Purgatory, Part 2
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.
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.