A father teaches
0:19:28
Makita's feet take her bounding across the ruins of the city. She doesn't notice the collapsing buildings and the burned out husks of vehicles as anything other than inevitable. Just one of the prices of war, and not the hardest one to pay.
Her senses strain to their limit to let her locate Red troops before they locate her. They're thick on the ground, and Papa was right: they're everywhere. She can't afford to engage any of them. She'd probably win, but it would bring even more troops toward her, and she's already spent far too much time.
The cold and the exertion have long since ended any sensation in her legs. The only thing she feels as she drives herself forward is the constant burn in her lungs as she greedily gulps the freezing air. She cuts through abandoned buildings and parks, trying to keep up as much cover as she can without delaying her progress.
She knows time's running out.
0:14:09
As she rounds a corner, Makita actually stumbles to a stop. Years ago, when the war was young, she and her father had walked this road. She swallows and closes her eyes for a moment, remembering what he had said:
"To be born on this soil is to be born a warrior. For as long as our people have wandered the mountains over the sea of Hyrkahn we have passed down these lessons to our children." He had kept walking, but he had turned and smiled in a way she didn't truly understand at the time, "I love you, and I want you to survive this war. Therefore you must listen and learn, as I did at your age."
Papa's broad shoulders had squared, "The first lesson of warfare my child, is this: no matter his rank, the foremost concern of a warrior is how he will behave at the moment of his death. Concentrate always on the inevitability of your end. Only after having accepted the fact that he is going to die can a warrior truly reach greatness and achieve the highest honor." His warm hand had settled on her shoulder, "The way of the warrior, moment after moment, is the practice of death. Victory, defeat... these are impostors."
The hand on her shoulder tightened almost painfully, "Fight recklessly toward your own death and this world cannot count you among its horde of slaves."
She had looked up at him, her face still that of a child, "Papa? I don't understand."
His smile had been incredibly sad, she remembered, "I know."
0:10:57
The memories do not slow her much. Makita can't afford to let them. She runs on, no longer really seeing the world around her as the memories swim forth unbidden. Her flash through the snow, and it is fortunate that they seem to know where they're going.
"If you are wounded so badly that there is no hope of recovery, then these are the preparations of a warrior's death: Speak to your comrades clearly for as long as you remain conscious. Pass on your weapons to those who will use them best, for the war continues. Ensure that the obligations you hold will be taken up by others, for death does not end duty. While you can still breathe, offer them your final words: 'Carry on my will'."
Her child's face had frowned in confusion as she said again, "Papa, I don't understand."
She had never been sure if she had imagined the tears in his eyes or not when he answered. "You will, my child. You will."
0:08:48
Something, Makita wasn't able to say what exactly, snaps her out of her reverie. Her feet had continued to push her forward and she suddenly stops to look around. There. Sentries. She's found the camp.
She steps forward, jogging now rather than sprinting, and out in the open rather than under cover. She wants to be seen. The sentry lifts her hand minutely to acknowledge her and doesn't try to stop her as she passes his position. Once past the first sentry she reaches one of the perimeter squads.
"Makita, you made it!" someone calls, jogging forward to hold out a canteen, "Here."
"Thanks," Makita pants as she snatches the container and gulps water greedily. "Is papa still...?"
"I'll take you in." Then a warning, "It's hot in here. Full of Reds. So catch your breath and keep your head down."
Mostly cribbed from Red Star Annual #1 "Run Makita Run" by Christian Gossett.
Makita's feet take her bounding across the ruins of the city. She doesn't notice the collapsing buildings and the burned out husks of vehicles as anything other than inevitable. Just one of the prices of war, and not the hardest one to pay.
Her senses strain to their limit to let her locate Red troops before they locate her. They're thick on the ground, and Papa was right: they're everywhere. She can't afford to engage any of them. She'd probably win, but it would bring even more troops toward her, and she's already spent far too much time.
The cold and the exertion have long since ended any sensation in her legs. The only thing she feels as she drives herself forward is the constant burn in her lungs as she greedily gulps the freezing air. She cuts through abandoned buildings and parks, trying to keep up as much cover as she can without delaying her progress.
She knows time's running out.
0:14:09
As she rounds a corner, Makita actually stumbles to a stop. Years ago, when the war was young, she and her father had walked this road. She swallows and closes her eyes for a moment, remembering what he had said:
"To be born on this soil is to be born a warrior. For as long as our people have wandered the mountains over the sea of Hyrkahn we have passed down these lessons to our children." He had kept walking, but he had turned and smiled in a way she didn't truly understand at the time, "I love you, and I want you to survive this war. Therefore you must listen and learn, as I did at your age."
Papa's broad shoulders had squared, "The first lesson of warfare my child, is this: no matter his rank, the foremost concern of a warrior is how he will behave at the moment of his death. Concentrate always on the inevitability of your end. Only after having accepted the fact that he is going to die can a warrior truly reach greatness and achieve the highest honor." His warm hand had settled on her shoulder, "The way of the warrior, moment after moment, is the practice of death. Victory, defeat... these are impostors."
The hand on her shoulder tightened almost painfully, "Fight recklessly toward your own death and this world cannot count you among its horde of slaves."
She had looked up at him, her face still that of a child, "Papa? I don't understand."
His smile had been incredibly sad, she remembered, "I know."
0:10:57
The memories do not slow her much. Makita can't afford to let them. She runs on, no longer really seeing the world around her as the memories swim forth unbidden. Her flash through the snow, and it is fortunate that they seem to know where they're going.
"If you are wounded so badly that there is no hope of recovery, then these are the preparations of a warrior's death: Speak to your comrades clearly for as long as you remain conscious. Pass on your weapons to those who will use them best, for the war continues. Ensure that the obligations you hold will be taken up by others, for death does not end duty. While you can still breathe, offer them your final words: 'Carry on my will'."
Her child's face had frowned in confusion as she said again, "Papa, I don't understand."
She had never been sure if she had imagined the tears in his eyes or not when he answered. "You will, my child. You will."
0:08:48
Something, Makita wasn't able to say what exactly, snaps her out of her reverie. Her feet had continued to push her forward and she suddenly stops to look around. There. Sentries. She's found the camp.
She steps forward, jogging now rather than sprinting, and out in the open rather than under cover. She wants to be seen. The sentry lifts her hand minutely to acknowledge her and doesn't try to stop her as she passes his position. Once past the first sentry she reaches one of the perimeter squads.
"Makita, you made it!" someone calls, jogging forward to hold out a canteen, "Here."
"Thanks," Makita pants as she snatches the container and gulps water greedily. "Is papa still...?"
"I'll take you in." Then a warning, "It's hot in here. Full of Reds. So catch your breath and keep your head down."
Mostly cribbed from Red Star Annual #1 "Run Makita Run" by Christian Gossett.