Chieftain. The offers for aid were never answered.

The Quarians retreated to Rannoch and began rebuilding their society, going so far as to create a memorial out of one of the larger Geth platforms for the AI for their aid in the battle for Earth. Though still wary of AI as a society, they began to strive to know what exactly drove the Geth toward their ambitions.

Thessia was never reclaimed. The Asari began to rebuild on Ilium by directorate of the Matriarchy. No asari wished to be on the world they allowed to fall so easily. There was nothing but death and shame that awaited them there.

After the end of the conflict, the Terminus was without a doubt controlled by Aria T’Loak. There had been several attempts at ending this stranglehold, all of which were met by immediate and harsh retribution. The Terminus became borderline anarchistic on worlds controlled by her mercenary armies, and she flourished because of it.

The Rachni queen returned to her colony’s former home world, never to be heard from again. Several months after all Rachni were confirmed to be beyond the relay, Krogan and Turian forces destroyed the relay leading to Rachni Space.

The Batarians—what remained of them—never left the Citadel. They lost themselves. They were a dying race, and none could even think of what state the Hegemony was in. Teams were sent out, but all findings were bleak. No Batarian was spared from the genocide.

Some days were increasingly difficult for Shepard. There were times when he couldn’t move from bed, when not even Steve could convince him that he’d done the right thing. But other days, when he walked the refurbished buildings of Eden Prime, saw life returning to the streets and remembered what it looked like those years ago. The first glimpse of what was to come. Saren, Nihlus, Sovereign, and all that followed. How life continued going, despite all of the tensions in the galaxy.

It was worth it.

Purgatory Part 7

needagasmask — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 08:04:18 GMT

Author: Jordan
Title: Purgatory Part 7
Rating: R for language, nudity, and character death
Pairings/characters: Colbert, Trombley, Hasser
Summary: Lambs without a shepherd, shepherd without a flock. It is your sins which hold you here.
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 Chapter 6

When Brad and Walt find Trombley, he’s unconscious and convulsing. The two quickly move to his side. Brad rolls him onto his side while Walt grabs his wrist to check for a pulse. “His heart rate’s through the roof, Colbert.”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it, Walt? Until he calms down, we can’t do shit for him.” Brad wishes now that he’d paid more attention to the classes Doc Bryan gave when they were getting set to deploy, when they were in Kuwait and he went around showing people how to apply a tourniquet. There was something in the back of his mind though, nagging at him. This was Iraq, or some Bosch impression of it. People collapse all the time out here, and usually because….

“Walt, see if the Magical Humvee of Unbelievable Retardedness is there, or if it left behind a medical kit or something. If that fails, get some water from that oasis any way you think you can, understand?”

“But that guy said-“

“Fuck him! It’s either listen to some cryptic gypsie bullshit and watch Trombley continue to flop around like a fish, or get some water and have a better chance of saving him than we do right now.” Walt doesn’t hesitate this time when he runs, leaving Brad with his youngest charge. The poor kid stopped convulsing, but now he keeps breathing short, quick breaths at a level of labor that worries Colbert. He rolls Trombley back onto his back and works toward removing his blouse, all the while listening to his breathing to ensure it remains unobstructed. Brad curses the Marine Corps often, about various stupid inconveniences, but now his ire is focused on the amount of buttons the Corps decided to put on the uniform. He has no knife to cut through the fabric, so this is his best bet.

Finally, the blouse is free of buttons and Brad quickly rolls Trombley back to his side to make removing his blouse easier. When that’s done, he removes his undershirt, boots, and socks as well before once again Trombley is on his back with his feet on Colbert’s lap. Brad places a hand on the boy’s forehead to gauge his temperature, and isn’t surprised to discover that he’s burning up. Soon he can hear someone running toward the two, causing him to go on edge, but after a shout from the stranger, surmises it’s Walt. “Have you figured out what caused the seizure, yet?” The question is asked as he passes Brad two heavy canteens of water.

“He’s showing some pretty heavy signs of heat stroke, but I can’t say for sure. It doesn’t make sense to me, though, because none of us have felt even the need to drink water.” The first canteen is dumped on Trombley, thoroughly soaking him in cold water. The kid splutters, but remains unconscious. Half of the second is poured on Trombley’s blouse and undershirt before they get wrapped around him like two obscenely tiny baby blankets. He hands Walt the half-empty canteen before slinging his weapon to his back and gently lifting Trombley from the ground. His breathing’s calmed, finally, and he doesn’t feel quite so hot anymore with the wet clothing doing its job. “Walt, grab his SAW and boots, please. We’re setting camp by the pond.”

Trombley starts to stir on the way back, as darkness nearly overtakes the trio. He looks behind Colbert at Walt before involuntarily snuggling into the taller man’s chest. “What happened?” he asks Brad, his voice weaker than his team leader had ever heard it before.

“You passed out, probably from dehydration,” Brad’s voice is soft yet holds the ever-surgical factual tone he carries with just about everyone. “Your temperature was spiking and you were convulsing pretty badly.”

“Dehy….no.” Brad sets Trombley down in the clearing he’d watched the lake from earlier, only this time refusing to look into its depths. The boy starts shivering in the darkness, and starts stripping down to nothing after Walt starts a fire, opting to get as close to it as possible. Walt offers him the half-empty canteen, but Trombley refuses. “I thought I saw….Corporal Person out there."

“Ray?” Walt’s voice carries an air of concern rarely shown for Trombley, and the boy shrugs.

“I’m not sure. It could’ve been Ray, but then I thought I saw that guy with the violin. I remember…eating something, but I can’t remember—“

“Leave it be, ok?” Brad’s voice is almost inaudible. “It might be one of those monsters out there. Get warm and wait for your clothes to dry out. We’re getting the fuck out of here when the sun comes up, with or without that truck.”

---

The night was restless for all three of them. They had no tools to make ranger graves, no HMMWV for what little armor it could provide in the middle of the night, and no comfort of having the rest of Bravo nearby. It was merely three men in a world more alien even than the Hell hole that was named Operation Iraqi Freedom.

The silence of the night was broken by the noise of warfare. MLRS exploded all around them, the force and sound of the explosives heard and felt, but there was no flash on impact, no debris from the damage. Small-arms fire accompanied this, and not even Brad’s NVGs could show him a source, or even a path that these weapons were taking around them. Trombley sits where he first did, nude and curled into a fetal position. If it were quiet, Brad would be able to know that the boy is crying. Walt merely sits by the fire, trying to pretend that this doesn’t affect him as much as it does Trombley as hbe stokes the flame or adds more fuel to their only source of light.

Brad opens his eyes a few hours later to the first feeble glow of gray dawn. He doesn’t know when he fell asleep, and it doesn’t feel like it was long, though Trombley is now dressed, his weapon cradled to his body like a toy. Walt’s gone to sleep as well. If the fire were still burning, he’d more than likely be in danger of losing his hair.

Brad signals to Trombley to come over to him, and the boy does so, albeit reluctantly. There’s still fear in his eyes, but there’s also a small bit of hope there, as well. “Are you okay with us moving as soon as we can?” the question sounds sincere, but in the back of his head, Brad feels that if the answer is no, that he and Walt just might leave him.

Trombley seems to pick up on that. “No, but I don’t have a choice, do I?” He sighs after the silence stretches into the uncomfortable. “I…I don’t think that I’m gonna make it through this, Sergeant Colbert. Chuckler wasn’t lying. Don’t eat. Don’t drink. It does something to you.”

----

When the road and the vehicle appeared again that morning, the three set off with the only conversation between them involving orders to do this or that from Brad. The sun bakes through the up-armored vehicle and air conditioning as if it is non-existent, resulting in Brad and Walt rolling their windows as far down as possible. Trombley is in the turret, languidly traversing the MK-19 across the barren landscape, every now and then letting an extremely noticeable shiver run through his body.

Brad barely pays any attention to it, though. He gives up on hailing a friendly unit and instead flicks his comms through the static, to find something he refuses he admits looking for. Every now and again he finds it, a whisper of his name that sounds like it comes from his mother or Nate. Nothing slid, though, and it could be just something that he imagi—

“CONTACT, NINE O’CLOCK! 200 METERS!” Brad jumps at the shout that issues from his headset. From Walt’s pained expression, it also blares out from the hand mic attached to his ear. The two share a look, but Walt keeps driving. Trombley’s gone rigid in the turret nest. “Assassin 3 Actual, this is Assassin 3-2! We have a man down! Stand by for 9-line medevac report.”

“Oh, fuck. Colton, he’s got it fuckin’ bad, man.”

“Assassin 3-2, we’re waiting for that report, over.”

"Uh…right. Line 1….”

The communication line cuts just as Trombley shouts “STOP!” at the top of his lungs. No sooner does Walt stop then a large shape falls and hits the pavement before the HMMWV with a very audible CRACK!

“Dismount!” The words are out of his mouth before Brad even realizes he gives the order. Walt and Brad rush with opening the heavy steel doors of the truck and move to the front of the vehicle. A man in desert MARPAT is laid out just before the grille of the HMMWV and trying to get to his feet. The two men quickly move into position and level their weapons on him. He manages to get to his feet, albeit slightly pained, before stopping cold. Brad finally recognizes him, though he looks much older than he remembers.

“If someone asked me if I was gonna see Sergeant Brad Colbert today, in the flesh, I’d beat the living shit out of them,” the man says. The tanned skin of his face moves to form a childish grin. “As it is, here I am, and the circle keeps goin’ on, Oo-rah?”

“Yeah, Semper fi and all that cheesy bullshit,” Brad replies before dropping his weapon. “It’s good to see you.”

“What can I say? We’re all meant to see each other again at some point, Brother.”

needagasmask — Fri, 20 May 2011 18:44:15 GMT

Author: Jordan
Title: Purgatory Part 6
Rating: R for language and character death
Pairings/characters: Trombley, Person, Colbert, Hasser, Espera, OFC, Trombley/OFC, Trombley/Person(implied), Trombley/Chuckler(implied), Espera/OFC, Person/Hasser(implied), Colbert/Fick(implied)
Summary: Yes, but wait 'til you taste one, dearie. Like to try one? Go on. Go on, have a bite.
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.

Trombley sits alone in the oasis, watching the sun set maddeningly slow. The red-orange sphere doesn't burn his eyes, and he thinks to himself of the sunsets in Oceanside. It was at the beach that he met Corporal Josh Ray Person.

"So there I was in Sidney-- we stopped there for a week so that the Navy guys could get a resupply or some retarded shit like that-- I think they just wanted to get us off the boat so they could do a Village People reenactment. Anyway, there was this smoking hot Aussie chick at one of the bars there, and she was just begging for one of us to show her what Marine cock tastes li--."

"Ray!" The voice of his new team leader, Sergeant Colbert, pipes in at this moment. "If I have to remind you one more time that this is a family day, I'll personally find the steepest cliff in California and throw you off of it."

"Oh, right. I forgot that the newbies actually have family they made the misfortune of showing to this motley crew." The original man, Person, Trombley has to remind himself. "Who gives a shit, though? The only one that's actual recon is the LT."

"Be that as it may, Sergeant Espera, Lilley, and Trombley brought their families, and I'll be damned if someone in my team has a complaint filed against them because they can't keep their mouths PG-13 for more than fifteen minutes." Sergeant Colbert's voice turns icy, and in turn, a chill runs up Trombley's spine. Ray snaps to parade rest with an insubordinate "Oo-Rah, Sergeant," before remembering Trombley exists. He turns to him and eyes him over for a brief minute.

"Lance Corporal Trombleeeeeeeeeeeeey," he drawls out. "That's a retarded name if I've never heard one. You look like a fucking baby. Are you sure you're old enough to be in the Corps?"

"Old enough to have your mom screaming my name the other night, Corporal." Even though Sergeant Colbert gives a warning to him, he can see he's won some ground with Person as his eyes widen in surprise before his mischievous grin returns.

"Brad! He actually has a sense of humor. If he ain't like, dead or some shit after BRC, can we keep him?"

"He's our automatic rifleman for the time being. If he passes, he stays," Colbert informs him. At this, Person raises an eyebrow.

"What happened to Walt?" he asks in earnest.

"His A-Gunner."

"Why not put him on as AG?"

Brad smiles at Trombley. "You haven't seen him shoot yet."

Person still isn't pleased, he can tell, and looks at Trombley before returning his gaze to Colbert. "That's all well and good and shit, but this kid's still a fucking newbie. If he's on a gun team, he should learn to be a bitch before he's taking shots." He pauses for a minute before his voice lowers. "What's going on Brad? You, Pappy, Cocher, and Lovell bring in a shit ton of fresh guys who haven't even seen action beyond Sergeant Espera. I've been looking at the news, man. I'm not a fucking mouthbreather like half the guys here. Is it gonna happen?"

Colbert's gaze lowers before returning to Person's. "The LT and Gunny Wynn have been going to a lot of meetings lately. It sounds like we're not even going to see the Peleliu in the next few months. Battle drills and a possible C-130 trip to Kuwait if Saddam doesn't back down."

Trombley looks at Person, excitement in his eyes. War, in possibly the first days of the conflict. He was too young for the kickoff of Operation Enduring Freedom, but this could be his. He could imagine it now, kicking in the teeth of this Saddam dude, whoever he was. Person's own expression is vastly different. The excitement's there, yes, but it looks like he's hiding something.

"Yeah, sure, Brad," his voice is subdued. "Thanks. I'm gonna go walk or something for a minute talk to you later." Sergeant Colbert opens his mouth to say something, but ultimately stops. The damage is done. He turns to Trombley with a tired look on his face.

"You might wanna spend some time with your family, Trombley. It's likely we'll be there." Trombley nods at his new TL and turns around, walking through the sand at a sluggish pace. Lieutenant Fick passes by, giving him a grim smile before moving on to Brad, where he can hear the two talking in hushed voices before he moves on.

After a minute or so of walking at this pace, he runs into Alicia, his wife. The Mexican woman's speaking animatedly to another Latina woman in rapid Spanish. He recognizes her as Gina, Sergeant Espera's wife. He isn't fluent yet, but he can pick up bits and pieces and surmise that they're talking about Alicia's pregnancy. She's beginning to show.

As he approaches, Alicia looks up and smiles, and a warm feeling fills his body. "James! Have you met Gina yet?" He shakes his head no and is surprised when Gina gives him a warm hug. "She's Tony's wife."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," he says as she disengages from the hug.

"She was telling me she has a ton of baby clothes that she'll give us for when it happens." Trombley blushes at this and thanks Gina quietly.

"Definitely beats shopping at Wal-Mart." he tells her, only half-joking. Gina laughs and looks out to her own husband, who's currently in heated debate with Sergeant Reyes.

"It's a lot of work," Gina tells them. "And sometimes it'll feel like it's a curse. I'll do anything I can to help you two out, especially with how sweet you two are."

Trombley blushes again, and this time just feels awkward. Should he keep the conversation going? Should he break this happy mood between women with what he just learned, or pretend that the baby's the first thing on his mind? In the end, he just thanks Gina again before excusing himself. Alicia eyes him and he feels guilty for a moment, but the feeling passes as he walks away from them. The sun's beginning to set now, the dull red-orange of sea brine breaking up the light of the sun as it passes to the next hemisphere. In the distance he can see a shape on the edge of the water and realizes it's a man sitting just outside of the influence of the sea, watching the sun set as he does. He decides to intrude on this man's peace, and after a minute, finds it's Corporal Person. His face is damp, and not just from the sea spraying onto him from the wind.

"Corporal Person?" he asks softly. He looks up and grimaces, wiping his face before he returns his eyes to the sea.

"Don't fucking call me that unless an officer or something's around. I sound like a tool. Call me Ray." Trombley nods before taking a seat next to him. Sand squelches softly at his interruption, and he grimaces. Ray chuckles at that before taking another look at him. "Have you deployed yet, Trombley?" he asks quietly.

"Qatar for a few months," he replies, and Ray shakes his head.

"I didn't fucking mean like that. Like, a real deployment. You know, Bosnia, Afghanistan?" Trombley shakes his head. "Fuck me running," he says to himself. "You're fresher than a first day period, kid. Me and the Iceman, we've both been to Afghanistan. We heard about the fall of Kandahar while we were fighting Taliban around Bagram. LT actually helped Delta recover a downed Black Hawk in Pakistan with Tony and Fruity Rudy. This is some real shit we're gonna go into, James. I'm not gonna lie; I don't feel comfortable fighting by the side of someone who ain't never seen action."

James feels a flair of anger, but quickly suppresses it. Instead he replies with a derisive snort before looking at Ray in earnest. "Well, how am I gonna get fucking experience if assholes like you keep talking shit? I'm a Marine, just like you. Just cuz I'm not recon don't mean shit. And I have a fucking great eye. Just watch."

Ray laughs, but even Trombley can tell it isn't sincere. "We'll see, Trombley. We'll see."

His mind returns to the present as the sunlight hits him directly in the face. In the distance, shaded by a withered palm, is a lone figure. The frame tells him it's a male, and in that moment, he's on his feet. He looks around for a moment, and sees Hasser and Sergeant Colbert are nowhere to be seen. He approaches cautiously, walking in a way so that not even the soil and vegetation beneath his feet can tell others he's moving.

His approach goes unnoticed. The man has his back turned to him, a good sign. The man has dark hair, but he immediately knows it's not that Chuckler fruitcake. Chuckler's hair was unkempt, curly to the point past acceptance by Marine standards. This man's hair is straight, and short enough that rombley can definitely mark him as military. When he's finally only a few meters away, he speaks up. "Who the fuck are you?"

The man turns around, and he's caught off guard. "Hi, Trombley," Corporal Joshua Ray Person says congenially. He stands up and closes the distance between them. Trombley feels a nagging urge to stay on alert, but as Ray's eyes focus on his, the thought leaves as if it were water draining from a sink.

"R-Ray. You're dead, too?" His voice is hushed, and he's embarassed to realize he's stuttering. Ray laughs.

"Fuck no, I'm not.Death's for POGs and jerkoffs who don't know how to live right. Can't you see, man? It's a fucking dream. Brad's not real, you're not real, Chuckler ain't, and neither are Walt or me. All you gotta do is wake up." The voice is alluring. Trombley finds he can't ignore any of his words. "Brad'll be there. So'll Alicia and your kid. Everything will be okay. Just do it. Wake up, man."

"How?" he asks, finding that waking up is all he wants.

"It's easy," Ray tells him. He turns his hand in a great flourish. When it settles, in his palm is a peach, ripe and more vivid than any fruit he's ever seen. "Eat it."

As his hand reaches out for the fruit, something nags at him. Something Chuckler said to Sergeant Colbert, but what it is, he can't remember. All he can think about is his desire to wake up, and suddenly how very hungry he is. He takes the fruit. Even through the dirt and sand caking his digits, he can feel the fine hairs of the peach, can practically taste its nectar. He brings the fruit to his lips and downs a sizeable chunk of it in one bite.

The taste of ash fills his senses.He nearly throws up but finds his mouth working against his mind to swallow the chunk of fruit. He looks at the bitten peach in his hand and sees the core is molten red. The peach has turned blue, perfectly round and mottled with white and brown spots. His mind begins to swim and he realizes it's Earth he holds in his hands. His bitten off a chunk of the earth.

His mind begins to fill with the thoughts of billions of people, all at once. As that chunk of fruit slides down his throat he can begin to feel himslef becoming one with them all, even those who are unseen, what could most commonly be called a spirit. He realizes what's happened and power begins to fill him, great and terrible. It begins as heat, but begins to coalesce as light, streaming from his pores and Ray is no longer Ray, but him and James knows finally what Chuckler is.

"...Reaper." James' voice echoes across the vast plane of nowhere he and his team mates have found themselves in, and Ray-who-is-really-Chuckler laughs as the man falls to the floor, unconscious.

"Isn't that a bit melodramatic?" he asks, though he knows he'll get no answer. "'Sides, it's kind of a case of the pot and the kettle now. You're special James, like I was. I was waiting for you, and you came. My journey was long over, and I'm tired. I can wait for yours to end, but the transformation needed to begin. You're the most promising I've seen. Sleep a while. You'll feel better in the morning."

--

Brad and Walt race to where the source of the light came from, two deadly silent figures armed with the weapons of man in a world created by something far greater. After some time, Walt notices two figures in the distance and points them out. They bound forward, and just as the shapes are recognizable, Walt stops in his tracks.

Before the second one disappeared, he could have sworn he saw Ray.
To Chapter 7.

needagasmask — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 02:00:59 GMT

Title: The Rage and Love, The Story of my Life (Part I)
Character(s)/Pairing: (eventual) Person/Garza, Implied Colbert/Fick, Trombley/OFC, Espera, Wynn, Hasser
Type/Rating: Slash, PG, rating may change.
Summary: High school AU. Brad, Ray, and Trombley are all foster brothers. When a fight between the brother of Trombley's new girl breaks out, the families try to put the pieces together. In the process, Gabe and Ray get closer.
Notes: It really is a partial fic. I tried writing more, but I felt lazy sitting here, but I couldn't just let this sit. I read another AU where Brad and Nate adopt Ray, Walt, and James, and Gabe was Ray's best friend there, and my mind's been slowly eaten inside out by this pairing. I'm insane, I know. Please, comment and confirm or deny that I'm insane for writing this.

When Ray gets the call from James to pick him up, he is less than pleased.

The reason for this was that when James called, Ray had been out with his friends and having a hell of a good time for a Wednesday night. Chaffin had thrown a house party, and marvel of all marvels, he and his best friend, Walt, had been invited. The two were spending the night getting to know the loevly women of the cheerleading squad and were well on their way to getting shitfaced when he'd gotten the call. Normally, he'd tell James to shove it up his ass, but there'd been something in his voice that made him listen. His voice was unusually shaky, and the way he'd agreed to the insults thrown his way made Ray listen to his brother. That, combined with the fact that if his older brother, Brad, found out and something was wrong, he doubted he'd live to see his 18th birthday.

So there he was, heading to where James had told him he was, a less-than-pleased Walt in tow. The area of town James had found himself in was one where Ray would never expect him to go. It was the Mexican part of town, better known as the barrio. Ray usually tried to avoid this part of town, since many of its residents at school were very vocal about what would happen if they found a White boy in their part of town, and none of it sounded pretty. Now, as they made their way deeper into the barrio, Ray found himself worrying more and more, picturing more grotesque ways to find James.

"What if he's, like, covered in tar and feathers and shit?" Ray asked Walt, more in the vein of trying to break the silence than trying to scare anyone.

"Like the Revolutionary War?" Walt shot him an incredulous glance.

"Hell yeah, man. Think about it. We did it to the fucking British and shit. Don't you think someone would want us to know how it feels?"

"Ray, where the fuck would they find enough tar to actually do that?" Walt asked.

"Tar pits," he replied, shrugging.

"Except there aren't any tar pits in this state, I'm pretty sure," Walt told him.

"So I assume you've been looking if you can make that assumption," Ray shot back. "You're one sick motherfucker, Walt."

Walt tried to come back with his own insult when sight of a young man pacing back and forth in the disance cought Ray's eye. The shape was familiar, and Ray immediately realized it was James. The pickup truck cast James in a harsh glow, and as he turned around, Ray saw something he'd never thought he'd see in his face.

Fear.

As quick as James turned around, he was bolting, faster than Ray'd ever seen him move, and for the first time he knew why the track coaches were always hounding him at school. The thought was pushed out of his mind as a stream of expletives began pouring out of his mouth. He told Walt to watch the truck and jumped out, only hoping to catch James.

"HAROLD-DOUCHEBAG-JAMES-COCKSUCKING-TROMBLEY-McFUCKBAGS! STOP FUCKING RUNNING YOU FUCKING RETARD IT'S RAY!" He shouted at the rapidly disappearing countenance. He added in a few more words for good measure, and a moment later, the running figure stopped and turned around. He stayed still for a moment, and Ray took it as indecision. "I did not drive halfway across town from the party of the year to pick up your retarded ass for nothing, Jimmy! Now get your ass in the truck, or you can ride wrapped around the front axel! Your choice, bro."

James began walking back to him and Ray let out an internal sigh. As James came closer, Ray wrapped an arm around him, causing James to flinch. Frowning, Ray took a closer look. His left eye was puffy, and from the looks of things, a bruise was well under way to developing. Another one seemed to be forming along his collarbone, and he seemed to be favoring one leg a little more than necessary. "Fuck, James," he said in almost a whisper. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"Nothing. S-some fucking Spics caught me while I was walking from a friend's house. I-I won." His tone of voice and overall appearance did nothing to reassure Ray, but he left it alone. If the little shit doesn't want help, he wasn't going to give it.

"Let's get you home, Jimmy," he told him. James nodded, looking in that moment far younger than his fifteen years. As they entered Ray's truck, Walt looked like he was about to say something, when he saw James' appearance. He remained silent as James got into the truck, when he looked down. Walt's eyes widened as he pointed to James.

"Your leg's bleeding." James looked down and his eyes widened. He pulled the leg of his pants up to reveal a sluggishly bleeding bit wound. From the looks of it, it came from a rather large animal.

"What the fuck were you doing?" Ray demanded again, and James merely shrugged.

"Fucking dog bit me while I was running. I didn't know I was bleeding." He removed his shirt gingerly and wrapped it around the wound in question. More bruises and marks were on his torso, and Ray was getting pissed. There wasn't anything he could do to get James to tell him what was going on, though.

---

The next day, Ray was greeted by a cheery sun piercing his blinds, along with an equally pleasant hangover. He groaned and turned over. Last night had been a nightmare. Walt and Ray had come in first, and against their hopes, Ray and Trombley's surrogate father, Mike, had still been awake. He noticed immediately that the two were less than sober, and although he didn't yell, Ray could tell that he was in for it. He'd been in the middle of explaining what had happened when James walked in.

It was easy to forget that Mike Wynn was a retired marine. The man was so soft-spoken that Ray had often thought it might be easy to push him over, but never really tried, since Mike gave him enough room that he never really could complain. That, and his only biological son was currently in some weird-ass relationship with Brad threw any thought out of the window.

All of those misconceptions were thrown aside as he grabbed James and put him on the couch, immediately homing in on the various injuries he'd sustained that night. After having as much success as getting information from him as Ray had, Mike's attention returned to Ray and Walt.

"Walt, you live nearby, right?" Mike asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You might wanna start walking home, then. I need to talk to Ray for a minute."

Walt left with another quiet affirmation. To Mike's credit, he waited about a minute before he began speaking again. "James, where were you this evening?"

"The barrio," came his muffled reply.

Mike clicked his tongue. "The barrio. Did you tell anyone where you were going?"

"No, sir."

"I see. And Ray, what's the one thing I ask of you regarding James?" Mike asked. Ray gulped. The tall man's eyes were burning holes into his head with the intensity of his stare.

"Pretend to love the little psycho?" Ray supplied.

"Try again."

"Make sure I know where he is?"

"Bingo. Ray, did you know where he was before this happened?"

"No, sir."

"And why was that?"

Ray looked down and fought the story in his mind. "No excuse, sir." Any other explanation would probably make Mike even more pissed. He wasn't yelling, but his voice was higher, as if he was restraining himself.

"Damn straight, kid. You're grounded. The only thing you're allowed to do is go to school and debate team. No hanging out with friends, no movies, no mall. Not a damn thing unless I say it's ok." He turned his head. "Same goes for you, James."

"Yes, sir."

"If I find out you two disobey any of this, you can be damn sure I'll do more. Ray, get Nate. We're going to the hospital."

The four of them piled into Mike's SUV, James' leg making a special spot on Ray's lap. He groaned and flicked the wound, causing James to his in pain, but nothing was said when Mike looked from the front seat.

Nothing was seriously wrong with James, they found out. They gave him antibiotics to ensure no infection spread from the wound and pain killers, in case he needed them. They were also given a list of symptoms to look out for, in case of rabies. The inital tests came out negative, but they were given just to be safe.

It was 2 in the morning when they finally got home, which led to why Ray was in such a bad mood. To make matters worse, Nate had been on the phone the entire night with Brad, who was currently on Camp Pendleton. Brad was a Marine, and his command didn't think the situation warranted him leaving post. Instead, he momentarily spoke with Ray after hearing the news. Suffice it to say, Ray was contemplating the merit of bullet-proof jock straps.

Breakfast was quiet in the Wynn home that morning. Nate had already left to see some friends at the beach. He was currently taking classes at Dartmouth, and was only home for a week. He was trying to fit in as many get togethers as possible among his old friends. Mike was also trying to hurry through breakfast, already late for his own job. As he finished breakfast, he muttered something along the lines of getting James to school, but he couldn't be sure.

Just to be safe, he corralled James from his breakfast as Walt's knock sounded through the house, the both of them grabbing backpacks as they left.

---

Lunch was always a madhouse at James Ferrando Public High. Thousands of voices filled the cafeteria and courtyards as people came and went for lunch, spouting every genre known to man. Over here, a boy and a girl were in a heated argument as she revealed she was pregnant. There, two nerds discussed, with the fervor of Aristotle and Plato, the breast size of a coveted anime babe. Still others discussed the plans to hit a mark at school.

Usually Ray would ignore all of this as he tried to convince people that the pros of making a zero gravity muffin on the International Space Station outweighed the cons. His rant, however, was interrupted as a heated voice with a Hispanic accent broke out nearby.

"You have the fucking balls to touch my sister again after what we did to you last night, joto(1)?" Ray turned his head to see what the commotion was about. The owner of the voice in question currently had his back to him and was blocking his view. A freshman girl moved out of the way in indignation and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Leave him alone, Gabriel! We were only kissing. You know I wouldn't let him do anything else," she whined.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "What if he tried to hurt you?"

"I wouldn't hurt her!" a new voice shouted, and Ray couldn't help the nagging feeling in the back of his mind at the other's voice.

"Shut the fuck up! I was-" The Mexican was cut off as a fist connected with his face. He stumbled back a step, and in a flash he was on him. Ray joined the crowd as bloodlust took over, the girl trying to pull her brother off of what Ray assumed was her boyfriend. The two fell over, and Ray got a look at the other's leg.

The color drained from his face before he was running forward, helping and actually succeeding in pulling him from James. The three fell back, and in a rage, Ray began pummelling the surprised Mexican. Something cracked under his fist, but he didn't care. "You don't fucking touch my brother you understand you fucking sick fuck!? Huh!?" His question was punctuated by Ray knocking his skull into the concrete once or twice.

He was still swinging when security came and shisked them away.

--

"So, let me get this straight, Person. The Gunny told you to watch over Trombley and not do anything stupid, am I right?" Sergeant Brad Colbert was sitting with Ray and James on one side and the Mexican and his sister, whom Ray learned were Gabriel and Gloria Garza. The latter was indeed James' girlfriend.

"Yup."

"And, if your principal's right about what she said when she called the Gunny, who called me to pick you up, you decide to get into a fight with Gloria's brother. Does any part of that ring out as stupid to you?"

"He started it," James muttered.

"Fuck you, white boy!" Gabriel shouted, shooting daggers at James. "You hit me."

"Garza, not now!" Brad said, interrupting the argument before it could happen. "You're in just as much shit as Person and Trombley are. What in the world is wrong with you three? Your mom couldn't come, so Sergeant Espera's coming to pick you up in a minute. I called him when I found out it was you." Any argument Gabriel was going to give died on his lips.

"Why am I here, again?" Gloria asked, sounding annoyed by the whole situation. The principal, a critical woman, supplied the answer.

"Mr. Wynn and Ms. Garza had a teleconference with me before I allowed you in." She said this carefully, eyeing all four as if they were filth on the bottom of her heels. "They thought this matter could be settled at home, with Sergeants Colbert and Espera as chaperones. Having known both of them, and what they do, I was inclined to agree. Mr. Espera will follow Mr. Colbert with you two to his home. Frankly, I'm astonished at all four of you. Never has something like this occured with you as my students. I don't want a bad seed growing in this school."

--

The ride home was uncomfortable. Any time Ray tried speaking, Brad would shoot a glare at him. Once, he even told Ray he'd interrupted an important meeting over this bullshit and he had to acquire a G-Ride(2) to get them, which explained the car. Last Ray had checked he only had a motorcycle.

When they finally arrived, Brad led the way in, with Sergeant Espera and his family not far behind. They sat in Mike's living room, Brad and Espera flanking either side of the two groups hawkishly.

"Now, you four are going to explain, calmly, what the fuck is going on. If you don't, you definitely won't like us when we're done. Do I make myself clear?" Brad asked. The four nodded in unison but all remained silent. Brad sighed. "Alright. Gloria, since I know the least about you, and you seem to not have actually been involved, why don't you start?"

Gloria looked at Sergeant Espera, who nodded. She gave Brad a glare before starting. "James and I met a few weeks ago. We were in Algebra and he needed a tutor, so I helped him."

"Figures the White Man would go a Mexican for help instead of fixing his own damn problem."

"Tony!"

"Sorry, Brad," Espera shrugged. "Couldn't resist. Go on, Gloria."

She sighed and shook her head. "Anyway, I found out real quick he's a lot smarter than he lets on. He started doing bad in algebra just so I could talk to him."

"Laaaaaaaaaame," Ray drawled out.

"Shut up!" She cried out. "It was really sweet, I think, and he turned out to be sweet, too. So last week we started seeing each other. Last night, I asked him to come to my house to meet my family. They were a bit...surprised, but they accepted it."

"More like you freaked us out," Tony said. "Going out with the White Man, Gloria. That's just wrong."

"Anyway, after dinner, I walked James out to the bus stop, and we had our first kiss," she finished.

"That wasn't no fucking kiss. He had his hands all over you," Gabriel cut in finally. "You should have seen it, Tony. He might as well had his hand up her dress."

"First, I never want to hear about my sister in that context, ever. Second, did he?"

"No!" James shouted. "It was just a kiss! I swear! Next thing I know, he was all over me!" He pointed at Gabe.

"No one touches my sister, faggot! You got what you deserved!" Gabe shouted.

"Children. CHILDREN!" Brad shouted at them. He closed his eyes briefly in the silence, opening them as he spoke. "Now. We are going to refrain from bickering, arguing, shouting, name calling beyond what Tony or I do, fighting, or anything in between. Understand?" They nodded.

Brad smiled the creepiest smile Ray'd ever seen outside of Trombley. "Good. Who's next?"

"Well, we beat the shit out of this kid, me and some friends," Gabriel supplied. He fought us off a little, then ran like a little-"

"Language."

"-Creep," Gabe ammended. "Don't know what happened to him after that. We took Gloria home."

"And then?" Espera asked.

"I kept running," James said. "A dog started chasing me, so I ran faster. It caught up to me and bit me pretty bad. It wouldn't let go, so I punched the fucker until it did." He reached and rubbed his injured leg. "I hate dogs."

Ray fought the wave of disgust and jumped in. "I think that's when he called me and Walt. We went to pick him up and he didn't tell us any of this shit."

Brad nodded. "So you went to the hospital and patched him up. I know that part. Then what?"

"I saw James in class today and apologized for my brother being an idiot," Gloria said. "He said it was ok and it was probably him overreacting. Then we went to lucnh and he held my hand while we ate. That's when Gabe came and freaked out."

"And the rest is history," Espera finished. "I hope you know that all four of you are idiots. Especially you two." He pointed at James and Gabe. "You two need to get your hormones under fucking control. Gabe, Gloria's fifteen. She's gonna have boyfriends. As much as it pains me that it's a white boy, he hasn't done nothing bad to her. Cool the fuck off. James, you need to keep your emotions down. According to Gabe and Gloria, you threw the first punch both times. If I hear one more fucking thing about this shit, I'll guarantee Gloria won't be able to see you again."

"Ray, don't just jump into shit. Mike's already pissed at you," Brad said. "Watch over James, but don't jump to conclusions. You're supposed to be the better man here."

"That's what she said."

(1)Joto: (pronounced ho-toe) Spanish slang for faggot.
(2)G-Ride: Military slang for government vehicle. Military personnel, under certain conditions, can utilize government vehicles for official or emergency purposes. Not usually anything like HMMWVs, 5-tons, or MRAPs. G-Rides are most often civilian grade vehicles. Recruiters use them for their day-to-day jobs, and military personnel usually use these to transport other personnel from one place on post to another. Usually, a G-Ride is assigned to one or more person, who can use it to their discretion, as long as it doesn't interrupt the actions of the unit this person belongs to.
To be continued.

I'm Not Ok. I promise.

needagasmask — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 11:57:12 GMT

Title: I'm Not OK. I promise.
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters/Pairings: Nate/Brad
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals as seen on the HBO miniseries.
Summary: Brad comes home to find no one there.

It always amazed Brad Colbert how acclimation to a new environment could seriously fuck up the ones previously held to as axiom by his body. Yet here he was in beautiful and sunny Oceanside, California, wearing about two layers of his military-issue extreme cold weather system. The forecast called for temperatures in the mid-80’s, as did the handy thermometer Nate insisted he install on his front porch.

As far as Brad was concerned, the meteorologist and basic science were fucking liars.

This was beside the point, however. Brad had just landed that morning from the excruciatingly long journey from Afghanistan to the West Coast, and Nate had promised him two weeks earlier that he would be at the airport to pick him up, as was customary between the two since Nate had decided the Marine Corps life wasn’t what he’d wanted. So, Gunnery Sergeant Colbert, being the reasonable man he was, had expected to see his dear friend and lover waiting for him to take him home in the brand new Prius Ray just loved to remind him Nate had bought in his absence.

Things, however, did not go as planned. He’d waited in the airport for nearly two hours as his fellow Recon Marines were picked up and gushed over by various friends and family, and still, no Nate. Which, honestly, was forgivable in Brad’s book. There’s no way in Hell Brad Colbert would admit that he’d ever set foot in a Prius. This way, he didn’t have to duck from people he recognized or lie about the fact later on.

Eventually, he left the terminal and took a cab home, shivering in the back seat. By the time he got home, he was ready to kill someone. One because, yes, he was sure he was fine, and two, he did not think he should go to the hospital. Honestly, you’d think the civilian population in Oceanside would recognize the symptoms of a Marine fresh from deployment by now.

It didn’t matter, however, as he made his way to the front door of the home he and Nate had purchased the year before, though officially it was in Brad’s name. He paid the cabbie and hauled ass to the front door, throwing stealth to the wind and practically slamming the door open. He made only one stop on his way to the showers, and that was to turn the heat on. Several minutes later, after scorching his skin, Brad stood in his living room wearing the ridiculous fleece snivel gear which he currently didn’t think was so ridiculous. Everything was as it should be. Minus the minor Fick missing issue, which Brad refused to admit to anyone was an issue. He shrugged and made his way to the kitchen, the sterile opulence of it screaming his companion’s near-obsessive compulsive tendencies. He headed for the fridge and noticed just before he opened it the Day-Glo pink post-it note on its face emblazoned in Nate’s meticulous handwriting, his name. Pulling it off of it, he read through the information before proceeding to punch a dent into his fridge.

--

“Where the fuck is he?”

“Welcome back, Mr. Colbert. It’s so nice to hear your voice again.” The voice over the phone was deadpan and laced with sarcasm.

“Don’t fuck with me, Steph. I’m not in the mood for reindeer games, and trust me when I say you don’t wanna be in my way.” Brad made sure to put the venom he felt coursing through him seep through. Most people shied away from Brad when he became the Ice Man, but not Steph. Brad was pretty sure Nate had kept her on just for the fact that she didn’t take Brad’s shit. Either that, or it was because her boobs had a way of almost popping out of her bra. Either way, it was a win on Nate’s part.

“Per Mr. Fick’s guidance, he told me to tell you he was called away from the West Coast offices due to an important business negotiation regarding a rival company. He also told me to quit your bitching and actually fucking call him if you happened to phone this office,” her voice was metered with the same calm as his was, and Brad wondered if what he’d thought about Steph was true, or if Nate just loved blondes with emotional and social issues. If that was the case, they needed to talk about this arrangement.

“I tried that,” he responded in earnest. “His phone was conveniently off when I called him.”

“Then my recommendation is to wait like a good little boy and-“ her words were cut off as the phone in his hand began to vibrate. He looked at the caller I. D. and his eyes narrowed in recognition. N. FICK. “I’ve gotta go.” He switched over lines and started to speak before Nate could even acknowledge him.

“What the fuck sir? ‘Sorry Brad, but I’m going back on the promise I’d made to you and leaving town. By the way, my pansy ass job is more important than you’.”

“It’s great to know that you’re doing well and haven’t been freaking out, Brad. I’m doing just fine, too.” If Brad could punch the sarcasm out of someone’s voice over the phone, he would.

“So, did you plan on calling me some time before I hit the states so I could know that you weren’t going to be there, or was the act of making me look like an ass intentional?” He heard Nate’s sigh and took pleasure in the fact that he was getting under his skin.

“I couldn’t get a hold of you before you left Kuwait, and you refuse to get Skype, so I made do, Brad. I wanted to pick you up, but the guys over me refused to take no for an answer. I’ll be back in a week or two. I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’m assured of this.”

“Two weeks? What the fuck am I supposed to do for two weeks?”

“Jesus, you’re a bitch when things don’t go your way. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“This is ridiculous, Nate, but fine. I lo-,” CLICK.

Oh, Hell no.

--

“And then he hung up on you? So hard to imagine, what with that charming demeanor of yours. Seriously, Brad, I bet if your bio-parents loved you , you’d come to find out that it’s The fucking Grinch and that blonde elf thing.”

“Cindy-Lou Who?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Ray, I’m not even going to comment on how disturbing that mental image you just gave me was.” There was that headache again.

“Just get over it, man. There’s no use fucking sulking over something as retarded as your ass buddy going away,” Ray was starting to get on a roll, so Brad cut him odd before he could begin.

“So what do you suggest I do to get out of this rut?” he asked, tapping the phone in irritation.

“I don’t know. Come up here and see me and Walt?” he asked.

“Ray, I think we established the fact that I’m still cold as fuck from Kandahar. What in your right mind would make you think I’d go from Oceanside to Seattle?”

“Uh…Because you love coffee and Shellfish?” Ray intoned as if it was fucking obvious.

“I’m Jewish. We don’t eat shellfish, asshole.”

“Fine, because you love me and Walt. And we missed you, kinda. Come on, we’ll show you around town.” Brad thinks about it for a minute. Maybe thirty seconds, and then he decides.

“No. There’s no way I’m gonna set foot in that death trap of Hippies and self-important Liberal faggots.”

--

“It’s great to see you again, man.” Brad just gives an emotionless grunt before taking a bite of the stuffed bread he bought off an Indian guy at the farmer’s market on the pier. It’s better than what was actually on his mind as they sat at the edge of a pier overlooking Puget Sound.

“I needed a break from Oceanside and the Corps. There’s only so much you can take of Sixta before you become homicidal,” he opted for, gaining a sage nod from Walt.

“Take as much time as you need. Your place is our place. Treat it as if it’s yours.” Honestly, Walt was too nice sometimes.

“Except Walt. I’m the only one allowed to defile him.”

Trust Ray to ruin a moment.

--

It’d been three days since arriving in Seattle, and already he was bored. He was nervous walking down the streets. Not that Seattle seemed any more dangerous than the average city, but he couldn’t shake the feeling someone was watching him. He kept looking behind his shoulder, expecting some foreign national watching him, cataloguing his every move. The buildings were too tall and he couldn’t help being on the move, lest he be the target of a sniper. He couldn’t sleep, either. It was odd, being here, so different from Oceanside, and dimensions different from Afghanistan. It was a great place, some far corner of his mind told him.

It just felt like the piece of his soul that would enjoy it most was missing, and it was. Nate was the only missing piece of his life right now, and it needed to be put back in place. The fact that Nate had to take care of business didn’t bother Brad. What bothered him was his affection for his former captain had been suppressed the entire time he was there, and now that Brad was in garrison, the lack of his heart tore him apart inside.

What bothered him most was that he told Nate in not so nice words that he’d be in Seattle if anyone was looking, and all Nate said was “Have fun.” No rise, no offers of early return or promises of anything in the future. Not even a fucking “I miss you.”

Did Nate even remember that he’d just come home?

--

Brad found himself in a cramped elevator, his mind as blank as the stare of some homo’s kid as the lift opened to the observation deck. It’d been nearly four days since he’d last called Nate. He was missing him, and now that sinking feeling in his gut was being replaced by hollow sorrow for the one person who could make him feel alive these days. The day was gloomy, and the wind was blowing a none too gentle knife through his jacket and onto his skin. Whoever decided to meet someone on the top of Space Needle was a fucking retard. When he found out who, he’d let them know.

Walt wouldn’t even let him know who or what the issues were. Just go to Space Needle to meet the contact. He stood outside, shivering as the wind sliced through his clothing and made contact with his skin. Oh yeah, this fuck was dead.

“Honestly, Brad, you can’t be that cold.” He froze at the sound of the familiar voice, and he was shivering now for an entirely different reason. The soft voice, short and clipped, filled his brain and enraptured him.

He opened his mouth, and his voice cracked from barely contained emotion. “Please don’t tell me I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not, Brad. I’m assured of this.” He turned slowly, to be met by a brunette man with eyes greener than any ocean’s ever known, and Brad couldn’t take it.

“I didn’t think you’d come here,” he told him truthfully, almost on the verge of breaking down in front of everyone. Nate’s eyes dimmed at the comment and looked away.

“You’re not still mad, are you? Because I’m--,” he didn’t even have time to finish his sentence before his mouth was on Nate’s, seeking, allowing his body to warm up just from the touch. His skin tingled, and for the first time in a year, he felt like things were going to be okay.

“I’m not mad. Never because of you.” This moment, this feeling was what Brad fought for in the Corps. Not freedom or money or that retarded bullshit. The only thing that mattered was right here, surrounding him in a cocoon of protection, letting him know beyond a shadow of a doubt things were going to be okay. “I love you.”

Purgatory, Part 5

needagasmask — Sat, 27 Nov 2010 07:13:06 GMT

Author: Jordan
Title: Purgatory Part 5
Rating: R for language and character death
Pairings/characters: Colbert, Trombley, Hasser, Fick, Brad/Nate, Person/Hasser, one-sided Person/Trombley
Summary: I am the Laughing Man.
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 4

Brad couldn’t believe his eyes. Standing in his turret mount is none other than his favorite gunner: Corporal Walter Hasser. Brad’s torn between glee and remorse. There’s no doubt in his mind anymore about why they’re here, on some quest across Bosch’s version of Iraq in search of…fuck, Brad doesn’t even know what they’re looking for. They’re dead, or at least, that’s how it appears to Brad. If that’s so, what is this place? Hell? He shakes his head at that thought. This is too mild for Hell. As soon as the thought leaves him, an old word, Hebrew, comes to his mind.

Gehinnom, what Christians would equate to Purgatory. The rabbis spoke of it occasionally. It was a place of learning and punishment, where the merit of a man would be tested on the way to the afterlife. His deeds and misdeeds would come to the fore, and if he succumbed, would be treated to a world of endless punishment.

“Walt, why in fuck are you posted in my vehicle like you own the damn thing?” Brad questions, but the smile belies his anger. Walt shrugs and turns to face them.

“Well, you two were sleeping when I got here, so I thought someone should watch this baby.” His smile is full of mirth, and Brad’s mood can’t help but rise. “You look so cute when you sleep, Brad.”

“Like a fucking baby,” Brad replies moving to the curbside of the vehicle, to sit in his throne. “There’s no use standing up there. We’re the only things out here, and what is here doesn’t seem like we can’t take care of it. We just have to conserve ammo. We haven’t found any since we’ve gotten here.”

“Conserve ammo?” Walt’s laugh is a bit condescending, and it makes Brad want to punch him. “You’ve been out here for two years, and you still have ammo?”

“Two years?”Trombley’s voice is incredulous as he opens the door to the HMMWV. Brad’s decided to name it Susan. “We’ve only been here for three days.”

That shuts Walt up. As he drops down from the gunner’s mount, Brad looks at him. His face is a mask of surprise. “Oh, shit. For us, out on the other side, it’s been two years. We…we casevaced you two out of there. Trombley was gone first. Doc Bryan said it was probably instant, that you didn’t feel a thing. We tried to do something for you, Brad, but you were a goner from the moment they put you on that Chinook. I got hit in the face pretty bad, but it wasn’t anything too serious.” Brad notices then the scars on Walt’s face.

“How’s Ray?” he asks, and Trombley looks back for that, trying to gauge Walt’s reaction, even as he fires up the engine.

Walt shakes his head. “It…It fucked up Ray pretty bad. Not physically, but emotionally. He was the lucky one out of us. Or unlucky, I guess, depending on how you look at it. Survivor’s Guilt is what the doctors called it. After Iraq, he packed up and waited for his ETS. Said he couldn’t handle the shit going down anymore. He stayed with me for a while, took care of me pretty good when he got back to the States. I haven’t heard from him since we got back to Iraq for round two.”

Trombley grunts and turns around, starting the vehicle. After a minute, they’re out of the factory, and back on the road through Nasiriyah.

“How’d Nate take it?”

Walt raises an eyebrow, and seems a little hesitant before he speaks. “Are you sure you wanna know?” Against his better judgement, Brad nods. “I think that incident, the one where you two got taken out, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He became snappy with everyone, even Gunny Wynn, and you know those two are practically fucking brothers, the way they carried on. As soon as we got back in country, he handed in his resignation, waived his military benefits, and took the first plane out to Boston. He doesn’t talk to anyone anymore, except Wynn. And the only thing Wynn ever tells us about him is that he’s recovering, so give the LT his space.” He pauses and looks out of the window. “I saw him last year. Or at least I think I did. He was in Oceanside, just staring out at the beach. I wanted to talk to him, but the way he held himself? It was exactly like how Wynn was saying.”

The conversation laps into silence, Brad not really knowing what to say here. I know, a stray thought hits him, I watched him that day. That wasn’t the man I promised to follow through everything.

--

They leave Nasiriyah an hour or so later, and once more, they’re greeted by the endless expanse of desert on either side. The trip is silent, broken every now and then by the nervous chatter from Walt picking them up on what they’ve missed. Poke had another kid, a boy they named Jaime. He re-upped so his kids could get the benefits. Rudy started working as a life coach and fitness guru in San Francisco, and apparently he’s making a living. Brad calls him a liberal whore and they all laugh. He spoke briefly with Trombley’s wife, who named their kid Harold, Jr. Trombley smiles, and for once Brad doesn’t fear for his life.

Walt had been hit by a grenade that had dropped through the hole of the gunner’s mount in the HMMWV. He tells them that he remembers being in the hospital, and when he woke up, no one was there. He was in his digicamo when he woke up and no longer doped up or in serious pain. He tells them he didn’t make the dead or dreaming connection until he stumbled across the sleeping forms of Brad and Trombley.

Brad’s been quiet the entire time, thinking about the information Walt just relayed. He hasn’t bothered playing with the comms, and his dreams have been blissfully quiet or forgotten. He doesn’t need to see or hear Nate in that place, if he’s still there.

His thoughts could wait, anyway, he tells himself as he looks ahead. What he sees is another sight for sore eyes. In the distance is what looks like a palm grove, and in this area, that only means it’s an oasis. What’s just as interesting, though, is the figure ahead, and the steadily growing noise of a violin playing out a sad, sad song.

“Should we stop?” Trombley asks, and Brad nods.

“Maintain a defensive posture. We still don’t know if he’s just another trick.” Trombley lets out another grunt and slows, this time only a few meters. Brad recognizes the mischievous dark eyes and wild shock of brown-black hair belonging to the Marine in World War II garrison uniform to belong to one Chuckler Juergens.

They dismount, and Chuckler eyes Walt, who’s climbed up the gunner’s mount and has the MK-19 pointed right at him. “Isn’t that a bit much for one man?” he calls up. “Seriously, all I’ve got is my violin, here.”

“Stay on the MK-19, Walt,” Brad calls up, and Chuckler laughs. “Where are we?” Brad asks him, and Chuckler shrugs.

“Desert, I’d say. Arizona? Never been there, but I bet this is what it looks like,” Chuckler replies.

“Iraq, numb nuts.”

“Trombley, play nice,” Brad mocks.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Trombley grumbles as Brad returns full attention to Chuckler.

“What’s that up there?” Brad motions behind him, and Chuckler turns around, taking in the sight. “That our destination?”

Chuckler puts a hand up to shield his face and whistles. “For tonight, maybe, but definitely not your end point. Looks like a good place to rest, though. Who knows?”

“Are you the one that’s got us fucking running around here like chickens?” Brad’s voice is slightly threatening, but Chuckler merely laughs.

“Why’d I do that to a fellow Marine? Even if you look like a bunch of robots from them dime novels. Semper Fi, and all that. Remember?” Brad nods but doesn’t back down.

“Is this Gehinnom?” he asks, quietly. Chuckler cocks his head and shrugs.

“I’ve heard it called that before. Mostly by Jews,” he muses. “It’s whatever you think it is. The only thing that is for sure is that it’s a journey. What you find is up to you.”

“Are…are we dead?” Trombley asks, his voice quiet. Chuckler looks at him, and his smile goes wider.

“I think that’s the first non-threatening thing you’ve said since I met you, Trombley. It suits you.”

“Faggot.”

“Whatever.” He lets out a breath and looks down. “Trombley, I think you already know the answer to your question. I don’t need to supply you with one. At least not here.” Trombley stays quiet, and he shrinks in the corner of Brad’s eye.

“Have we really been here for two years?” Brad asks next, and Chuckler, predictably shrugs. He looks past Brad and waves up at Walt.

“Hey! New guy!” Brad sighs internally at his tact. “Two years? Two years,” he nods. “Time’s loopy here. A week here could be only a second there. Three months there can add up to two minutes here. There’s no way to tell how things work out in this place, so your only marker to time on the other side is if you meet someone that’s gotten here before you. I’ll give you an example. For me, I’ve been wandering around for about three years, now. When I found myself in this lovely valley of tests, it was 1982. When did you get here?”

“2003,” Brad tells him, and Chuckler grins.

“Last group I helped got here in 1997. I don’t know who picks us for this place, and I don’t know why I don’t look like a saggy old man, but that’s how this place works. Don’t try rationalizing it. This place will eat you alive.” Brad nods, and motions for Trombley to break contact.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you again,” Brad says as he moves back to the vehicle.

“We’ll see,” Chuckler replies. As Brad walks away, Chuckler gives one last piece of advice, albeit cryptic.

“You’re not thirsty for a reason.”

Like before, the music doesn’t grow quiet for hours. Only this time, it isn’t until the road ends in the palm grove that it goes completely silent.

--

If Brad was looking for respite, this was the place. The HMMWV and road disappear the moment the three turn their backs on it, and at this point, Brad doesn’t even start at the realization, though it’s funny when Walt lets out a curse. The three quickly set up an AO at the bank of a large pond within the Oasis. The supplies in the back of the HMMWV make for a quick way to gather firewood, and before the sun sets, angry and red in the filter of the palm trees, a fire is crackling quietly between them.

Brad’s in his own world, staring at the pond as Walt hums to himself. You’re not thirsty for a reason. Brad has no clue what he means, but he isn’t about to contradict the entity that’s always one step ahead of them. His reflection in the pond is distorted, and the gray-green of the evening water reminds him of green eyes, too wide and innocent for the hardships they’ve been witness to.

Nate. It’s a passing thought, but the moment it leaves his mind, the surface distorts, and there he is, panting like a bitch in heat, writhing under the ministrations of another man. Someone he can’t see. There’s thankfully no sound to accompany the display, but Brad can see clearly in the image that this is no memory of him and Nate, no stray desire playing an elaborate show in his mind. Tears begin to drip from his eyes, and Brad feels alone. He wants with everything in his power to stop looking at the display, but he can’t. Something won’t let hi-

“Where’s Trombley?”

Purgatory, Part 4

needagasmask — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 22:49:32 GMT

Author: Jordan
Title: Purgatory Part 4
Rating: R for language and character death
Pairings/characters: Colbert, Trombley, Fick, Piestewa (fictional portrayal of historical figure), Brad/Nate
Summary: Nasiriyah's a Bitch.
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. As for Piestewa, I intend no ill will toward her family, friends, or her memory.

To Part 3

--

It’s nearly an hour before the violin fades out in the distance, and with the final tune, Brad feels lost, once again. The day stretches on for hours without any chance for respite. After noon, however, the road takes a sudden turn due east, and a few hours later, signs of civilization once again become apparent. What alerts them to this is a simple road sign. NASIRIYAH - 20 KM Out of all the things Brad’s seen in the past two days, this makes him laugh.

The road begins to get a bit rough as they come closer to the city. Asphault is broken, and more than once does Trombley have to maneuver around the stalled out LAVs, HMMWVs, 5-tons, LMTVS, Iraqi jeeps, and various civilian vehicles crowding the road. The smell of cordite and death is thick in the air, but Brad can’t see a single person in the streets, no weapons anywhere to suggest that a battle has been taken place. There’s not even blood.

It’s all eerie, and this place has Brad on edge even more than the long expanse of road that had the travelling stranger. They keep moving forward, and soon they’re at the bridge crossing the Euphrates, that place where First Recon was tied up for hours in a back-and-forth firefight with Republican Guard dressed like civilians. The banks are as full of vegetation as on that day, and he can even recognize some of the stalled vehicles as being part of First Recon’s Alpha Company. They don’t stop, however. There’s nothing here for them, and they already know it.

They cross the bridge expanse and start to head through the city. Brad can’t help but notice the intersections don’t have paved roads beyond the one they’re traveling. It’s a long way, and Brad vaguely recognizes the area for what it is. Ambush Alley. Twenty-nine people lost their lives the first day of the Battle of Nasiriyah here, where ten soldiers became prisoners of war, only to be later saved.

The wreckage continues along the road, but there’s no need to maneuver here. No one’s dead on the streets like last time. No blood, but the smell of death is still assaulting Brad’s nose, making him dizzy. Out of curiosity, he switches is comms on again, playing with the different frequencies.

”Brad.” He freezes and barely keeps his emotions in check. It’s Nate’s voice, only it isn’t short and clipped, like his speech patterns usually are in the field. He sounds lost. Scared. ”Brad, I really need you right now.” The pain is palpable, and it’s all he can do not to say anything. He knows the drill by now. Besides, it might just be another trick by whatever runs this place. He closes his eyes, and continues to listen.

Nate’s looking out to the ocean, his breathing in time with the waves. He has his back turned to Brad, but from his posture, Brad knows the other’s not in a good mood. He moves forward and reaches out to touch him, when he speaks again.

“You weren’t supposed to die, Brad. Not you. You fucking promised me. I-,” he sighs. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you gone.” Brad moves forward this time, wrapping him in a tight embrace. He revels in the warmth of the other, smelling the musky scent that was Nate. He opens his mouth to tell Nate to stop being a woman, he’s here now, when Nate walks out of his embrace, as if Brad isn’t even there.

It stings when he remembers he isn’t. Nate keeps walking forth, the foam of the sea now lapping at his ankles. He keeps walking out, farther from Brad, until he’s capable of swimming. Brad already feels forgotten.
“—that noise, Sergeant?” Trombley’s voice pierces his reverie, and his eyes snap open. The ocean still plays through the comms, so he snaps it off. Almost immediately, the sound reaches his ears. It sounds like a woman crying for help.

“Stop. Be prepared for anything. The two get out of the HMMWV and follow the sound. Brad recognizes the area as the supply convoy they’d passed that looked thrash. Tranny fluid is spilled everywhere and Brad is reminded of that day. The fluid had mixed with the blood of fallen soldiers, creating a thick syrup that churns Brad’s stomach to this day. They keep moving forward until they see movement in a HMMWV ahead of them.

The two separate coming up opposite sides of the vehicle. They can see someone thrashing about in the driver’s seat, and as they get nearer, they see it’s a woman, fighting off a rather large dog. “Trombley, wai-!” RATATATATATAT! The animal goes still, and the woman kicks the dog out of the HMMWV. A minute later, she shuffles out of the HMMWV, wiping sweat off of her brow. After regaining composure, she looks at the two and gives a fatigued smile.

She’s a soldier, Brad concludes. She’s wearing DCUs similar to Trombley’s. Her rank indicates she’s a Private First Class. Piestewa*, her name tape reads. U.S. ARMY. She walks forward, but Trombley charges his SAW threateningly, and Piestewa stops moving forward, her hands up. Brad takes a second look at her. Her hair’s dark, and she has the facial structure of a Native American. She’s nearly as tall as Trombley, but that doesn’t say much; Trombley’s a short motherfucker.

“A-are you guys with Taskforce Tarawa?” She asks, looking between the two like a deer caught in the headlights. Her voice is light, and it holds no accent.

“First Marines,” Brad replies, and she relaxes some.

“I’m PFC Lori Piestewa. I-I can’t find the rest of my unit. Or anyone else, really. I must have been out here for weeks,” she tells them.

“Who are you with?” Brad asks, his weapon still up. “Where’s your weapon?”

“I’m with the 507th Maintenance,” she tells him.

“POG,” Trombley mutters. Both of them ignore it.

“We came under attack after a shamal hit us,” she continues, looking between the two. “We got lost in it and came under attack by the RG. Our Victor got hit by an RPG. When I woke up, things were…well, like this.” Brad nods. “Well, the road’s new, though.”

“Stand down, Trombley,” he says, lowering his own rifle. “I think she’s one of us.” The female, Lori, she said her name was, smiles and moves forward. As she does so, the wind begins to pick up and she looks around.

“Shamal’s coming. They like the storm. Come on, I’ll show you a safe place to hide.”

--

And so it was that they came to an abandoned factory. Lori tells them more about her time in this place, how they’re the first true humans she meets. She’d seen and heard her mother and friends out there. Her children had lured her out into a shamal once, when they vanished. She tells them how many times she’s come near death, and if it weren’t for them, she’d have succumbed to it then and there.

Brad asks her about Chuckler, and she shakes her head. She’d never seen or heard of the man since she’s been stuck here. Brad sighs.

“Well, you’ve been here for a while now, Lori. Is there any food?” he asks.

“None that I’ve seen, and I’ve been looking,” she replies, throwing a stone down the deserted floor. “That’s what’s so funny. See this machinery?” she makes a sweeping gesture. “It’s a fucking candy factory, of all things. It has everything to make it work. Just no electricity, and more importantly, no food product. There isn’t even any packaging for the stuff. I stopped worrying about it after a few days. I mean, there’s the river, and there might be fish, but I haven’t felt hungry or thirsty in weeks.”

“The HMMWV’s gone!” Brad whips his head around to look at Trombley. “No HMMWV and no road. And the shamal’s coming in. Fast.”

“Ooooof course it is, Trombley,” Brad says shaking his head. “Looks like we’re stuck here for tonight, and who better to be with than James Trombley and….POG Soldier?”

“Lori Piestewa.”

“If you say so.”

--

Brad goes to sleep and Trombley eyes Piestewa warily. He doesn’t trust her, although something in the back of his mind wants to. That part argues that if it was one of those things, it would have tried something by now, but Trombley isn’t stupid. It’s probably waiting to catch them unawares and when that happens, he isn’t going to let Brad down. He’ll put one dead between the eyes if he has to.

That’ll fucking rock.

It asks him a few questions here and there, and Trombley only gives one word replies or grunts in recognition. After a while, she goes quiet, and just huffs in a bored fashion. He gives her a disgusted look. And she’s supposed to be a soldier?

After some time, the shamal grows stronger, and Lori looks to the open bay of the factory. She stands up, and so does Trombley. Slowly, hypnotically, she moves forward, until she’s at the lip of the door. Against his better judgment, he runs after her and grabs her hand. She shouts at him and starts hitting him with more force than he thought she’d have.

“My kids are out there!” That makes Trombley stop.

“Your kids are the wind?” It makes sense. She’s obviously a demon. It stands to reason they’re windbabies.
“No, you white trash loser. I can hear them out there. Don’t you hear them?” Trombley lets go and tries to hear, but all that’s audible is the howling of the wind and the sand as it scrapes its way across the surfaces of the wall. “You have to let me go. They’re out there. Please, let me see them. Do you have kids?”
Trombley nods and backs away. He doesn’t have a child yet, but there’s one on the way. He understands and turns around. Her sobbing ‘thank you’ is his only indicator of her gratitude, and moments later, her heavy boot falls are muffled by the swirling of the great sandstorm.

--

When Brad wakes, Piestewa is gone, and Trombley’s dead asleep. He throws a rock at the younger man, who snorts awake, irritated.

“Where’d the soldier go?” he asks. Trombley shrugs.

“Went looking for her kids,” he tells him. Brad nods and gets up.

“Come on,” he tells the other. “We need to find another vehicle. Just because we don’t have a road again doesn’t mean we can’t get out of here.” Trombley nods and gets up, slinging his SAW across his shoulder.
As they exit the factory, they notice that, thankfully, the road’s back, as is the HMMWV.

And there’s someone sitting in the turret.

“I thought I’d never see you two again!”

*Author's Note: Lori Piestewa is a real woman, who served and fought in the Battle of Nasiriyah. Taken from wikipedia: "Piestewa was a member of the army's 507th Army Maintenance Company, a support unit of clerks, cooks, and repair personnel. Her company was traveling in a convoy through the desert and was meant to bypass Nasiriyah, in southern Iraq, during the opening days of the war; but the convoy became lost and ran into an ambush in Nasiriyah on March 23, 2003.

As Piestewa came under what an Army investigation described as "a torrent of fire," she drove at a high speed, successfully evading the enemy fire until an RPG hit the front-left wheel-well of her Humvee.[10] The force of the explosion sent her vehicle into the rear of a disabled tractor-trailer.[10] Three other soldiers in the Humvee died in the crash. Lynch attempted to fire her M16, but it jammed. Piestewa, Johnson and Lynch all survived but were wounded. They were taken prisoner along with four others, with Piestewa dying soon after of her wounds. A video of some of the American prisoners of war, including Piestewa (filmed shortly before she died in an Iraqi hospital), was later shown around the world on Al Jazeera television."

The 507th is the unit talked about in Episode 2 of Generation Kill. The woman raped was her best friend, Jessica Lynch, though Lynch claims never to have been raped.

For those curious, Piestewa did, indeed find peace when she walked into the Shamal.

To Part 5

needagasmask — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 19:10:54 GMT

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

Purgatory, Part 2

needagasmask — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 08:28:44 GMT

Author: Jordan
Title: Purgatory Part 2
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 1

“Sergeant Colbert!”

”What, Trombley?” He doesn’t even attempt to mask the irritation in his voice. If he isn’t assed enough to track him in the first place, he sure as Hell isn’t in the mood to be interrupted by him.

“Do you hear that?” Brad grudgingly turns his headset off and strains to hear something in the dark. After a minute or so, he sighs and shakes his head.

“Trombley, go back to sleep. It’s been a long day and you’re probably just-.”

“No! Just listen,” Trombley shoots back from the dark, and this time, Brad does hear something. It’s soft and intermittent, but it’s there. He would almost blame it on the wind, except that the noise isn’t ambient, and the wind he does hear is constant. This is more like a breath. Or a whisper. It isn’t in the cottage, but coming from the village proper.

Brad stands up and mutters “NVGs,” to Trombley. He levels his weapon and turns on the night function for his scope. The pitch-black room is now painted a dull green through the scope, but it does nothing for his eyesight in the lightless room. He hates movies and video games for overselling the equipment. While it is useful in the long haul for night ops, you only get as much illumination as the area allows. Night vision takes in the ambient light in an area and magnifies it through the scope. With highly limited or no ambient light, the devices are about as useful as being without.

Brad almost bumps into Trombley on the way out of the front door, but manages not to. There’s a full moon out and a clear sky, so Brad’s thankful for that, otherwise the two would be scanning for movement in a barely visible environment. He’s not entirely convinced that the two are dead. He may just finally be suffering a nervous breakdown from this war. He wouldn’t doubt it, what with the way things were going these days.

He shoves those thoughts from his mind and focuses on the task at hand. The whisper comes again, and it sounds human to Brad, even familiar. “I’ve got movement at Eleven. 40 meters. Foot mobile,” Trombley whispers out. Brad sweeps his rifle in that direction, centering the red dot of his scope on the person. It’s a male, about average height, and moving slowly. He has no weapon, and his clothing is ambiguous. It could just as easily be a friendly as it could be a civilian. Whoever it is, they maintain their heading. It appears that they have no clue as to the presence of the two Marines in front of him. The NVGs keep him from identifying whoever it is from a distance, and his race is fucked to shit as well. Unless you were darker than Garza, ethnicity became unidentifiable in night vision.

He stops moving when he’s around twenty meters away, which puzzles Brad. The two have been absolutely silent, and although the moon is giving excellent loom, their camo should have turned them into nondescript lumps in the darkness, blending in perfectly with the adobe monstrosities Brad wouldn’t even care to call shacks. Shifting slightly, he attempts to get a better picture of the man before them.

”Brad.”

The single word causes him to freeze. The person before him said that. A whisper heard clearly, twenty meters away. After a moment he blinks and looks back down his sight. He recognizes him now, and the fear he’d felt is mostly washed away. A few things strike him as odd, but what isn’t here? The man isn’t wearing his Kevlar or his IBA vest. He isn’t holding a weapon, either. All he sees is a young man in DCUs. In normal circumstances, this would have told him that something was up, but Brad is desperate for this to be over, so he throws caution to the wind.

“Nate,” he replies, getting up and lowering his weapon as he closes the distance to his LT. “Come on, Trombley. Let’s see how he’s doing.”

The tone in Trombley’s reply is troubled as he speaks up. “Sergeant-.”

“Damn it, Trombley, not now,” he calls back, not bothering to see if he’s being followed. The silhouette of Nate is just before him now, a bastion of sanity and unending optimism even in the most retarded of situations. The man could eat a shit sandwich and call it cherry fucking pie. That’s what Brad likes most about him. “Sir, not to question the wisdom of our company commander, but why are you out here in the middle of the night, alone, with no weapon or armor? Where’s the rest of the company?”

“Don’t worry about it, Brad.” Nate’s voice comes out in a whisper, but as always, he can hear it as clear as a bullhorn. “Everything’s going to be fine. Don’t worry about anything.”

“Sergeant, I don’t-.”

“Trombley, the big kids are talking. Now unless you have something useful to say, I’m conferring with my platoon leader.” Silence. Brad shakes his head and looks back to Nate. “I’m sorry about that sir. He’s understandably panicked right now. He just needs to adjust.”

“Don’t worry about it, Brad.” That same whisper. Nate’s hand comes up and slides gently across his face. It’s hypnotic, and Brad all but shudders under the feeling. His words, his touch, everything is hypnotic, like a luminous flame, and Brad is nothing more than a moth. “Everything’s going to be fine. Don’t worry ab-.” Nate’s words are cut off by a burst of automatic fire. Blood sprays Brad’s face, and he can’t help the cry of anguish that tears from his mouth as Nate falls to the floor. Instinctively, Brad drops to the ground and begins scanning the area.

“Trombley, did you see where that came from?”

“It was me, Sergeant!” Trombley calls back, his voice shaking with fear. Brad’s breath leaves his body and that cold feeling embraces him again. Before he can get control of his actions, he’s up and running to the prone position that is Trombley. With brutal force, he brings his butt stock in contact with Trombley’s Kevlar. If it weren’t for the helmet, Brad is sure that Trombley’s head would be caved in. Brad drops his M-4 and rolls Trombley over, now beating his face in repeatedly, Trombley trying his best to guard himself.

“You killed him, Trombley! Damn it, it was Lieutenant Fick!” Every word is punctuated by a fist, but Trombley overcomes the shock of the attack and is fighting back, grabbing Brad’s hands, refusing to allow another blow to strike.

“It’s not him, Sergeant! It’s not even human!” The words cause him to freeze, and he allows Trombley to roll out from beneath him. Something on his fist is wet, and Brad comes to dull realization that it’s Trombley’s blood. Grabbing for his weapon, he puts a bead on the corpse that was Nate Fick. Except that it isn’t Nate Fick anymore, and he’s not even trying to be all gay and poetic. What was his friend and one-time lover is now…something else. It’s still human in shape, but it has a few additions, like a set of leathery wings in the style of the romantic demon. Its hair has become noticeably longer and darker, as well. But what strikes him as most odd is this fact: It’s female.

Trombley’s voice comes to him from the rear. “Well, at least it’s a hot demon.”

To Part 3.

needagasmask — Thu, 25 Nov 2010 22:20:19 GMT

Author: Jordan
Title: Purgatory Part 1
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: Colbert and Trombley find themselves stranded alone, in the desert. Comms are down and there's no sign of human life. The only thing to do is move forward.
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.

--

“Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. We have four foot mobiles to our ten o’clock with what appears to be an RPG tube. Foot mobiles currently are stopped and appear to have eyes on us. Permission to halt and take care of this. How copy?”

A moment later, Brad’s comms come alive. ”2-1 Actual, this is Hitman 2. Solid copy. All victors. All victors, this is Hitman 2. Halt victors and set up a perimeter behind 2-1. Out.” Dutifully, Ray stops the HMMWV, and in moments, every man in Bravo 2 not on a turret is pushing out of the vehicles and setting up defensive positions. Brad looks out to the area Trombley had pegged as having enemy movement, and sure enough, four men can be seen in the distance, white pajamas billowing in the harsh Iraqi wind. Moving quickly, Brad sets himself next to the rookie Marine and levels his weapon, looking down the scope to gain a better view.

“I don’t know if the others are armed, Sergeant,” Trombley informs him. “They were too far out for me to see, but the guy in the middle definitely has an RPG tube.” Nodding, Brad continues to scan the area until the men are in his sights. One is indeed holding an RPG, the Russian style popular in this area of the world; cheap, effective, and easier to get a hold on than an apple pie at a Fourth of July party.

“Nice to know that your eyes are as good as ever, Trombley,” he informs him as he thumbs the key to the microphone on his headset. “Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. Foot mobiles indeed have an RPG, and are also armed with AK-47s. Currently, they have eyes on us, and seem to be moving into an offensive posture 400 meters out. Request permission to engage. How copy?”

”This is Hitman 2. Solid copy. You have permission to engage targets, over.” Brad nods and places a hand on Trombley’s shoulder. “Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. Roger that. Out.” He squeezes Trombley’s shoulder lightly. “Smoke ‘em.”

The relative quiet of the day is shattered as Trombley’s SAW comes to life. Automatic rifle fire is all that’s heard for a moment before it’s joined in with the sounds of others firing semi-autos and MK-19s. With the breaking of silence, all Hell breaks loose. What was four men in the distance becomes scattered reports over the comms about other enemy targets popping in and out of people’s sectors of fire. An ambush is all Brad can think as he flattens himself on the ground next to Trombley and begins to take aim, as well. Isn’t this just fucking beautiful?

Hasser fires sporadically above them, the mechanical THUNK of the MK-19 almost lost behind the relentless bursts issuing from the .50 Cal on Poke’s Victor behind them. The chaos is added on as Lieutenant Fick’s voice cuts through the comms, ordering in a not-so-calm voice for everyone to push out to some cover. Brad relays the order to his squad, and they’re up.

Trombley and Brad make their way to a pile of rubble and set up there. It’s a decent patch of cover, and the fire coming from the enemy slams into the berm without coming out of the other side. Brad isn’t worried. He simply returns fire when necessary, taking careful aim at whoever’s bold enough to fire in the silence of Trombley’s SAW. After a minute or so, Trombley’s voice is in his ear, telling him of the need to reload. Brad nods and takes up the slack. He continues to fire indiscriminately. Where there’s a silhouette, his rifle fires in that direction. Shock and awe is the name of the game, and when it comes to 1st Recon, no one is better. He reloads, and in the back of his mind, he’s wondering why Trombley hasn’t returned fire yet. It isn’t long before his musing is answered.

“Umm, Sergeant?” Brad turns around to look at the young man in his team. Something in his voice tells him to. What he sees makes his blood run cold. Wrapped around the bipod of Trombley’s weapon is an extension cord cable that leads in and out of the pile of rubble they’ve situated themselves on. All Brad can think is Oh, shit.

He barely has the chance to scream “IED!” before it detonates. He feels nothing. His world is black.

---
Glaring sunlight wakes him up, heating his eyelids and casting a bright and angry red glow upon them. Groggily, Brad sits up and blinks the haze from his eyes. The road the convoy was on is gone, as is the convoy. He’s surrounded by an expanse of desert, the flat land occasionally marked by the odd sand dune. The berm he’d been perched on is still there, albeit demolished by what looks to have been an explosion. So that wasn’t a dream, he thinks to himself as he gathers himself and gets to his feet. He thinks for a moment that this might be, but things here are too real. The heat is as stifling as ever. He’s drenched in sweat, and his skin is sticky from what had been dried up.

“Ray?” he calls out. His question is only met by an echo that eventually dies out. “Hasser! Trombley!”

“Sergeant Colbert!” Brad lets out a breath of relief when he hears the eager voice of Trombley. He turns around, and there he is walking over a nearby berm. His eyes are wide, clearly conveying the fear which has gripped him. “You’re finally awake. I’ve been looking for them, but they’re gone, Sergeant. No enemy, no road, and no sign of Bravo.”

“Are you sure?” He questions immediately. Trombley nods in affirmation.

“I went to the top of the berm there, and there’s nothing for miles. Except what might be a hamlet, but that’s a long way off. They didn’t abandon us, did they, Sergeant?” He sounds scared, unsure. Not even when Trombley had been called into question on his actions the day they took that airfield in the early days of the tour did he sound so helpless.

“It’s a possibility, but I don’t think they did,” he replies, not wanting to startle him even further. Trombley needed an anchor. Brad didn’t want to be that, but it was looking like he had no choice in the matter. Moving his thumb to the switch for his radio, he flicked it once, so the quiet static became silenced entirely.

“Hitman 2, this is Hitman 2-1 Actual. How copy?” Brad is met by silence. Frustrated, he tries again. “Say again. Hitman 2, this is 2-1 Actual. Your position is currently unknown and I have no indication as to my location. Requesting grid coordinates to your location. How copy?” Still, silence. After a minute, Brad becomes frustrated and switches to company-wide comms, repeating his message. Still, nothing. Switching over, he next tries Godfather with the same result. Is everyone really that far out from us? he wonders. He continues on, though, now switching to Divisional Comms.

“Chaos, this is Hitman 2. Stand by for nine-line medevac, over.” Nothing, once again. He goes back down the chain again. RCT-1, Battalion HQ, Bravo, Second Platoon. He even tries the other platoons, then the artillery battalion Steel Rain, Alpha, Charlie, and H&S companies. Not even a crackle of radio interference. Did we drop off of the face of the Earth? He sighs in frustration and looks over to Trombley. “We have nothing. We might be out of range, or comms could be down. Either way, we’re fucked. There’s no sign of movement aside from what you’ve done. Hell, there aren’t even tracks from the vehicles.” He fights the dread threatening to overwhelm him. Trombley was already at that point, if the wide-eyed expression he currently wore meant anything. It’d do them no good if both of them were in a panic.

“So, what’s the plan, Sergeant?” Trombley asked. Brad sighs and shakes his head.

“We’re of no use just standing out here with our dicks in the dirt. How far off is that hamlet, Trombley?” Trombley motions brad to follow him to the top of the berm. He does so, and the two take a look at the scenery, or lack thereof. Sure enough, there appears to be a scattering of buildings in the distance in the brick adobe style popular with lower-class individuals in Iraq. It’s a few kliks out, but it’s their only choice. To stay here would leave them vulnerable to enemy forces, as well as threaten some sort of collapse due to exposure to the elements. And the two still have their weapons and ammo. It’ll have to do.

“Come on, Trombley. We’re Oscar Mike.”

--
It’s some time before they reach the Hamlet, and it’s just as empty as the expanse they’d just crossed. No food, the wells are dried up, and more importantly, no people. Electricity is nonexistent in the area, even though there are signs that life had indeed inhabited this village in the not-so-distant past. What’s truly eerie is that they haven’t seen or heard any animals since they’d woken up. No birds singing, nor the distant sounds of creatures hunting. Even the incessant noise of larger insects is missing. It was as if the area had been by some sort of chemical attack, except there were no bodies to show for it, no final signs of struggle.

The thought of no food is often in the back of Brad’s mind, but it’s more of a nagging feeling. He isn’t hungry or thirsty, and Trombley hasn’t indicated this condition either. It’s a problem among problems that Brad just files away. He orders Trombley to rest when they find shelter suitable to Brad’s tastes. As Trombley sleeps, murmuring slightly, he plays with his headset, switching back and forth between comms. When he hits Company-wide comms, static plays in his ears before the slightest bit of noise feeds in. His eyes pop open and he tries to hear the message. It’s only a playing of sound, but it gives Brad hope. That was Griego’s voice he’d heard, and God as his witness, he’s never been so glad to hear Casey Kasem. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make out a damn word he’d said.

“Hitman, this is 2-1 Actual. I’m stranded about ten kliks west by southwest from the presumed area Hitman 2 had come under enemy attack earlier in the day with Hitman Echo-Three Tango. Break.” He pauses for a moment and continues. “Our location is in a small hamlet in that area. It appears abandoned of all civilians. Requesting immediate extraction.”

It’s another moment before he hears Griego’s voice again. “Fall in!” Silence, once again. What the Hell is going on? ”Baptista, Leandro!” “Aye, Gunny!” He could hear clearly the voice of his fellow team leader clearly. ”Brunmeier, Michael!” “Aye, Gunny!” ”Carisalez, Jeffrey!” “Aye, Gunny!” “Chaffin, James!” “Aye, Gunny!” He begins to recognize it for what it is. A roll call. Had Bravo’s laundry list of fuckups actually gone so far as they’d risk every name in the damn company on a communication line that could be intercepted at any moment?

The list continues, until his name perks him up. ”Colbert, Bradley!” “Hitman , what the Hell is go-.” ”Colbert, Bradley!” Brad freezes at the repeat. He knows Griego doesn’t like him in the least, and he isn’t afraid to say the feeling is mutual, but whatever this is, he would usually wait for his acknowledgement. The silence this time is longer than usual, so Brad hits the comms again, but stops when he hears Griego speak once more. ”Espera, Antonio!” “Aye, Gunny!” “Fick, Nathaniel!” “Aye, Gunny!” The list goes on without interruption until it hits Trombley. His name is repeated, like Brad’s was. For a moment Brad thinks of waking Trombley, so he can say something, but the chill creeping up his spine stops him. After the silence, Griego continues, his voice noticeably shakier. When the roll call ceases, Griego continues, no sign of radio etiquette anywhere.

“Today we lost two men vital to the Corps. We stand here in this formation to remember the lives of Sergeant Brad Colbert and Lance Corporal Harold Trombley. Despite their bumps in the road, they both had everyone’s back in their team, their platoon, and in this company….” Griego’s voice fades out once more, but Brad doesn’t even notice.

They weren’t on comms. They weren’t even in their victors. It was a final formation to commemorate their deaths.

He almost doesn’t hear the panicked calls from Trombley behind him.

To Part 2

Time for me to say goodbye

needagasmask — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 21:32:55 GMT

As those of you who I IM or IM me know, I've been preparing for a deployment. As of December, I will no longer be posting on LJ for about a year or so. I'm getting ready for the mobilization process, and i9nt hat time, my net activity will be greatly diminished. So, without further ado, I'll be telling you who to expect to disappear entirely.

ssgkerrigan
idkmybffkon_el
seduceskings
notfortheglen
crimson_shegod
letterfromdeath
fubar_is_german
mr_jhavok
willsaveusall
fateincarnate
kickass_pa
widowschild
journals_lame
notsovain
bornaquaker
provedhisworth
transcendsdeath
cybertool
ob3y_me

Reflections of a Harvard Monster.

needagasmask — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 09:06:10 GMT

Title: Reflections of a Harvard Monster
Author: needagasmask (Jordan)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Set during part 10: Points. Webster reflects on the changes of the members of Easy Company since the beginning of the war, himself included.
Characters: Webster, Malarkey, Liebgott, Heffron, LT. Jones, Mentions of Speirs, Janovec, and Winters
Pairings: None, but if you squint you might see Webster/Jones or Webster/Liebgott
Disclaimer: This is purely for self entertainment. Not making any money off of this, and any libelous statements herein aren't intended.

Golden light reflected off the seemingly endless expanse of the calm lake before Private First Class David Webster. IT was odd, this twilight hour in the war against the Axis. The Nazi Party and the SS were expected to surrender any day now. Combat patrols had been suspended for the time being, and the only real action anyone had seen these days were the occasional hunting trip or the dealing with the rowdier members of the 101st here in Bachtesgaden. High above him, at the top of the highest peak in this mountain paradise, Hitler's Eagle's Nest lay perched, a gleaming beacon of the power the man once held in his iron grip.That man was dead now, his pride and joy merely a reminder of the tyrant that held so much of Europe in a grip of awesome terror. He'd never hated a man more than he, for he had shown him what it was to hate. His nightmares were never more palpable than when he was in power. The changes he'd seen in Easy after the clusterfuck so neatly labeled Bastogne only seemed to amplify these nightmares.

These men that had once been so easy to joke with, to call brother, threw him on the wayside and acted as if he was yet another replacement. Malarkey was the first and easiest to see this in. The once easygoing and often tongue-in-cheek amn from Oregon had become a grim ghost of who he once was. Anyone could see he was tired, and was probably only one bad mission from cracking. Bachtesgaden was a godsend for a case like him.

The next was Liebgott. As the only other person in Easy to speak German fluently, the two had spent enough time together. He seemed okay, at first, but something in him went sour at what they found in Landsberg. It was fitting, Webster thought, that they'd found a concentration camp there, of all places. It was the town Hitler was incarcerated in and where he wrote the infamous tome known as Mein Kampf. Why wouldn't he place a camp there, where the German government, and what Hitler undoubtedly believed to be the "Jewish Conspiracy", held him captive? Something changed in Webster that day, as well, but it was nowhere near as drastic as what had happened with Liebgott. The once outspoken and opinionated Jew became quiet, almost humbled. He rarely spoke these days beyond what was required of him.

That changed a few days ago.

He could still remember it as well as if they had just left the dike where that old man had lived. The air was warm, tempered by a light breeze that swept the grass lazily in this picturesque place seemingly untouched by man beyond the occasional house or farm here and there. This man's private home stood alone atop the crest of a hill, several hundred meters from a patch of woods that grew around it before sweeping up into the mountains that protected Bachtesgaden so well. Liebgott and Babe had grabbed him as he was heading to the lake to simply write and be alone with his thoughts, much as he was now. They said Speirs had selected them for a mission, and that he'd be briefed as they arrived at their destination. When he heard the plan, all cheer left his person.

They'd been ordered to kill an old man. An unarmed man of questionable ties to the dealings in Landsberg, Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Belsen, it didn't matter. The source was a scared SS foot soldier, who'd likely been tortured and was naming names just to end whatever had happened to him. Webster had seen the informant after the interrogation; if Captain Ronald Speirs was anything, he was certainly thorough.

He'd tried to reason with Liebgott, but it wasn't happening. There was a fire in his eyes, one stronger than the one he'd seen long ago on that cattle car that had taken them to the Atlantic, when someone had said something anti-semitic in his presence. He could have been calmed then. This was something entirely different. It was as if Webster were a bucket of water and Liebgott a forest fire. Despite his best efforts, he still found the three of them storming into this fantasy cabin belonging to a man probably older than his grandfather. What he saw before him, as he still tried to calm Liebgott, was not the blustering or cold countenances of those SS officers Easy and the 506th ran into before, but an old, fat man in his pajamas, scared, possibly pissing himself in his terror, and Liebgott still kept on. As the man fled, Liebgott tried his hardest to kill him with the sidearm he'd brought along. A simple round, maybe two, to kill him. Clean. Efficient. But life had other plans.

Liebgott, in his anger, managed to miss with every shot fired, and on his third or fourth round, his weapon jammed. No amount of corrections could fix it, and for a few seconds, Webster relaxed. He wouldn't have to see his comrade go even further down a dark hole that none of them had a hope of climbing out of. That hope was dashed as soon as it set in, however, as a single report issued from the barrel of Babe's rifle, felling the elderly German as he tried to flee. Webster couldn't hear a single word as his ears and visions began to buzz in anger and disbelief.

He hated the feeling of satisfaction that crept into the back of his mind as they left the property.

He knew he changed, as well. Market Garden and Normandy were no Bastogne, but none who fought there could say they were unscathed by what had happened. His reprieve in a French hospital did little to cool his system, and although his belly was full and his body warm as he reentered Easy in Haguenau, his mind was still on high alert, every shadow an enemy, every bird call the whistle of mortar fire. It was no place for someone who'd only just left OCS and jump school, no place for Henry Jones, the rookie Lieutenant that only wished to prove himself in Easy Company. He'd only been there to fill a gap, one that was being held by Sergeant Malarkey upon his return.

Webster had felt unwelcome, just as much an outcast as the Butter Bar who'd arrived the same day as he had. His veterancy couldn't be disputed, yet his missing Bastogne had caused a rift. He'd die for each and every person in Easy, but now he felt as if that backing didn't extend to him. The op to capture a German prisoner had been a way for him to once again be welcome amongst his friends, and when he heard the number of people needed for it, he couldn't resist. When he heard LT Jones wanted to be on the op for his own reasons, experience, welcoming, whatever, he couldn't help but bring him in on his plan. If Jones was brought in, the number of people would be one over. His plan was to switch Malarkey out with Jones, citing the obvious stress growing in him. Any Toccoa boy, even a Carentan replacement, would be replaced upon request, and Webster knew it. He used this to his advantage. He used his knowledge of German and Jones' rank to replace Liebgott and Malarkey. If the two needed to prove themselves, they were on their own.

It turned out that the op was exactly what had been desired for their goals, if not how he had planned. The entire operation was an exercise in Murphy's Law. The last boat to take the group over capsized, cutting their overall strength, but he and Jones still made it across with the main body. After that, it seemed smooth sailing. Jones hung back with the covering fire team as he and his team made it to the field headquarters and managed to catch a few soldiers and smuggle them back across the river. This, of course, was no easy task. A frag grenade went off much later than time, fatally wounding one of their own, as well as a prisoner. The German prisoners wouldn't keep quiet as they left, so the team had to return to the river bank under heavy fire as Jones attempted to work himself out of his stupor and make the signal for suppressive fire from across the river. They managed, however, and they returned, with only one casualty.

This managed to change the overeager Jones, as well. The once innocent man seemed to grow harder after this experience. He remembered running into him once after Haguenau. He was working in the mail room, a punishment for some infraction he couldn't even remember. His eyes weren't so wide anymore, his innocent gaze now as jaded as anyone he'd met who'd participated in close combat. He'd smiled and joked with him as he handed him the mail destined for Battalion HQ, but the laughter seemed a bit forced, the smile not quite reaching his dark eyes.

The two had managed to keep in touch after that encounter, and he managed to warm up to Jones. He felt a comaraderie grow between them, a somewhat tangible relationship as they talked. When the others in Easy managed to push him out of whatever they spoke about on quiet days, he could always count on Jones to speak with him. He almost felt like he'd been in Easy for longer. This illusion was always broken, however, as he told stories to Jones that made the other merely blink in confusion. Jones worked for Captain Sobel, and knew what a merciless taskmaster he was, but he didn't know the tyrant that proposed pointless marches up and down Currahee on days when everyone just wanted to not be anywhere near Toccoa.

He served under Winters, but never the 1st platoon leader or the Easy XO and CO, but the Captain and later Major who served as Battalion XO for the 506th. He'd never understand the late night bullshit sessions with Compton or Guarnere or countless other people he could name, but he'd never met, and for those still alive, would never meet.

He'd often wondered how Jones had perceived him, if he felt as lost as he was at the sight of the diminishing psyches of those around him he held dear. Did this man, who only saw the tail end of the horrors that waited for them in Europe, view him as the monster he often felt he was these days? Did he see a sad, broken man who still tried to cling to his morals in a place that challenged them every day? Or did he think himself counted among those who'd actually killed and seen combat? Among the damned, just waiting for the day Lucifer came to collect his due?

He remembered the day after they'd discovered the camp in Landsberg. He'd been full of rage, and had just barely contained himself from murdering the baker who so vehemently denied supporting the Nazi Party. Liebgott had restrained him then, but only just. He wandered the streets that night in a drunken haze, and eventually ran into Jones outside of a liquor store just closing, likely having the same intentions he had that night. No words were spoken between the two as the officer wrapped an arm around his shoulder and slowly guided him to his room. Little words were spoken, but he managed to keep him from turning into a mess that night. They talked about trivial things; the difference between Harvard and Westpoint, what Webster had planned on doing after the war, and what he'd done before then. As fatigue finally got the better of him, Jones offered Webster his bed to sleep in. Better to have you sleep somewhere safe, where you won't do anything you'll regret later.

As he went to bed that night, his former platoon leader offered him one piece of advice he'd never expected from someone who'd only seen one night of true combat. You and I, but you especially, have seen and done things no one on the civilian side of life can and will never comprehend. What you've done here as a soldier, as a human being, will never be understood by someone who wasn't here. I won't pretend to know what you went through before I came to E Company, but don't think I won't offer an ear if you ever need to vent. You're not alone here.

He brushed it off as just some kid trying to quell the disturbances of someone who'd seen much too much, until he became an unwitting party of the order that was issued those few days ago. He was no longer a soldier in his own mind, but an accomplice to an assassination. He'd been working his mind and conscience up to finally take up the offer, to release some of the burden that was on his back, but that would never come to pass.

That morning, Webster had heard the news that Jones had died in an accident. He was the driver in a vehicle bound for Regimental HQ, and was driven off the road by a drunk driver. Yes, there was the hemming and hawing over losing several officers in one night, but First Lieutenant Henry Jones' name was merely brushed over, a green officer who'd only seen a few days of combat. It angered him to no end to know that the higher ranked officers were getting more attention than he, those who'd been there the entire war, but had seen as much combat as a school girl from Missouri.

His chest was tight as he reflected over this most recent death, just one day after that of Janovec, the replacement merely ten points from being released from service. He remembered the remorse, how he'd spoken to him as he finished his patrol and was heading back to HQ. He was plucking the courage up to speak with Jones then, about what he'd been a part of that faithful day in that cottage, at his helplessness as he watched Janovec slowly die. And then the slow satisfaction at the death of the officer, the beating he participated in involving the soldier who'd killed the British soldiers and then Janovec. Even further back, that sneaking pride as he watched the citizens of Landsberg clean up the camp. He wanted this man, still full of optimism hold up his end of the bargain, or crumble as he finally unloaded.

It would never happen now. His one beacon in this quagmire called World War II was gone, not a casualty of battle, but the byproduct of careless men who couldn't control themselves when they were mere months from returning home or going to Japan. This place was supposed to be paradise, but he wasn't fooling himself. Bachtensgaden was touched by the Nazis. It was tainted now, and probably always would be. He shed no tears for this loss. For all the optimism he showed on a regular basis to the others in Easy, he was beyond weeping for the dead. He'd simply known too much of it.

His musings were interrupted by someon calling out to him. "Hey, College Boy, Malarkey wants us back at HQ. You coming?" Webster turned around to see Babe, the joy in his face still there, but like him, it was twisted by the things he'd seen since arriving in Easy. He turned around to take one last look at the vast expanse of the Bavarian lake before him as he finally got up. Another question broached his ears as he passed his battle buddy.

"Are you going to be alright?"

He didn't bother answering.

icons100 test table

needagasmask — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 21:25:53 GMT

01. Alone	02. Magical	03. Embrace	04. Sunshine	05. Sorrow
06. A Dreamer's Dream	07. Colorful	08. Brightness	09. Rain	10. All is Wrong

needagasmask — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 19:48:07 GMT

Just an update. I'm shipping out for basic training on the 16th of July.

Just to update.....

needagasmask — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 08:24:01 GMT

Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN'
Jordan says:
Kcked out of my dad's house
Jordan says:
I live with my mom
Jordan says:
No net
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:

Jordan says:
No comp
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
Why were you kicked out?
Jordan says:
My dad told me I had to get a new job within two weeks after I was fired, otherwise I'd get kicked out
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:

Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
that blows.
Jordan says:
Majorly
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
wow
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
so
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
what do you do now?
Jordan says:
I get prepared for service to my country
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
Fuck, man.
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
Good luck.
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
You still in training, or are you shipping out soon?
Jordan says:
I haven't even enlisted
Jordan says:
I'm twenty pounds over my statures weight class
Jordan says:
I need to lose weight
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
Hmm.
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
sure you can't have another go at college?
Jordan says:
I could, but I could also attend with a free ride via the US government paying my financial aid
Jordan says:
BEsides, it's something I wanted to do for ages.
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
REally?
Love hurts, but sometimes it's the good hurt, / and it feels like I'm alive... says:
The army?
Jordan says:
Really really