“Incoming!”
The explosion is deafening, shaking the young soldier to the bone even though his body had already moved to take cover, a reflex baked into his central nervous system by too many close calls and fallen comrades. The targeted M-48’s frame rocks, outer shell already blackened by scorch marks and dented by bullets, some almost like ragged wounds where the enemy fire had penetrated the armor.
Roger Dennis is twenty three, fighting a war he wants no part in, and having seen more horrors than most men see in three or four lifetimes. His colonel yells desperate orders that are drowned out by the thunder of machine guns and the cries of men who are dead before their limp bodies touch the ground. There's a puddle at Roger's feet, muddy water already turning red. He stares at his reflection, and the face of a killer stares back. The man knows it. Even if he won’t be counted among the casualties, the bright-eyed nineteen year old kid who enlisted is just as dead as the soldiers laying on the blood soaked ground of the battlefield. And nobody will be left to remember him.
He hears another detonation, this time louder, followed by a burst of light and heat he can feel scorching the exposed skin of his arms even as he ducks further down for cover. It seems a stray bullet hit the fuel tank of the vehicle, reducing the surroundings to cinders.
He tries not to wonder if the occupants of the crippled vehicle had the time to get out. Probably not, he knows, and he forces himself not to imagine being trapped inside the mechanical coffin. That's no way for a soldier to die.
Roger isn't looking to die any time soon. Like any soldier worth their salt, he tells himself he's prepared for the eventuality, but given the choice, he'd like to die on his feet, with a weapon in his hand. He'd like to go down fighting, content in the knowledge that he took a few of the enemy with him.
The preferred outcome would be not to die at all, but he doesn’t really believe in a future when his present is made of fuming craters, gutted sandbags and empty bullet shells.
He clutches his rifle, a useless piece of metal that was given to him more as a decoration than anything, given how it constantly jams and breaks. The other soldiers have the same, and he knows this shit cost more than one life to its owners. And he’s almost out of ammunition. Honestly, at this point, he’d do better with a blade. Desperate times, and all that.
He throws himself onward, out of cover and past still hot bodies. His knife is steady in his hand, until-
Until.
Until his leg, rotten to the bone, gives out under him. He tries to cry out, but some sound midway through a wheeze and a groan escapes out of his lips instead. He falls face down, fragile dead skin flaking off his bones. The last thing he sees is his reflection, again. Still the face of a killer, all of the murders he committed etched into his frightful features. A maggot crawls out of his empty left socket, before his right eye falls out and he can only be left to writhe as gunfire keeps exploding around.
His own scream wakes him up, and for a terrifying second, he doesn’t recognise the ragged sound as his own. Waking up is almost always the worst part of his nightmares, like he’s clawing his way out from the bottom of a well, past fragments of memories turned shards of fear, only to sense the mounting pressure of a headache forming between his temples.
The scream stops when he runs out of air, but he doesn’t take any breath after his lungs are empty. He waits for his vision to become spotty before he finally considers doing it, the possibility of just passing out and going back into slumber making a strong argument.
He lets his chest cavity expand, and feels no relief as air floods in again.
That’s one of the side effects you don’t really think about, honestly. He doesn’t know why he still needs air, or how it works considering the sluggish heartbeat the parasitic power inside him maintains must hardly carry around any oxygen to his muscles or brain, but he needs to breathe. Not much, but the need for air always makes itself known at some point.
He has no idea what would happen if he stopped breathing completely, and doesn’t quite want to find out. His body has become a mystery to himself long ago, and there’s probably only one person in the entire fucking world who knows how any of this bullshit works. It’s not him, and he doubts he’d be able to recognise her if he ever walked past her. He’s… Pretty sure that scientist was a she. And that she was somewhat nice to him. Was she?
He can’t remember what’s a true memory and what’s a lie his brain has fabricated to cope with the horrors he endured.
Reluctantly, he gets up from his bed. Calling the thing comfortable would be a stretch, the thin, worn out covers barely retaining what little body heat he manages to produce and the mattress nearly as hard as stone, but it’s comforting in a way he couldn’t quite articulate if he tried to. It’s almost the same as his actual bed, back in his General’s base. Same model, actually, seeing as this place was a former outpost of Rolento’s army. Clarence was all too happy to use it “temporarily” when Roger suggested it, and it was enough for the ex-soldier to call home after a few months.
Not enough for Roger, though.
His home is still in that worn down military base somewhere in Idaho. But it’s not like he can go back.
Walking across the room, he catches a glimpse of his reflection, and almost immediately winces. He doesn’t know why he put a mirror there, truly. Probably an excess of confidence on a particularly good day, when his body wasn't bothering him nearly as much as it usually did. And now, it’s not like he can cover it, or put it down. That would be admitting defeat to a battle he doesn’t want to acknowledge he’s fighting.
Roger Dennis is forty five, and despite joking as much as he can that he doesn’t look a day over thirty, he knows the withered skin of his face and the exhaustion etched on his features betrays a life that should have ended long ago. Twenty eight is too early to die, but there are moments when he wishes everything would stop hurting so much.
He passes a hand missing too many fingers across his cheek, feeling the stubble that, by all means, shouldn’t grow anymore, and catching on his exposed and yellowed cheekbone. He’d idly wondered one day if he should brush the exposed bits of his skeleton the way one brushes their teeth, but after trying once and ending up with chemical burns due to the acidity of the toothpaste, he never tried again.
Sighing and deciding that if he was awake at an ungodly hour, he might as well make the most of it, Roger detaches his gaze from his reflection and puts on pants and a shirt. He stops by the door, hesitating.
The door to his room slams shut as he shrugs on his jacket and beret, the weight of a cigarette pack heavy in his pocket.
The cool air of the night is what welcomes him as he steps out on the base’s roof.
It’s as quiet as it ever gets, up there. Clarence rarely comes, and Billy prefers to “stay grounded” – Roger is almost certain the cowboy is afraid of heights, but he sure as hell won’t be the one to bring it up first.
That left Lin and himself as the sole regular visitors of that space, and thus, as masters of whatever decorations they wanted to put up. Nothing too flashy, the place was still supposed to stay somewhat inconspicuous, but enough for it to not be just a roof anymore. No one would really bat an eye at some graffiti and plastic chairs in Metro City.
He approaches the edge. There’s no railing, but it’s not like he’s in any real danger of falling. Or, even in that unlikely eventuality, it’s not like he’ll die from the fall. He sits down, legs dangling slightly off in the void, and takes his lighter out.
The zippo in his hand feels as if it’s as old as himself. One of the first things he bought with his own money. He wanted something that lasted, and last it did. One side is scratched with tallies of how many dead friends he’d have to remember. Got up to seven until the idea of making another one made him retch. That day, he’d stopped having friends within his unit.
The other side is engraved with a flag. A sabre crossing with a rifle. A flag that saved his life, a flag that gave him a home, a flag that was taken from him.
A flag he’d abandoned.
His calloused hand caresses it, catching on the rough, hand carved edges of the symbol. There’s a bite mark at the bottom, one he doesn’t remember but must have been his doing. His memory is failing on that one.
He takes out a cigarette from the packet and brings it to his lips, the filter between his teeth already enough to bring him relief.
Nicotine is one hell of an addiction, but it’s become more of a pavlovian reflex to him. A comfort.
He flicks the lighter on. The light breeze makes the flame flicker, but doesn’t snuff it out. He lights the cigarette, and the first inhale of the poison makes all his muscles relax.
The cravings are always worse in the mornings. The nightmares aren’t of any help with them, but really it’s just the force of habit. He can quit anytime. Hah.
He really can’t but it’s fine because there’s not much worse that can happen to his body anymore, and that would be more trouble than it’s worth. He can’t imagine Clarence would be too happy to have him all jittery and unable to swing a knife for weeks on end either. Plus, there was no telling what the stress would do on his already fragile mental stability.
Anyways. More trouble than it’s worth.
He sits there for a while, each breath quieter in the night. Eventually, he lies down, back against the concrete. Lights another cigarette. Waits again. The night is still young enough that the moon is high, but he knows sleep isn’t going to come back to him. He tries to make smoke rings. Nothing really fancy, he’d learned during the war to pass time, but it’s enough to make him smile, if even a little. The rings are wobbly, a bit misshapen where his lips are cracked and deformed, but it’s still one thing they couldn’t take from him
“Y’know this stuff ain’t gonna help you, right?” says a voice. He exhales one more ring, and Lin’s face appears in his peripheral vision.
“‘M an adult. I can make my own bad decisions. B’sides,” he drawls as he sits up, turning to look at the younger woman. “Smoking is probably good for me, at this point.” He nods at the door. “Didn’t hear ya come in.”
She smiles, sitting on his right. He likes that she always takes his missing eye in consideration when she moves. “I’m a sneaky one. Can’t sleep?”
“You can say that.” He knows she can see right through him, but she never asks questions about his nightmares. “You?”
“Same. I wanted to listen to some old recordings.”
“To each their own.” He pauses. “I’ll leave you to that, then.” He motions to get up, getting his legs off the edge of the roof, but she shakes her head.
“Stay. We can listen together.” She whips out the old, blocky recorder from her pocket. “It’s always better with friends.”
He smiles and gets comfortable again. “So they say.”
So they sit. Listen. Roger had put back his nearly empty pack back in his pocket, though the lighter is still open, placed between them. Lin has a stack of tapes she likes to listen to. The contents of the pile always changes, except for one that stays constant. It’s named Girasole, and is dated from four years prior. Lin never listened to it in front of Roger or the others.
They go through three tapes.
One has been recorded the week prior, when they’d been in the car, getting back to the base. They’d just finished a job, and had their ‘victory’ playlist on. Really, the thing is a dumb joke started by Lin that had quickly transformed into a monstrous patchwork of songs that no soul in its right mind would have put together, but is fine as it is because none of them is sane anyways.
L’Aventurier by a band named Indochine was playing in the background, and even though no one but Clarence could understand whatever the hell the singer was yelling into the microphone, the guitar was catchy enough to make everyone smile. The moment is mundane, but it’s those that Lin prefers recording. The debriefing of the mission is everything but serious, but Clarence had managed to get some stuff through before everything fell apart in their usual chaotic conversations.
The second one has Billy and Lin on guard duty. Those were almost always the most boring assignments, and unfortunately the most frequent ones. Lin was complaining about the silence, the stillness, how nothing was happening, how she became a mercenary for the action instead of sitting around. Billy said he took the job for the money, that action was boring. Lin talked about her love for James Bond, how he never had any missions like that, and how she’d always dreamed of being like him. The recording cut when the tape ran out, midway through the two of them ranking Bond Girls, with Pussy Galore coming on top so far.
Roger knows far too little on James Bond and whatever girls were after him to have any opinion on that one.
The third is a conversation he remembers, recorded almost two years ago when Lin joined the small team. There’s nothing of note about it; most of the content is professional talk about things that hardly matter anymore. It’s not the first time they listen to it either. Lin explained she likes recording first meetings, because that means she can compare the two different people : those who are strangers, and those who’ve become her friends. Roger doesn’t quite get the appeal, but it makes her happy so it’s no harm.
Lin isn’t always the best at asking permission to record people. Roger got used to it, but he knows Billy and Clarence are still bothered. Lin isn’t malicious in her recordings, it’s just something she does to remember. To appreciate others. She likes picking apart tones, smiles that are audible by their brightness and-
“You know, it’s kind of a shame I never recorded your voice,” she says, interrupting his train of thought.
That makes Roger pause for a second, considering the question. Girasole sits unplayed. “What’re ya sayin’? We’ve done nothing but listen to my voice for the past, what? Hour n’ a half?”
“I meant your real voice. Before it got like this.”
Like this.
That’s one hell of a way to describe it.
His larynx hadn't taken too kindly to being choked when he was killed, and the experiments were far from any help. His lungs had been the first thing that needed a replacement. He’s grateful for his memory to be failing him when he tries to recall those moments in that lab, but the sight of his ribcage falling apart and leaving two blackened lumps crawling with maggots exposed behind his barely beating heart is one that still visits him too frequently at night. And, well, despite the brand new ones they put inside, his breathing never got back to what would be normal human standards. And a new voice box had never been on their priority list either.
He can talk. He’s even intelligible enough that his accent is somewhat recognisable.
But he’ll never talk like he used to.
He’s silent for a moment. Lin doesn’t really look like she wants to apologise, but Roger doesn’t fault her for it. Her bluntness has always been something he appreciated with her, even though sometimes she’s too blunt.
“...You’re right. ‘Tis a shame.”
The tape recorder had clicked off a long time ago, so Lin reaches out to eject the cassette. Roger expects her to wrap the recorder up and put it back in her pocket, but instead she inserts the last tape in. She doesn’t hit play.
The lights of the city are still bright, bathing everything in an orange glow. Metro City never sleeps, and Roger is starting to crave another smoke.
He gives in.
“What does Girasole mean?” he asks as he reaches for the lighter between them.
“Sunflower. It’s a nickname.”
“Right.” He takes out a cigarette. “Like an alias?” Lights it and inhale the smoke.
She smiles. “Not really. It was before I changed my name and started getting into the business, so I didn’t have to concern myself with that stuff just yet. But Sunflower would be a pretty alias. I don’t know who it’d suit though.”
None of them, for sure. And none of the people Roger has known in his time as a mercenary either. Sunflower sounds too gentle, too precious. Unsuited for people who really are just a bunch of glorified murderers.
“Yeah, I figured Lin Hale was a fake name a while ago. Dunno how someone born ’n raised in Naples would end up with a name like that.”
Borrowed or fake names are common in their line of work. Roger is legally dead so he never felt the need to use one, and he’s pretty sure Clarence either doesn't care or is really reckless. Somewhere between the two, most likely. Billy has outright declared his to be fake, though, even bragging about it, but Lin never had.
“You’d be surprised,” she smiles. “But yes, I stole it.”
Roger snorts. “Stole it? Admitting to serious crimes, I see. And from whom, if I may ask?”
He meant it as a joke, but she quiets down for a moment. Roger thinks he crossed a line, is about to apologise when she whispers an answer.
“From the woman who stole my heart. Mi Girasole.”
Oh. “Oh. I… I didn’t know you were married.”
“I… Wasn't. Never was. We didn’t have time.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”
She presses the play button on the recorder.
Girasole is a woman named Josephine, and she’s everything Lin could ever have asked for. Roger wishes he could cry, but Lin does enough for the two of them.