The Treason of War. (( chapter two: hypocritical. ))

The Treason of War. (( chapter two: hypocritical. ))

SEPTEMBER 23, 2074 - 21:16
PRESENT DAY

I hope she listens to me. I hope she doesn’t kill herself with stress, like she always does --

“Major General Zalene, sir!”

Logan jumped in slight surprise, his thoughts and musings shaken away for the moment when he looked up at the entrance of his tent. An eager and slightly uptight-looking corporal saluted him with wide eyes and a pasty smile. “Yes, soldier?” he asked.

“Should I inform the men of lights out in ten minutes?”

The group commander blinked. “Of course. And tell Jacqui that she’s on first watch tonight, all right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Oh, and… ” He raised a questioning finger. “… Have you seen River?”

The soldier frowned, unused to his commanding officer’s informal nature. “No, sir. I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“Hmm… thanks. That’s all. Dismissed.”

Logan watched the corporal’s shadow from behind his tent flap, eyes unfocusing until several of the soldiers began to cover the fires with tight-woven grates to hide their light and nothing more could be distinguished beyond the thick canvas. He reached up to dim his own lamp until he could barely see his own hand in front of him, sat on his cot, and began to undress.

It was always good policy to mingle with subordinates and show your face as an officer, but the man was reluctant to show exactly how tired he really was. A mirror wasn’t necessary: he could feel the dark circles inked around his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks darkly embedded on contrastingly pale cheeks stung by the biting even autumn wind. Not that he particularly minded his appearance. Once the back-to-back missions were over with, perhaps once Aleta stopped being so stubborn with her own health, then he could even consider getting a decent night’s rest.

Logan groaned and covered his face with his hand at the thought. God, he was such a hypocrite.

He reached down to unlace his boots, followed by the socks, all the while muttering incoherent (though relatively rude) comments about quagmires. The September rains had made most of the paths impossible to navigate through, leaving the man’s platoon to resort to difficult treks through underbrush with heavy boots and sheer willpower. Shaking the memory from his mind, he pulled off his vest, his flak jacket, and tossed his hat somewhere into the darkness of a corner. Usually he’d let go of more, but for now that was all the already irresponsible commander was willing to let go of, especially so deep into known Resistance territory. Logan sighed and lay back on to the cot with his arms behind his head, exhausted eyes finally closed.

Good night, Aleta. Take care of yourself.



JUNE 17, 2059 - 13:42
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

It is sunny. The section of the street he and Aleta are playing on is fairly empty and silent, neighbors either sleeping or reading outside on porches while kids ate ice cream on front steps. He faintly remembers that he should have done laundry a few days ago -- the shirt he is wearing is dirtier than he expected, considering he had worn it a few days ago. The pit-pattering of feet reach his ears: Aleta is running towards him, leading a bicycle beside her.

“Hey Logan! Look’it what Uncle Fallon got me!”

He turns from the chalk doodles on the sidewalk that have suddenly appeared, and grins. “Looks pretty neat, ‘leta.”

“You bet it is!” The little girls swings up on to the seat and coasts the rest of the way down the hill towards him, curly hair streaming behind her, passing by him so close is ruffles his shirt. “You’ve got to try this, Logan,” she calls behind her, giggling with delight as the bike stutters to a stop. “I think I’ve got the hang of it, y’know?”

Logan stands, mesmerized by the sight of her pedaling back to him, slowly now. He used to have a bike that had been his father’s, but when it broke and there was no one around to fix it, his mother had simply tossed it to the curb. The bubbles of cool champagne rise in his chest. “Can I try… ?”

Aleta scrambles off the bicycle, grinning. “Yeah! Here.” She helps him clamber on to the seat. “I’ll hold it steady and you start pedaling, then I’ll let go and run ahead and catch you in case you fall!”

He doesn’t tell her that he already knows how to ride a bike, only grins. “If you say so, ‘le -- ”

BOOM.
An explosion racks their ears and Aleta cries out -- Logan drops the bike on the street and holds her as close as he can without suffocating her. It’s difficult. It’s eighty degrees out and his whole body is shivering.

“Logan, what’s happening?”

Several other children are running down the street their way, adults frantically sprinting after them. A cloud of dust came rolling in their wake; Logan instinctively turns his back to it and shields the inconsolable girl in his arms. He does his best to cover her face as he scrunches his own eyes and mouth shut, bracing for impact, but the tsunami of ash and debris hit harder than he expects, and he topples on to his side. Aleta screams in his hand as they lay on the sidewalk. It’s just like the dreams he has of a war he can’t really remember; the nightmares that persist when they had never started.

They always start with him running. He never knows from what. It’s always different. Sometimes it is an air raid, sometimes everyone around him just drops to the ground and doesn’t get up. Most of the time it’s like this: running down the street, hiding from an air raid, diving away from a bomb that he doesn’t know is coming until it hits. He never knows what it is until the detonation sends him flying, hitting the street on a mind-numbing upsurge of pain along his spine and overloading his already jarred senses. But the dreams never last a moment before he wakes up --

In one minute it’ll be over, he thinks. One more minute -- Two minutes -- Three --

Logan waits for what seems like hours, lying on the cracked cement in the dust-filled silence amidst only the settling of particles and Aleta’s accelerated breathing, but he never awakes. He never wakes because he’s already awake, and this déjà vu is completely, horribly real.

Aleta squirms in his arms. “Logan… ”

“Shh, it’s going to be okay. I’m right here.” He strokes her hair, pulling off his shirt to turn it inside-out and hold it against her face. “You’ve gotta breathe through this, all right? You can’t breathe in this stuff. It’s bad for you.” She mumbles something that is muffled by the cloth, and he shakes his head, coughing. “No complaining. This is for your own good.”

Something rings out in the fog; he instinctively gathers her closer and pulls her behind a telephone pole. Faintly, his mind questions what good a telephone pole would do in a fire fight, but Logan decides that now is not really the time to question things and he concentrates on holding his breath as long as he can.

“Aleta! ALETA!”

She perks up, hearing the familiar voice. “Uncle Fallon?”

“She’s here! Over here!”

The shadows in the dust are moving with unfamiliar, hostile clarity -- all Logan can see are the masks on their faces and the cup with wings: at long last, the Phoenix-Graille Corps has shown up. Bile wells up in his throat and he clutches Aleta to him tighter. One figure in particular breaks away, catching the girl with a sweep of his arm and pulling her too easily from Logan’s desperate hold. “C’mon, love,” says the man, his voice distorted from the filter in the mask. “Uncle Fallon’s got you. Let’s get you out of here.”

“Wait! You can’t just leave him here -- ” Aleta tries to protest, pushing away from her uncle with all the strength of an eight-year old; against a war-driven man, however, the effort is mostly ignored. “ -- Logan!”

Fallon rips the ragged shirt out of his niece’s hands and tosses it carelessly away, attempting to strap a mask around her head as she struggles in his arms. Logan backs away, picking up his shirt and pressing it to his own lips, receiving a mouthful of ash for his trouble as he attempts to follow, but things begin to speed up beyond his control and soon he’s lost them in the thick cloud and is suddenly acutely aware of how alone he is. Alone amongst the not-so-distant gunfire, the screams, the bedlam, the sudden flash of pain in his arm from a stray bullet -- there was blood everywhere, even on his trembling, rusted hands --

“LOGAN!”



SEPTEMBER 24, 2074 - 03:39

“LOGAN!”

Logan’s world erupted in a roar of thunderous gunshots -- an nightmarish continuation of the dream that wasn’t really a dream. Instinct must have kicked in during his hypnogogic state because when the group commander awoke he was already sitting up, fully-clothed, and tying his boots with fumbling fingers. River plunged into his tent, eyes wild and tone uptight. “Major General! The Resistance is -- ”

“Understood.” The man pulled on his helmet, visor down and flashing with data schemes and incoming messages. He turned to his sister, who hefted two lightweight D-1300s and tossed one over to him. They were top-of-the-line and brand new; Logan wasn’t even aware that Aleta had allowed them in use already. The offhand thought that perhaps he should check his supply officer’s files more often came to mind.

“Sir!” River insisted, shaking his shoulder to snap him out of his daze. “Sir, we need orders!”

“Right. Rally what troops you can and retreat to Brigand’s Path. I’ll contact any stragglers and we can rejoin the whole company at CMO.”

The girl watched him in horror as he attempted to push past her. “Sir, with all due respect -- ”

“With all due respect my ass!” His voice lowered and he held her shoulder with a reassuring, iron grip. “River, I know that you’re worried about me but you can’t doubt me now, all right? As your older brother and as your commanding officer you have to trust me.” She nodded, and he clapped her on the back. “Now get into gear, soldier, before I kick you into it!”

He waited one, two, three heartbeats after she left; silence before the chaos. The man had never quite overcome the actual, tense moment of shell shock; being viciously bombarded by a tsunami of bullets and strained voices always accutely dismantled his sense of direction for a split second before he realized, again, that movement was essential.

“Zalene, this is Corps Commander Claire on the air, do you copy?”

Shit. Aleta. He’d forgotten to radio in ten minutes ago, when he was asleep.

“Yeah, Aleta, Zalene here. We’re under attack, I think this is about the worst time that you could ever call. Please leave a message after the beep, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I know that my head won’t be blown off. Beeeee -- ”

“ZALENE!”

“Yes, ma’am. Not now. Please. I’ll talk to you later.” He disconnected in the middle of one of Aleta’s heated demands, focusing on the crossfire around him.

A tense breath later, Logan was immersed in the overwhelming sound.