Jake 2.0. Kyle Duarte/Jake Foley. 081. How?
TITLE: The Good Fight
AUTHOR: Demon Faith
FANDOM: Jake 2.0
CHARACTERS: Jake Foley, Kyle Duarte
PROMPT: 081. How?
WORD COUNT: 525
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: He’s just a soldier in someone else’s war
NOTES: The lovely mods at writers_choice are considering shutting down, which sent me into panic and made me write for their “warrior” challenge. This is the result.
Table
Fourteen months ago, Tomas Mares shot him point blank in the head. One week later, he checked himself out of the hospital and went home. That night they took him.
He’s since learned that it wasn’t an accident, a one-off, a fluke. He can’t die - and he knows this because they won’t stop trying to kill him.
His government want a super soldier. They want him in the middle of the fight, moving ever onwards, walking right into the enemy camp and killing them all. He wouldn’t do it. They forced him to die until he did.
Hell is looking better every day. He spends his days crawling further into the guerrilla-infested hills, always half-broken, constantly healing but never whole. Every so often he hears a faint chink as another bullet works its way out of his body, but he barely feels that anymore. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he gets there. If the gun in his belt will be enough, if he’ll even be able to pull the trigger, if he won’t just put the gun to his own head and wake up again and again, never quite able to escape.
Madness is lurking at the base of his brain but he won’t let it in. Because some stupid, stubborn part of him is insisting that someone will stop this. That his friends won’t leave him and he won’t be another forgotten soldier in a miserable war he never wanted any part of. He was a computer technician. He was never a spy, no matter what…he can’t even bring himself to think his name.
Bang!
Caught off guard, he rolls down the hill, bouncing off the rocks as if they were rubber and settling in the dust. He should’ve been paying more attention. This will set him back a few days at least. He watches a red pool form beneath his hand before, slowly, it stops and he’s able to breathe again. He’s surprised he can still feel anything at all.
There’s a dull whirring in his ears - helicopter. He wonders what they’re doing this close, why they’re not letting him do his job. It makes no sense for the helicopter to be here. He wonders again about his mind.
A ladder unfolds gently, swaying in the light breeze and there’s a figure balanced there, desert fatigues and sunglasses, so out of place in all senses. He can’t believe his eyes. He’s not sure if he even should. It’s a hot day, he hasn’t had a drink for two weeks and it’s everything he wants before him. Mirage in the desert.
He’s close enough to breathe in, almost covering his body and almost touching his face with his hand. Almost.
“Jake,” he breathes. “You’re hurt.”
The laughter is bitter, choked - he coughs up some of the blood in his lungs, and it feels good. He can’t see Kyle’s eyes but the dream doesn’t have to be all that detailed. He’ll forget it soon enough, or, at the very least, he’ll try.
“I’m here to take you home, Jake.”
It’s a pretty lie. He closes his eyes and, for a moment, he believes.
AUTHOR: Demon Faith
FANDOM: Jake 2.0
CHARACTERS: Jake Foley, Kyle Duarte
PROMPT: 081. How?
WORD COUNT: 525
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: He’s just a soldier in someone else’s war
NOTES: The lovely mods at writers_choice are considering shutting down, which sent me into panic and made me write for their “warrior” challenge. This is the result.
Table
Fourteen months ago, Tomas Mares shot him point blank in the head. One week later, he checked himself out of the hospital and went home. That night they took him.
He’s since learned that it wasn’t an accident, a one-off, a fluke. He can’t die - and he knows this because they won’t stop trying to kill him.
His government want a super soldier. They want him in the middle of the fight, moving ever onwards, walking right into the enemy camp and killing them all. He wouldn’t do it. They forced him to die until he did.
Hell is looking better every day. He spends his days crawling further into the guerrilla-infested hills, always half-broken, constantly healing but never whole. Every so often he hears a faint chink as another bullet works its way out of his body, but he barely feels that anymore. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he gets there. If the gun in his belt will be enough, if he’ll even be able to pull the trigger, if he won’t just put the gun to his own head and wake up again and again, never quite able to escape.
Madness is lurking at the base of his brain but he won’t let it in. Because some stupid, stubborn part of him is insisting that someone will stop this. That his friends won’t leave him and he won’t be another forgotten soldier in a miserable war he never wanted any part of. He was a computer technician. He was never a spy, no matter what…he can’t even bring himself to think his name.
Bang!
Caught off guard, he rolls down the hill, bouncing off the rocks as if they were rubber and settling in the dust. He should’ve been paying more attention. This will set him back a few days at least. He watches a red pool form beneath his hand before, slowly, it stops and he’s able to breathe again. He’s surprised he can still feel anything at all.
There’s a dull whirring in his ears - helicopter. He wonders what they’re doing this close, why they’re not letting him do his job. It makes no sense for the helicopter to be here. He wonders again about his mind.
A ladder unfolds gently, swaying in the light breeze and there’s a figure balanced there, desert fatigues and sunglasses, so out of place in all senses. He can’t believe his eyes. He’s not sure if he even should. It’s a hot day, he hasn’t had a drink for two weeks and it’s everything he wants before him. Mirage in the desert.
He’s close enough to breathe in, almost covering his body and almost touching his face with his hand. Almost.
“Jake,” he breathes. “You’re hurt.”
The laughter is bitter, choked - he coughs up some of the blood in his lungs, and it feels good. He can’t see Kyle’s eyes but the dream doesn’t have to be all that detailed. He’ll forget it soon enough, or, at the very least, he’ll try.
“I’m here to take you home, Jake.”
It’s a pretty lie. He closes his eyes and, for a moment, he believes.