John turned his head once he and Sera were over and past the obstacles; the Thulians were still firing at them, trying to track them and line up good shots. Between the fires that engulfed their ranks, and their preoccupation with trying to kill John and Sera, they never even noticed the jets screaming towards them until the cannons on the F/A-18 Hornets opened up. Softened up by John’s fire run, herded together by Sera’s spears, the crowded mass of Thulians was cut to pieces.
The Angels pulled up and over in a full tight-formation barrel roll, and came in for a second run. Just to be sure…and then for good measure they strafed what was left of the furball of fuddled Eagles with rockets.
It was clear after they pulled up for the second time there would be no need for a third.
John slowed down considerably, banking up and right in a lazy turn that would take him and Sera back over the docks. There was smoke, and a few small spot fires, but it looked like all of the machinery and nearly all of the cargo was still intact. It was sheer luck that the Thulians hadn’t stayed underwater and gone after the container ships from there; not a single one was even damaged, as far as he could tell.
“Overwatch, how’s the sitch on the ground look? We make out okay?”
“We did all right. One group of the Nat. Guard was in the wrong place when a grenade went off. Three down. Way better than if you and Sera hadn’t been there. Port of Toulouse in France…not so good. ECHO and Avion France had to choose between them and Paris and Paris won.”
“Dammit. Copy that, Vic. We’re RTB at the moment, unless you’ve got a game for us to get into.”
“Nothing close enough for you to get to. The Germans based in Alsace and the French met up after clearing Paris and Friedrichsburg; they’re just reaching Toulouse now.”
“Roger. We’re comin’ home, then. Keep the steak hot an’ the beers cold. Murdock an’ Murdock, out.” John cut the mic after that. He and Sera had saved a lot of people today; they had saved the docks, which while important for the war effort and keeping the already teetering economy going, wasn’t nearly as important to him as the people that worked at it and defended it. Even with everything that he and Sera could do, people were still dying out there, and far too many of them. It pissed him off, more than anything.
Even before, I could not be everywhere, beloved. Too often I was forced to make choices. She glanced over at him, her expression sober, her eyes fading from gold to blue.
I know, darlin’, he sent to Sera, casting a quick glance to the side to view her in flight; any more than a quick glance and his trajectory might change. Still doesn’t make it any less shitty an’ frustratin’. If only we had a place to stick the knife, really take it to the Thulians like in Ultima Thule. He could imagine—vividly—exactly what he would do to wherever the Thulians were holed up. He shook his head quickly, clearing his mind. Let’s get back home. I could use a shower. Among other things.
And we will plan for next time, she agreed. They will learn from this. We must assume they have, and be ready.
CHAPTER TWELVE
* * *
Hurt
Dennis Lee
I looked at my watch. It was almost go time. And I scrubbed at my eyes with the back of my hand as tears filled them, and my throat closed, because of what was coming. This…I couldn’t face this. Not again.
“I can’t do this anymore, Eight,” I choked. “It’s up to you now. Finish it for me.”
I barely heard Eight’s gentle “I will, Vickie,” as I closed my keyboard and went to join the others.
Is it wrong to be ruled by your desires?
I’ve always thought so. Doesn’t stop a lot of people from doing it, of course. I suppose most people are, to varying degrees, slaves to their emotions. Yet there are those special few who go to extreme measures to express themselves. There are no boundaries, no rules, regardless of their claims to the contrary. They swear by personal mantras, mask their transient nature with diatribes bordering on religious fervor, but in truth their values ebb and flow like the tides, serving their present needs and nothing more. Their first lesson is that history is malleable. The others follow soon enough: foundations are based on whim, to hell with gods, know what is yours and you fight for it, tooth and nail, and if some bastard is foolish enough to stand in your way, you strike him down and you don’t stop until he stays down.
I don’t know how these people manage to survive, given the horrific nature of their choices, but they do. Some even thrive, a precious few, as their environment continues somehow to provide for them. Most, however, laugh in the face of death, dance in the heart of the storm, drunk on the power of their perceived immortality as they tilt headfirst into windmills. They burn, a blazing pyre of fragile strength, drawing those blind enough to follow into their consuming web. They are beautiful, if only for a moment, their fires extinguished all too quickly and they pass on, leaving only a husk of themselves. Sometimes, they are beloved and shrines are erected in their honor. Those they leave behind may swear eternal vigilance, but inevitably people move on. It’s what they do. A chance for happiness in what is left, for normalcy, for sanity, depends on their ability to forget, to distance themselves. These are the tragic stories, and they serve as warnings to others what demons lie in wait, what awaits those who dare to take the reins of their own madness.
And yet, I envy these people.
They feel something, something so strong and sure and powerful that they serve it without hesitation. Imagine a compulsion so complete that, over faith, over logic, over simple common sense it drives you to acts of courage and resilience even in the face of catastrophic failure. These people are easy marks for exploitation, and there are many who would take advantage of that.
I know of the fight. I have fought all my life, with people and ideals and concepts put into motion that evolve into something completely different from their humble beginnings. But I have rarely let myself be a target. It happens, but you can hide enough of your true self to mask the parts that are vulnerable, keep them away from the crosshairs. Let them take the shot. If the target is an illusion, you survive. And them? They take pause in a moment of confusion. And you? You can catch them unawares, drive that dagger into the base of their skull, or use those precious seconds to slip away. It’s an exciting game. I’ve had an exciting life. But I’m not the woman I once was.
Something is different. Once, it was the good fight, then it was just the fight, an endless series of battles to delay the inevitable boredom of stubborn breath defying an existential void. I didn’t rush into things. I planned them out. I placed value in the safest option, in prepping for contingency scenarios and I saw the mission done. And through it all, I never let myself feel a thing, nothing beyond mild amusement or irritation. It was simpler that way. When you calculate the odds of success in anything, there is no variable more chaotic and unnecessary than throwing emotion into the mix.
So how the hell did I get here?
All my life, I have wanted only one thing. Just one. And I mean want. It’s not a week on a beach or some end-of-year bonus or some bauble or drug or fame or whatever trivial prize most people might imagine. One thing, and I wanted it. And you know what? It’s changed. It’s not the same as it was, completely morphing over the span of a few measly months. No, that’s not fair. It hasn’t changed. I have. It has remained more or less the same sarcastic, pig-headed mess of a man that it started as. I started this by the simple act of wanting him. I wanted him, something he had, and I was prepared to win it, use it, and spit him out when I was done. Not my first time, I must admit. He knows the game, hell, he’s done it himself. But as he told me once, you can’t bet on these things. While you’re sinking your claws into someone, they’re probably digging theirs into you.
And now, it’s all different. Because I’m feeling something new. Some tiny seed has taken root and it’s all gone to hell. Anything I used to hold dear, it all pales in comparison. No matter what I thought at the time, no matter how much I thought
I yearned for something, it all seems dull and insignificant next to the brilliant and terrible and chaotic thing that he is, if you can believe it. If I can believe it…
The bastard’s done something to me, and though a part of me is crying out, spurning the very absurdity of it, another drives me forward into his arms…
* * *
“The hell…?”
She caught him by surprise, and Red Djinni struggled to maintain balance as his exuberant assailant tackled him mercilessly, planting a series of kisses on his neck.
“Mel, for chrissakes…”
Red sighed and with an exaggerated gesture removed her arms from around his chest and gently pushed her away. He glared at her over his scarf, his eyes questioning.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well what, cher?” she answered impishly.
“Not that I object to your gestures of affection, oh no, not me. In fact, I’m sure I’ll be taking advantage of them later…” He coughed. “But please explain yourself.”
Mel shot him a look of pure infatuation. “Now, Mr. Djinni,” she purred. “I don’t think I’ve ever had to explain myself before…”
Red looked at her helplessly. “This isn’t you,” he said. “You’ve never acted this…well, this…I feel like I’m in a teen beach movie…”
Red heard muffled snickers from his left, and he exhaled dramatically, bowing his head.
“You’re punishing me,” he said, understanding. “For last night.”
“You bet your firm ass I am,” Mel muttered. “No one falls asleep on me, Red.”
“I’m sorry,” Red muttered, the words barely escaping his palms, which were pressed firmly to his face. “You know how exhausted I’ve been of late.”
“You fell asleep on me, Red,” Mel hissed. “Correction, you fell asleep in me! What in the name of…?”
“Look, can we talk about this later?” The Djinni, still clutching his face, nodded slightly to his left. “I do have a certain menacing reputation to maintain.”
Mel gave Red’s recruits a casual glance. They stood at attention, but shook with suppressed laughter, one going so far as to press her lips together, her eyes shut, with such ferocity that her face had flushed a brilliant shade of red.
“You see what you’ve done?” Red sighed. “They’re laughing at me now.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” Mel smirked.
“I’m going to be their teacher,” he growled and leapt away, sprinting towards his charges at a dead run. Snickers became yelps of surprise. The recruits scattered as Red tackled one of them, rammed him into the soft turf of ECHO’s training fields, rolled and landed in a fighting stance.
“No warm-ups today, kids!” Red snarled. “Let’s get to the pummeling! Do your worst!”
There was a collective groan as the students warily began to circle the Djinni, except for Bullet Time, the hulking brute Red had managed to slam into the dirt. He lay on his back, gasping for breath.
Mel stood her ground, arms crossed, and watched in amusement. She now made it a point to watch Red during his daily training exercises. There was little else at ECHO she found remotely entertaining. After their short-lived victory at Ultima Thule, things had gone downhill for ECHO so rapidly it wasn’t a “hill” so much as a “chasm,” which meant, among other things, “Mel’s Place” tended to be full of silence, brooding, outright depression, and a great deal of heavy drinking. She knew Red felt helpless in the face of all this despair. Bulwark, while mending remarkably given the extent of his injuries, was still under strict orders from Bella to stay off his feet for now. The big man was resisting, of course, but despite being the love of ECHO’s commander-in-chief, even he wasn’t exempt from her stern reprimands. Upon his return from the ruins of Metis, Bull had somehow slipped away from Bella’s watchful monitoring and hobbled into the barracks, only to find his powers as chief trainer had been temporarily rescinded with a brief memo from Bella herself. Red Djinni was called up to replace him, reluctantly at first, but with growing vigor as Red was hungry for something, for anything, useful to do. And so here he was, performing his daily dance. Mel liked to think he was dancing for her.
But he wasn’t, of course.
She watched as he took them on, one by one. The idea of rushing him all together still eluded them. They had tried it, once, but the Djinni had been ready for it, dodging their clumsy attempts at teamwork and pitting their strengths against each other. They simply didn’t coordinate their efforts, and a simple display of “hit me if you can” on Red’s part had left them discouraged, too busy bemoaning the fact that they were doing more damage to themselves without landing a single blow on him. Bulwark would have put them through their paces, drilled teamwork and prepared maneuvers into them. Red preferred a different approach. As he saw it, pain and humiliation were great motivators. In time, they would wise up, if they wanted it badly enough. For now, that first lesson had robbed them of their courage, and they were reluctant to make the first move against their teacher.
He milked that for all it was worth. For now, Red was playing with them. When one did brace himself to attack, the others would circle about, hoping to spot an opening, waiting for a chance to dart in unexpectedly. This was the Djinni though. Trying to take him by surprise was a futile effort. He still wore his scarf, wrapped so tightly around his head that it was hard to imagine how he managed to breathe, let alone perform extended feats of Parkour or combat training. These days, he favored the standard ECHO-issue leggings, high tech nanoweave that did a fine job protecting the wearer from high-velocity projectiles and energy damage, yet still allowed for unrestricted movement. His arms and torso he left uncovered. With the changing of the seasons, Atlanta would soon be sweltering in the heat, but Mel knew that wasn’t the reason for Red’s topless fashion sense. He seemed nervous of late, constantly scanning his surroundings and taking note of whoever was around. It was as if he expected an attack at any moment. It was understandable, she supposed, given the current state of things. With that much skin exposed, he was one with his environment, gifted with an innate radar that fed off all the heightened senses in his epidermis. He saw every attack coming. He let them come, and Mel chuckled as she recognized the grace in his subterfuge. He never let on that they simply had no chance. His feints were accompanied by dramatic grunts of surprise. He didn’t telegraph his movements and he let them in close, but they never hit him, though some of their attacks seemed awfully close. Of course, that’s what he wanted them to believe. They thought they were just a lucky strike away from gaining the upper hand. It was just enough encouragement to drive them forward, and the Djinni played with their false hopes with nerve and skill. And when they finally closed the distance, were even remotely a threat to him, he lashed out, driving their attacks into one another, adding a few explosive elbows and knee strikes of his own and knocked them down, gasping, to regroup and try again.
Mel had seen this dance many times, and as she watched the Djinni step, pivot and fly about his would-be assailants, she was drawn back to the same unhappy conclusion each time. Red’s entire life was a dance, this dance. No one came close; he would never allow it. Oh, she could study his moves, his patterns, file them away for future reference, but it wouldn’t matter. Not to the big picture. The Djinni recognized his own flaws, perhaps. He realized his vulnerabilities and his solution had been simple—keep the distance. Every time someone seemed to pass a certain boundary, he would recoil. Nothing obvious, of course, but it was always something. He had to maintain the dance. She would step forward, he would lean back. Something would be offered, and he might graciously accept, but that was all. They had spent all this time together, and while much had been shared, she realized that he was still holding back. In retrospect, most of what he had told her, she realized, could have been learned through other channels. He liked to think his history was some remarkably kept secret, but if one was determined enough, most of his secrets could be unearthed without him ever knowing. But even
those were superficial. After all they had been through, he was still a mystery to her. This was a problem, a truth she had been avoiding, from her own confusion over what she had felt for this man. It was a problem, because…
Mel exhaled and grimaced, and let harsh reality wash over her.
She was in love with him. She would do anything for him. He just didn’t know the power he held over her now. A simple touch, a knowing glance, that was all it took. It startled her the first time it happened, a sudden jolt of fear that made her question what she doing. No one had ever gotten to her like this, and it really wasn’t something she could afford. She had fought it, of course, but it wasn’t a battle she could win. She was failing with each passing day, to the point where she wondered if she even cared anymore. Her intentions, the best laid plans, did they matter anymore? There was a time when the idea of surrendering to another had been laughable. And now? She cared for this man, yes, but it went deeper. He was an extension of her now. Soon, they could be as one, she was certain of it. But something wasn’t right, she might be willing to give him everything, but he…he had never surrendered to her. It was all in the kiss, she realized. You could always tell from the kiss, and he had never surrendered to it.
She had never mistaken sex for love. Even as a young girl, she had known the difference. Her first time had been something of a relief. It had been awkward and strange and over far too quickly, but at least it was no longer a mystery. And there was power in the act. When the passion was real, even the most guarded of men could become as transparent as glass. Honeyed words, once dripping with sincere flattery, could turn vile and bestial. The witty and urbane often were exposed as mere schoolboys, their charm fading away with a few hopeless grunts. Alternatively, the meek could rise above themselves, finding a deep well of courage, and leap into the fray with a ferocity that would have astonished them, had they not been so lost in the moment. And so it would go, on and on, people going to great lengths to hide their true nature, even from themselves. But no one could hide forever. All it took was that moment of surrender, and she could catch a glimpse of the true man behind the mask.
Avalanche: Book Five in the Secret World Chronicle Page 25
