(no subject)
He's standing in the cemetery all over again, the heat of a midday Los Angeles breeze causing his shirt to stick to his skin. The stones are blurring around him, everything rippling as his vision wavers. His fingers touch smooth granite as he kneels in the grass, trying to hold himself together.
It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Jack was always one of the best of them. Jack had saved his ass more times than he can even count. (He can't count, not now when he can barely breathe.) It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He'd gotten out of the service before things got messy, Carl thought to himself. He'd gotten out while he still had a reason to.
He had a reason to step away from everything (he had a family, a wife and a daughter) he'd ever known. It wasn't supposed to end in a joint headstone and daughter left without parents. It wasn't fair. Jack had done the right thing.
The air around him tastes like dust, and he blinks to clear his vision. The cemetery is different now. He doesn't recognize the stones or the names. There's sand everywhere, tan stained with pools of deep red.
Carl looks down at his hands.
(Twenty-one civilians killed as a result of the military action.
Fourteen soldiers killed as a result of the military action.
The military action which was brought on by the intelligence gathered by the lead man on the operation. The intelligence gathered by their captain. The intelligence gathered by him. The wrong intelligence, which lead to the deaths of fourteen men and twenty-one civilians in an operation that was supposed to be easy.
It wasn't supposed to end like this.)
They're clean.
They shouldn't be clean. He shouldn't be standing here. He's been in seven different states in the last two weeks. Three different countries. He's heard 'Taps' played almost a dozen times. He tried to make it all the funerals, but it wasn't like the families planned their schedule around the rest of the dead that had to be buried. He'd visit the others soon.
He's walking.
He's not sure where he's walking to. It doesn't matter. He knows he's supposed to be walking. That's all that matters right now. Eventually, he breaks into a run. The sand is stinging his eyes (or maybe that's the tears) but he keeps pushing as his lungs choke on a lack of oxygen. He's lightheaded and it feels like it's supposed to.
Smoke fills the room.
(He has no idea where the room came from, but it's unimportant at the moment.)
"Get down, get down!"
That damn stairwell looms in front of him, an open path to their target but it's not safe. They can't risk losing anymore men. He glances around at his squad, but there's nobody there. The bodies aren't even there, just headstones, cracked and littered around him. The smooth granite is scarred by bullet holes and shrapnel from the grenade blasts. There's blood trickling down his face but he can't feel the wound it's coming from.
He looks down at his hands again.
(That's your blood, not theirs.)
I am an American Special Forces soldier. A professional!
I will do all that my nation requires of me.
I am a volunteer, knowing well the hazards of my profession.
He charges up the stairs.
His boots leave prints on the metal but they drift away like ash as he rises towards the upper levels of the building. Not the first floor, not the second or the third either. No, he's up higher. Their target isn't a fool. They've gotten rid of the sniper.
A man steps out of the doorway. He's wearing a familiar uniform but Carl puts two bullets in his chest before he can even identify himself. When the body slumps against the wall it's obvious that he's not American. He's an enemy.
Carl keeps climbing the stairs. It's harder to breathe up here. There's a breeze that reminds him of standing in front of the headstones out in Los Angeles, hot and dry, sucking the will to live out of his soul.
(Jack is dead. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.)
I will not fail those with whom I serve.
I will not bring shame upon myself or the forces.
He kicks down the door that leads to the roof, and finds himself alone. A single click echoes from somewhere behind him, and he feels the strength in his knees waver as they threaten to buckle beneath his weight.
"Get down!"
I will never surrender though I be the last.
If I am taken, I pray that I may have the strength to spit upon my enemy.
Carl kneels against the rooftop, though the tar paper feels wrong beneath him. It feels like the grass back in the cemetery, half a world away. He wants to be anywhere but here right now. The mission is a failure. It wasn't supposed to end like this.
(It didn't end like this.)
He looks up at the sun at the same time the man behind him pulls the trigger, the last thing registering in his brain is the light searing his retinas before everything goes completely and utterly blank.
(It didn't end like this.)
My goal is to succeed in any mission, and live to succeed again.
Nothing.
(He wishes it had.)
It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Jack was always one of the best of them. Jack had saved his ass more times than he can even count. (He can't count, not now when he can barely breathe.) It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He'd gotten out of the service before things got messy, Carl thought to himself. He'd gotten out while he still had a reason to.
He had a reason to step away from everything (he had a family, a wife and a daughter) he'd ever known. It wasn't supposed to end in a joint headstone and daughter left without parents. It wasn't fair. Jack had done the right thing.
The air around him tastes like dust, and he blinks to clear his vision. The cemetery is different now. He doesn't recognize the stones or the names. There's sand everywhere, tan stained with pools of deep red.
Carl looks down at his hands.
(Twenty-one civilians killed as a result of the military action.
Fourteen soldiers killed as a result of the military action.
The military action which was brought on by the intelligence gathered by the lead man on the operation. The intelligence gathered by their captain. The intelligence gathered by him. The wrong intelligence, which lead to the deaths of fourteen men and twenty-one civilians in an operation that was supposed to be easy.
It wasn't supposed to end like this.)
They're clean.
They shouldn't be clean. He shouldn't be standing here. He's been in seven different states in the last two weeks. Three different countries. He's heard 'Taps' played almost a dozen times. He tried to make it all the funerals, but it wasn't like the families planned their schedule around the rest of the dead that had to be buried. He'd visit the others soon.
He's walking.
He's not sure where he's walking to. It doesn't matter. He knows he's supposed to be walking. That's all that matters right now. Eventually, he breaks into a run. The sand is stinging his eyes (or maybe that's the tears) but he keeps pushing as his lungs choke on a lack of oxygen. He's lightheaded and it feels like it's supposed to.
Smoke fills the room.
(He has no idea where the room came from, but it's unimportant at the moment.)
"Get down, get down!"
That damn stairwell looms in front of him, an open path to their target but it's not safe. They can't risk losing anymore men. He glances around at his squad, but there's nobody there. The bodies aren't even there, just headstones, cracked and littered around him. The smooth granite is scarred by bullet holes and shrapnel from the grenade blasts. There's blood trickling down his face but he can't feel the wound it's coming from.
He looks down at his hands again.
(That's your blood, not theirs.)
I am an American Special Forces soldier. A professional!
I will do all that my nation requires of me.
I am a volunteer, knowing well the hazards of my profession.
He charges up the stairs.
His boots leave prints on the metal but they drift away like ash as he rises towards the upper levels of the building. Not the first floor, not the second or the third either. No, he's up higher. Their target isn't a fool. They've gotten rid of the sniper.
A man steps out of the doorway. He's wearing a familiar uniform but Carl puts two bullets in his chest before he can even identify himself. When the body slumps against the wall it's obvious that he's not American. He's an enemy.
Carl keeps climbing the stairs. It's harder to breathe up here. There's a breeze that reminds him of standing in front of the headstones out in Los Angeles, hot and dry, sucking the will to live out of his soul.
(Jack is dead. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.)
I will not fail those with whom I serve.
I will not bring shame upon myself or the forces.
He kicks down the door that leads to the roof, and finds himself alone. A single click echoes from somewhere behind him, and he feels the strength in his knees waver as they threaten to buckle beneath his weight.
"Get down!"
I will never surrender though I be the last.
If I am taken, I pray that I may have the strength to spit upon my enemy.
Carl kneels against the rooftop, though the tar paper feels wrong beneath him. It feels like the grass back in the cemetery, half a world away. He wants to be anywhere but here right now. The mission is a failure. It wasn't supposed to end like this.
(It didn't end like this.)
He looks up at the sun at the same time the man behind him pulls the trigger, the last thing registering in his brain is the light searing his retinas before everything goes completely and utterly blank.
(It didn't end like this.)
My goal is to succeed in any mission, and live to succeed again.
Nothing.
(He wishes it had.)