Bloody Mess

[Mel Grimson]

September 15, 2002

West of Dras, Kashmir

"A swig before battle, anyone?" Iron Hand called out to the team, waving the bottle of Sam Adams around with the strength of a mighty stone golem, and the coordinating of a wildcat, meaning that despite the crazy wide arcs, he wasn't going to accidentally hit his teammates and cause casualties before the looming engagement began.

Broadside took the bottle and yanked off the top, causing some of the drink to spill out, soaking the shirt she was wearing. The damp top clung appreciably to her quantum-endowed chest, resulting in lupine whistles from Iron Hand and Genie. "Don't you dare boys, or you'll get a face full of my Q-Fire!" Broadside responded in a slightly miffed warning, shaking a finger that could project quantum firepower fit to smash tanks down one by one.

That only made the two male mercenary novas laugh, and she semi-willingly joined in. This lasted for thirty seconds or so, until the red-haired baseline compatriot of theirs strode in with a coldly serious face. More than usual, as the three knew of Mel Grimson by now. It was a full 'game face'.

The laughter died off, and Iron Hand, though he was the leader, was the one asking for orders, since he hadn't been on the horn with their Pakistani paymasters. "So what's the deal then?"

A low rumbling grunt came from Mel's throat before he spoke. "Looks like some allied partisan locals got nova troubles and sent out a distress call. The bastards upstairs don't know which side it is. We've been told to give the pussies a helping hand."

All it took was a "Right, let's move it, ladies!" from Iron Hand to get the four immediately getting set up. Broadside and Mel took the heavily modified and armored Jeep, since they couldn't fly. Iron Hand and Genie could, and they were up in the air and off to serve as scouts and the vanguard.

Mel was equipped with some special DeVries armor and Kevlar, though he didn't expect it to hold up to a full nova attack. Though he had a whipsword, it wasn't his weapon of choice in these engagements, he was fire support, sharpshooter and such.

For a moment, before his combat senses took over, he wondered not for the first time about the merits of this growing storm. What a puking waste, they're going to turn this place into a wasteland before they give it up.

Whatever, I got a job to do, and I'll do it well.

That's the way it was in the world. Shit happens, and there was no point denying it or trying to shrink from it. If Pakistan and India wanted to duke it out over this shitty place till Doomsday, it wasn't his problem, except the parts they were paying him to fix with a rocket launcher.

[z-Carver]

“Hon?” Paul’s voice came out of the dark, jerking Willow awake. Her start brought a gasp of pain from her; the motion chafed her skin on the ropes holding her. For a second she was confused; then she remembered that she and Paul were hostages of some militant Pakistani group. They were tied to a wooden support beam in a stone-and-mud hut somewhere in Kashmir.

“Paul?” she whispered as panic began to crawl up her spine again. “What’s wrong?”

“I… there’s something going on,” her fiancé whispered to her. He leaned against her; she felt his nose brush her cheek. Instinctively, she turned toward him, her lips touching his. It wasn’t their best kiss; neither had been given access to a toothbrush or a shower for a while now. But it was intense, filled with the desperate passion of mortally threatened. When they broke the kiss, he whispered, “I love you, Wills.”

Willow choked back the desire to beg him not to say that; it sounded too final. But from the shouts and rising noises outside, it was likely to be their final moments. Their captors had been threatening to kill them for days. Now, it sounded like their nightmare was almost over – one way or another. “I love you, too,” she said, her voice already thick with tears. They had been promised a better life than this – better than dying in the back of a stone hut, captives in a war in which they had no interest or stake.

“I wish you hadn’t come,” Paul whispered.

“I wish neither of us had,” Willow replied, “but I’m glad you’re not here alone.” She wiggled until her fingers touched his arm; he shifted as well and their fingers awkwardly twinned together.

“I’m sorry we’re here,” he told her.

“It’s not your fault,” Willow assured him, pressing her face against his shoulder. They sat in silence, listening to the sounds of warfare. Their passive listening changed when a large slug tore through the door and slammed into the opposite wall. Willow heard herself shrieking without being aware of actually starting the cry; Paul was shouting something incoherent. Despite being lashed to a beam, both were trying to huddle to the floor, trying to get some cover from the metallic hail now tearing into their inept shelter.

[Mel Grimson]

They were four, the hostile novas coming into sight as the four mercs took cover and observation positions to avoid being spotted. The hilly terrain made this a breeze, and the group settled into positions for setting up their ambush.

Down ahead, the hostile were splitting apart the partisans, who were either putting up a brave but utterly futile fight, firing away with AK-47s and RPG launchers or scattering away to disappear around hillsides or into caves. Those who did run seemed to quite well live, as the hostile were still focusing on those with the courage or foolhardiness to sacrifice themselves.

Without using words, the team got set with well-oiled precision. Iron Hand and Genie used the terrain to shield their approach from prying eyes, and took control of chokepoints to spring out from.

Broadside helped Mel load his portable anti-tank missile launcher, and then she got into position too, nodding to Mel. Grimson nodded in response, then got up and went to an on one knee position beside the rock-shielded curve of the mountainside.

One enemy down there, a figure rising up into the air with the wind and launching a powerful blast of water into a pocket of resistance became his target of choice. Mel centered his aim and squeezed the trigger.

The missile hurtled through the air and smashed into the airborne hydrokinetic nova, sending him or her hurtling down to the ground with a great crash of explosive noise.

That was the signal, and as the bewildered hostiles started to react to the new threat, Broadside leaped down, unleashing Q-Fire, and Iron Hand and Genie were on the enemy.

Mel tossed aside the spent launcher, and switched to his sniper rifle, moving quickly. Time to take potshots at the exposed, preferably their eyes.

[z-Carver]

Willow ended up underneath Paul somehow, but she wasn’t aware of that. The roar of the guns had died in her head, but she could still see the effects of them, and the ground still rattled below her. The world had narrowed down into the tug of the rope and the holes appearing in the walls of the hut. A rock thudded silently into the ground just inches from her face and Willow jerked back instinctively. She felt pain, but it was all incredibly distant and unimportant.

It was still; not the cessation of battle, but a withdrawing. Something hot and wet soaked into her side and Willow croaked, “Paul?” There was no answer, and she looked at him. He was pale and unresponsive, all too still half-sprawled over her. “Paul!”

Her arms were loose, or at least the rope binding them was free. She awkwardly pulled herself out from under her limp fiancé, still calling his name. He didn’t reply, and she couldn’t stop her panicked thoughts as she flopped onto her back and wiggled her arms around her ass. Willow was no gymnast, but she was flexible enough to get her arms around to her front.

Still staying low, she turned back to Paul, untying him and rolling him into his back. What she saw tore a cry of shock from her. His chest was a mangled mess; he’d clearly blocked several bullets. In one terrible wound, she thought she could see the floor below. “Oh, god, Paul!” Tears started, but another part of her was screaming to save him.

Willow started to work. He wasn’t breathing, so she started there, coaxing breath into his lungs and beats into his heart. When he started breathing again, she thought that she might, just might have a chance. “Hang on, baby!” she cried, her voice shrill with anxiety and fear. “Don’t stop fighting!”

With frantic hope, she began to do what little she could to save him. She knew, medically, that there was little she could do, but she had to do something. Frantically, she racked her brain for every trick she knew, while babbling to him that he’d be alright. She wasn’t good enough; there were fully-staffed emergency rooms that wouldn’t be good enough to keep him alive. But somehow, he kept breathing, despite the fact that he shouldn’t. She took another look at his worst wounds and realized it didn’t look as bad as she’d thought. “You’re gonna make it,” she whispered, victory blooming in her voice.

The door slammed open, and Willow spun to see one of her captors, pointing a gun at her. Her vision tunneled down to nothing other than the gun; she saw him tighten his finger on the trigger-

“I don’t think so,” Willow heard herself say as her body lunged forward. Her hand shoved the gun aside as reflexes she didn’t know she had took over, and bullets peppered the wall behind them. She immediately thought of Paul lying helpless under that killing spray and she wanted to help him, but she wasn’t in control of her body. Instead, she brought her elbow up into the man’s face, shattering his nose and knocking him to the ground. A rapacious smile crossed her face as she grabbed his gun and shot him.

“OK,” Jael said, laughing, “how was that for an entrance, hmm? Hot fuck, is it good to be free!” She laughed again, giddy and on a blood-high.

[Mel Grimson]

*Crack*

*Crack*

The battle was ending, as Mel and his fellow mercs beat down the Utopians. It had only taken a short bit for the Elites to realize they were engaging Utopians, but the heat of battle made the discovery little more than an afterthought for any of them. And it didn't really matter that much.

The battlefield was much more still now, as Mel made his difficult way down the rocky slopes of the hills to join his battered but victorious fellows.

The Utopians were all unconscious or reeling with pain-crippling injuries, and the day was not theirs. The speed, strength, ruthlessness of the Elites, plus a lacked '2:1' ratio, made this battle a forgone conclusion.

The others smiled as he came down, then Broadside looked somewhat nervously at his side, which caught on with the others. Mel checked where they were looking at, and was quite surprised. There had been a few stray blasts and blasts at him in the fighting, one had nearly hit him... turned out it had made quite the impact.

He had been fighting through the pain and forgot. He sighed and with the gun slung, started to temporarily hold the wound down with a piece of ripped T2M costume.

Mel's gaze caught on the shack, and he noticed that many of the bodies were in positions that suggested that they had been guarding the shack. Iron Hand's gaze followed, and he cautiously nodded, curious too. "Let's see what was so important in there, Broadside."

Everyone hoped it wasn't hostages, after all, shit from the higher-ups, be they DeVries or Pakistani, was not eagerly anticipated.

[z-Carver]

Jael lashed out with vicious glee as another one of her captors entered the cell. The heel of her hand caught him in the cheek and spun his head to the side. That gave her enough time to grab his hair through his head-scarf and drive his face into her knee. She would have finished him then, but his buddy was right behind him.

He snarled something in Punjab; Jael didn’t know it his backwoods language but she recognized it. She didn’t bother replying to him, though she really owed him a ‘thank you’. She owed all these assholes gratitude for freeing her. She decided, as she drove an elbow into his face before he could bring up his gun, that she’d repay them by killing them instead of playing with them. It was the least she could do.

He stumbled into the door, something poking her in the side. It was the handle of a really big knife. “Thanks,” she said, jerking it loose of its sheath. “Your shitty guns tend to jam.” The blonde sociopath reversed the motion of her arm without reversing her grip and drove his own knife into his chest.

“Just two?” she grumbled as his body sagged against her. Jael yanked her weapon out of him and turned to see if more were coming to play. More were, but not from the door; she almost lost her nose when a man fired his gun through a hole in the wall. He was spraying and praying, while Jael kept just ahead of his wild firing. She ended up underneath the hole as his buddy joined him, with just seconds to get out of this.

She closed her eyes – and knew where all the men surrounding the hut were. And there was more – more things she could feel. “Oh, I like this,” she murmured. With her eyes still closed, she reached out with her new senses—

Willow gasped as she pulled herself upright. How had she gotten over here? Why was she slumped again a wall? What had happened?

Paul. She’d been trying to save Paul.

“Oh, god, Paul?” she called, trying to remember where he was. It was a little dark in here, though the light coming in through the holes and doors showed a few details. There were forms in here that could only be human bodies. “Oh please,” she begged as she crawled to the first and rolled him over. Some of the ache in her chest eased when she saw that it wasn’t her fiancé.

But the next still form was Paul. Very much ‘was’ and not ‘is’. The bloody mess that had been his chest was already losing warmth and Willow knew that he was gone. Really gone – not just ‘try and maybe you can save him’ gone. The window for that opportunity was closed.

Her throat closed and Willow choked on the first sob. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, even as a traitorous part of her rejoiced that she was still alive. Angrily brushing away that thought, she moved to Paul’s head, sliding her legs under its dead weight. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to his empty shell, her tears sprinkling his forehead.

Willow wiped away her tears and realized that she was removing blood and dirt. She found a clean piece of cloth and used her tears to clean his face. It didn’t help him look more like Paul; nothing could do that, because the animating force that had made him so unique and special was gone. But she cleaned his face and smoothed down his matted, dirty hair. She heard herself apologize again and wondered if she’d ever stop saying it.

There didn’t seem to be enough contrition in the world for still being alive while he lay cold on the ground.

The door opened to the shack, and some part of her screamed at her to get up and defend herself. Instead, Willow lifted her head, defeat and exhaustion written on her face. But there was no Pakistani militant greeting her with a bullet to the head. Instead, a nova woman – had to be, with that build – blinked at her. “Well, shit,” the woman sighed.

“Who are you?” Willow whispered, her fingers tightening protectively around Paul’s hair. She had an insane urge to protect him from whoever this was.

[Mel Grimson]

Broadside sighed again, deeper, and clearly pained. "We're elites. We're... I can't say the rescuing party, seeing as we trashed them. I hate this job sometimes." Before Carver could respond, Broadside turned and yelled out the doorway "Looks like it's as we feared, guys. Get the medical supplies out of the trucks."

The news hit the men like a thunderbolt, and they reacted as men struck by Murphy's Law. And to make things worse, Broadside added, even more upset, "Plus... a body bag."

Back inside the shack, Broadside reached out a hand to Carver, her face clearly shocked and contrite. "Look, we didn't expect any of this to happen. Really. You... need a hand up?"

Outside, Iron Hand darkly glowered at Grimson. "You're the only one who knows the damned languge here. You certain you didn't mis-translate the fucking communication?"

Grimson stared back, steely as hell. "No, they didn't say anything about Utopians and hostages in the orders, and I don't think they'd let that slip anyway would they?"

"I'll get the gear, with Genie." Taken aback, the air-based nova followed Mel, leaving Iron Hand and Broadside and Carver and Paul's corpse with the sordid scene of battle.

[z-Carver]

“I don’t need to stand,” Willow said. She didn’t want to stand either. All she wanted as to sit with Paul until he got up again and laughed at her for believing he was really dead. She wanted it so much she could see it: see his hair sliding out of her fingers, see him turn and laugh as he peeled off the stage makeup. “All a trick!” she heard him say. But her fingers remained tangled in his short hair.

“You probably should come on out of here,” Broadside said, her rough voice gentle and troubled with guilt. “This building might come down and it isn’t safe.”

“I’m not leaving him!” Willow hadn’t meant to shout but as the words flew out of her, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“It’s not safe-”

“Were you the one who made it that way?” Willow asked, notes of hysteria clear in her voice. “Elites. How much money did you get to kill my fiancé?”

“We didn’t know you were here,” Broadside protested, already backing out. “Let me know if you need something.”

“Let Project Utopia know we’re here,” Willow said, her voice trembling. “You can do that. We were their guests and they’re probably looking for us.”

[Mel Grimson]

"They found you, I'd say." Broadside admitted, causing Carver to look up at the nova elite. "Unfortunately, military intelligence said they were a different group entirely, and we found them." The ominous import of those words were clear, and Broadside didn't say another word. She merely pushed the door clearly open to the outside and walked out.

-----

Mel growled as he snatched the trunk open and snagged out medical aid kits, the requested body bag and more. He was cursing both military intelligence and the damn civvies for making this a wasted crapshoot and he barely noticed Genie's expression.

Grimson had always been the hardest of the bunch, to the point where like now, it got alarming.

Mel, uncaring, hoisted the load of supplies, somehow finding space to reasonably carry everything, and started back to the scene.

[z-Carver]

Willow was vaguely aware when someone brought in a bodybag. “Here,” a gruff voice said after a moment. She finally looked up to see a hard-faced, annoyed man. He was covered in blood and holding his arm, but it was clear whose side he was on. Willow gave him a glare. “Need help gettin’ him in there?”

“No!” Willow barked, losing her temper. “No, I don’t. Just leave him alone, you have done enough.”

“Hey, uh, Ma’am,” Broadside said, coming back to the door, “we found one of the Up- Utopians. You wanted to see them?”

“Yes,” Willow said, easing Paul’s head off her lap. She brushed her fingers over his cheek, her thumb resting at the corner of his almond eye. She kissed his forehead one more time and stood, walking past both Elites.

“Mel, you mind bagging the corpse before the building comes down and we have to dig it out?” Broadside muttered as soon as the woman was far enough away. “I’ll come back and help with the others, later.” It was left unsaid that the civilian took precedent over the combatants.

Willow glanced back to see her guide trotting after her; the massive Elite – clearly a nova – led her behind a bush to a mess. Another Elite was patching up a thin man in a Team Tomorrow uniform. The man was Indian, handsome if compact, but his attractiveness was marred by the open mess that was his stomach and lower chest. Willow felt sick as she saw the damage; it was like Pauls.

“Butchers,” she hissed and dropped next to the man, fishing gloves out of the EME* bag. “Here, let me,” she started to say, but when her gloved hand dropped on the man’s chest, she stopped, staring at nothing. She could see, in her head, exactly what was broken in him. She could see what was torn, what was sliced and what was burned. I did this with Paul, she understood; that was how he’d lived so long. “We need to clean the wound,” she ordered.

“I was going to leave that for the professionals,” the Elite told her.

“I think I am one, now,” Willow replied. As she spoke, the blood stopped flowing. “We can stabilize him, but I need to clean his wound before I close it.”

“You a nova – a big brain?” Broadside looked impressed.

Willow nodded. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I think so. Come on, help me get this crap out of him.”

Click to reveal..

EME – emergency medical equipment