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Description
St. Trisha Island, same day 2100 hours-give or take.

I'm a sky boy. I fly in choppers. That's what I keep telling myself. If I die in combat it'll be in a very painful but brief ball of flame, or a brief plummet followed by nothing, but it'll be just that. Brief. And clean.
Being in a ground war is something totally different.

It's brutal. It smells. You see things you shouldn't, ever. You shoot because they're shooting at you and because you've seen what they've done. And if you land a hit and someone crumbles because of YOUR rifle, YOUR bullet, then you put it at the very back of your mind and. You. Keep. Firing. Because if you don't the others will get you. And when it's over and you look back, there isn't anything you can do or say that will make it right, because it isn't. That men, that people should kill each other is wrong.

We got to Kingala maybe an hour after the boy had told us what he did, flying below radar coverage so as not to draw attention. Raised the police guys on the horn when we got close enough. Medea had sourced two M-16s from the compound, three frag grenades and five smokes, so me and Ken were equipped to go to ground with her. Doug dropped the three of us off and headed back to St. Trisha fast- we did not want the chopper in range if the Mollies had MANPADS launchers. From what the police told us, they had a few trucks going village-to-village on the South coast and a runner from Orellan, farther west, had come in the morning to say they were under attack. Orellan isn't so far from Kingala, maybe ten minutes' drive, and you could see the plumes of smoke on the horizon when on the small hill north-west of the village. I asked Medea what the cops were saying, and she said "burning bodies" with such an expression that I thought she would char the Mollies themselves to ash if she but set eyes on them.

We knew they were coming to Kingala next. Closest settlement and all that. I'd taken my sling off during the ride there, my injuries weren't severe enough to use it anyway. I kept it, though- something tells me first-aid supplies of any quality will be hard to come by.

Medea took charge at that point. She's efficient, and we were motivated. She kept me and Ken on the flat roof of one of the houses south of the access road, and strung the five cops at ground level, on the North side of the road but farther back. She scraped together a mine, nothing more than a mortar shell armed and planted in the road's dirt, in the furrows. We didn't have to wait very long- barely an hour- before the plume of dust from a truck obscured the smoke from Orellan.

I don't remember much after that, flashes mostly. Ken says it's normal, that combat makes the hindbrain take over and you fly on autopilot. Something about the frontal lobe shutting down. From what I know, the truck came over the rise, tripped the shell, lost a wheel and ended up on its side. The Mollies in the back were thrown out -it wasn't even covered by a tarp so they just got tossed about, many of them didn't get up after that- and we poured fire into them until they didn't move anymore. Medea asked to be covered, went to finish off those that were still breathing, and picked up what she could from the bodies and the crates in the truck. They had a few M16s, no doubt appropriated, with their ammunition - I'll make a list later on of what we salvaged. Me and Ken were given sets of Molatian combats, jungle-pattern, and she kept one for Doug. We need to wash the blood off of them but I haven't been able to touch them yet. Can't bring myself to. There were four full barrels of kero in the truck, too, AVGAS. One split open, but the others just bounced. That should complete the chopper's fuel load.

We took two of the police officers with us and piled into a jeep to go and check on Orellan, but we probably shouldn't have.

The Mollies had piled the corpses into communal graves at the edge of the settlement, doused them with fuel- I thought I recognised kerosene- and lit them on fire. Three buildings were also ablaze, and several bodies had been left where they'd fallen. The stench was horrific. The only thing preventing me from breathing through my mouth was that I knew I might filter who I was inhaling better if I breathed through my nose. I tied a rag around my face like everyone else, but that didn't stop it all that much. I retched several times, so did the others, but that was absolutely nothing compared to when I found The House.

They'd cut up every body part, of every kid under... Maybe thirteen? Twelve? And stashed them in there like some fucked-up jigsaw puzzle, arms on one side and legs on another, with what I assume were their mothers. Signs of rape, obvious. Everywhere. Flies buzzing around, landing in places I'd rather not speak of. I stepped out and threw up what little I had left down the side of the house. As horrific as it was I couldn't have done it inside- too disrespectful, somehow, to desecrate them even more. We weren't enough to bury them all so we did what we could... The only thing, really. We siphoned the tank of the jeep and lit the house up. I took pictures, too, I have my camera. They need to see this back home. To understand. I didn't think I could do it.

There was one other thing of note, before I forget. A guy had been shot in the head and left on top of a building, apparently forgotten. He had a Molatian tag on his flak jacket but he was white- pale as hell, in fact, with sunburns on his neck and arms. Good-quality gear, binoculars, grenades, NVGs, an AK-74, a bag full of gear - all of it Russian-made, and recent.

We got back a while ago but none of us has had anything to eat. We can't stomach anything just now. There's a storm brewing, and I need to make some sense of what I saw before I can sleep- but no food for me tonight.

Retrieved from the mission today:
Weapons:

-Three (3) M16 assault rifles in working order with twenty-three (23) STANAG 30rd 5.56x45mm disposable magazines and roughly three hundred (+/-300) rounds of corresponding ammunition. Two (2) spare units unusable except for parts.
-Eleven (11) AKM- type assault rifles in working order, in several variants, with fifty- one (51) 30rd 7.62x39mm disposable magazines and roughly six thousand (+/-6000) rounds of corresponding ammunition. Five (5) spare units unusable except for parts.
-One (1) AK-74 assault rifle in working order, with six (6) 30rd 5.45x39mm disposable magazines with ninety-seven (97) rounds of corresponding ammunition.
-One (1) SVD-M sniper rifle in working order, wi

Mike stopped typing. The lamp he was using, suspended under the palm tree, was shaking too much in the wind to make it practical, and casting shadows he was not interested in meeting up close. Not tonight.

He retrieved the pages he'd already typed up from under the rock that held them in place, and picked the lamp up as well. A spider the size of his palm lazily slid on its silk strand back to the ground from the lamp's base, and he found he was too upset by what he'd seen in the afternoon to be bothered by its obscene, swollen abdomen like he might have been twelve hours and a small eternity ago. The crawling insect-eater scuttled off into the shadows, and he noted it was braver than he, who didn't feel like he could face the dark just yet.

He walked across the courtyard to their barracks, not quite leaning against the wind but already feeling its force. They had rolled the folded-up helicopter halfway into an empty shelter, so it would not get damaged should the storm be worse than they thought. Not being able to get a regular, updated Met forecast grated at Doug, but he didn't much care for what ailed the grumpy pilot at this time. They'd brought back all the AVGAS, most of the weapons and ammunition, and three of the five cops. The other two would be alerting the U.N. camp to a possible attack in the morning, and letting them know there was a friendly, airborne presence in the area. Radios did not carry well; They assumed the Molatians had deployed a jamming effect.

Nobody was sleeping when he pushed the door. There were ten double bunks in the room, complete with spartan lockers. The bathrooms were at the end of the barracks, past a tiny rec area with a threadbare couch that had to have been red at one point in the distant past. It was currently occupied by two of the soldiers manning the outpost, watching a videocassette (he'd been stunned when seeing the player) on the ancient television. One of the policemen was leaning on the wall behind them and nodded to Mike when he came in.

Doug was reading on the bottom bunk, closest to the door on the left. He had one of the chopper's maintenance manuals open, and Angel's logbook was on the floor next to him. Mike ambled towards him, but was stopped by the pilot's venomous glare.

-I don't want to hear it."

-Hear what?" asked Mike, genuinely confused.

-That you can't sleep. Or that you can't get it out of your head. Or anything like a retelling of what happened down there. Ken's wandering the perimeter looking like he's been through hell, and you look even worse, so I'll just tell you this: You asked for it. We could have gotten out of here and flown to Diego Garcia, for Heaven's sake, but now we're deserters, get it? We acted without orders. And I'm determined to keep flying my chopper and get us through all this, but you were the one who wanted it. So don't come crying to me if there's a problem- deal with it.

-... I was just putting my logs away, O Mighty Driver. I get your point, though. Wasn't going to tell you anything about it either way, expecially if you're in such a sunny disposition."

-Oh. Well... As long as you know where you and I stand, Brit boy."

Mike shrugged. He stapled the papers together, shoved them in his near-empty locker and slammed the door, then stormed back out. He'd try to find Kenneth and... Well, he hadn't planned that far. But if he was wandering around outside and alone, that was bad enough. The kid needed to be sociable, not shut himself in.

He was going around the helicopter's cockpit when he heard a sound coming from inside, and saw a shape move. Instinctively, he huddled near the starboard gear and drew his pistol and a small tactical lamp. If there was anyone with bad intentions and armed with explosives, he didn't want to give the perp a hint of his presence by shouting. He crouched his way to the cargo hatch, and found it unlatched. Another noise, a bit like a whimper, made him react.

He flung the hatch open, swinging the Beretta around and lighting the torch in the same movement. In his crosshairs, a black, semi-naked woman, who straddled the body of a man he recognised as Ken. His challenge died on his lips, but the woman shrieked. Ken covered his eyes from the light.

-Aaar... That you, Doug? I can explain, man..." stuttered the co-pilot.

-Nope, it's Mike. I'd ask what you're doing here, kid, but I'm not old enough to have forgotten quite yet." Ken shrugged- quite a feat given his position

-Then would you mind turning that light off, and, um, pointing your gun somewhere else? And maybe letting me finish, too?"

-Sure." Mike complied. "Just so you know, Doug's worried about you. Don't keep him waiting too long."

He closed the hatch on the tryst, shaking his head, and ambled in the direction of the other barracks and the infirmary. It had been left to the ministers and their families. A boy, in his early twenties, was coming out of the building just then, casting inquiring looks left and right. He caught sight of Mike and walked towards him in long strides.

-Lieutenant. Good evening." British-accented English, this was probably one of the sons. "I'm looking for my sister. Have you seen her anywhere?"

Mike almost asked what she looked like, but a sneaking suspicion about what he'd seen just before made him shake his head.

-Not that I can say, Mr...?"

-Saint-Ange. Gabriel. The son of Ernest, the Interior minister."

-You're the second son, Lugo's brother, correct?"

-Yes, Lieutenant. My father wanted to hear something from you... He knows you have helped our policemen, but he wants to hear it from your mouth. He is at Lugo's side now, if you would...?"
-Sure."

Mike did not want to have to retell or relive any part of the day, but his instincts told him that the farther Gabriel was from the helicopter for the next twenty minutes or so, the better. He followed the young man to the infirmary, which was not much more than a scaled-down barracks with five old hospital beds, a doctor's office and air conditioning. The farthest bed was occupied, and three people were clustered around it: The minister, his wife and his youngest daughter. The doctor, a civilian with little more expertise than that afforded by stitching up fishermen with die-cast immune systems, was nowhere to be seen, probably sleeping at this late hour.

-Sir." Mike saluted. The minister waved dismissively to him.

-Not to me, Lieutenant. I should be the one doing that. I don't know if we were ever properly introduced... Forgive me for being a bit preoccupied."

-Gabriel took care of it, sir. No need to apologise. You wanted to see me?"

-Ah... Yes, I did. Forgive me for a minute?"

The minister spoke a few words in French to his wife, put a hand on his daughter's head and clasped his son's shoulder. Everyone was clearly distraught and just as clearly putting on the brave face for the others. He went and sat down with Mike on the furthest bed, as far away from his family's ears as he could.

-Go ahead, Lieutenant. From when you took off to when you landed."

Mike was as precise and as clinical as he could recounting the story. There were no words from the minister, no indication he was at all aware of what the crew chief was saying. When Mike finished, however, there were tears in the statesman's eyes and on his cheeks, indistinct in the shadow.

-Thank you, Michael."

-Has Lugo woken up at all?"

-No. The fever is not letting up, and he is... Very weak. We are preparing to say our goodbyes soon."

Mike could not find anything except an awkward, "I'm sorry" to say, so he left unobtrusively. He stood under the porch's light, trying to make sense of what he was feeling, when a shadow moved across the yard.

Medea appeared at the edge of the lamp's light. She indicated he should follow her with a tilt of her head, and started walking towards the edge of the camp. He didn't like her expression, or the fact that she was still wearing her full combat gear, but he followed anyways.

She walked on past the fence gate, along the compound's wall, always keeping to the edge of the light, and settled down where the cracked strip of tarmac ended, looking south-east. Her posture was strange, he'd expected her to sit cross-legged but she had just drawn her knees up and put her hands around them. She called out over the wind:

-Turn the lamp off. You won't need it." and patted a spot to her right.

He set the lamp down, walked to her and sat down like she had. They stared out to sea, barely visible in the gloom, but they could feel it was getting choppy. He could not make out much at all, and had to wait for his eyes to adjust.

-If you keep walking in light, you can't see what's in the shadows until it's too late." she said, not particularly forcefully now that he was close.

-Deep. Did Ramon teach you that?"

She sighed.

-Not you, too?"

-Yeah, me too. Go find Ken if you want a yes-man. I can't go play nice to this scumbag when thi- this..." His words caught in his throat, and then something he did not expect at all happened.

He began crying. Bawling. The wave of emotion just broke his defences and slammed hard against his skull, and the only release was through his eyes and his voice, howling with the tears and in the rain that began to fall. He couldn't comprehend what had happened, couldn't make sense of why things like what he'd found in the house could happen, couldn't think, couldn't breathe until the overflow of grief and frustration and helplesness had been expelled thoroughly. After what felt like hours, when his throat was too raw to do more than whimper and he couldn't tell whether it was rain or tears drenching his face, he realised Medea had spoken.

-What?" he croaked.

-I said "was it your first time?".

-What? Finding burned bodies, or having to burn some myself, or killing people?" He felt like he couldn't go through with it. The images, old and new, just swam in circles through his mind and bit hard into his soul on each pass.

-Yes to all three, I'd imagine." She'd drawn her knees up, protectively, and tightened her hold around them. He couldn't be certain with the rain and the wind, but he could have sworn her voice was as raw as his.

-No. I've seen burned bodies before. Three or four, I guess. A galley fire on a pleasure craft three years ago- two dead, charred to bits, and one who died on the way to Inverness with third-degree burns. And one... One in a house fire." He shut that last one out of his mind, quickly. He'd learned to do that over the last ten years.

-The medical pros I've met, the ones with any experience at least... They say the only thing you never get used to is the burns. There's just something so inherently wrong with that, it shocks even seasoned professionals. Don't feel bad about it." she patronized.

-It's not just that!" he snapped back.

The sea crashed against the cliff below with thunderous force, as if to underline his anger. He realised he'd ground his nails in his palm, and sluggish trails of blood mingled with the droplets on his rain-soaked skin. He wasn't about to tell her.
After a moment, she resumed.

-I reacted like you the first time..."

-Figures. With your fancy little skulking job, you go places, right? Look, girl, you can't know what that means to me, so what are you even trying to do, you sick fuck? Break me even further?"

-Unpleasant ones mostly, but true, I go places. If you want to insult me, pick something that actually applies. I've likely been called worse. Call me a traitor, call me an assassin, call me a bitch, call me a whore, I've heard it all before. Question my judgement and my motives all you want, even my character, but don't question it when I say I know how you feel."

He didn't react, so she continued.

-I saw something... Similar. Five or six times. In the Hindu Kush, they made the town elders watch as their kids and family were slaughtered- no rape, though. The tribal lands in Pakistan are probably the worst place to be if you're a woman of any status, but they legalised forced sex, because it's not rape if it's your husband, right?" She spat, and he knew for certain that she was crying- with rage. "In Nigeria, during the uprising. Nursing mothers with their nipples cut off so they couldn't feed their kids. I was holding one when she died. Children made to kill their own parents while high on heroin, then unleashed on villages in Sierra Leone. I know, I know what I speak of, Michael. Too well for anyone to tell me otherwise."

She lapsed back into silence, although he felt she had more to tell him. Then she whispered, forcing him to lean towards her to catch her words above the worsening wind and crashing sea.

-The worst was that village in Iraq. We'd been casing it for three or four days, trying to stay out of sight. There were rumors that Islamic State top commanders were there and we wanted to snatch one up if we could. A convoy rolled into town, black SUVs... And some mercs jumped out. American and Australian, we learned later. They... They killed most of the adults. Raped the women before or after they'd killed them, and then they..." She swallowed hard. "They brought this little girl... Beautiful. Eyes the colour of obsidian, like a sparrow. She must have been... Merde, six or seven at most. They brought her in front of the commander, and he... Cut her throat. Vertically, like you'd do for a tracheotomy. Very precise, surgical, while his men held her. So she was still alive. And he raped the wound. I want to make this up, I do- but I saw it."

She sniffed, and buried her head between her arms.

-I took a shot I wasn't supposed to that day in Iraq. Took the commander's shoulder out- I was aiming for his throat but I was shaking too badly, I suppose. But no one on the team ever spoke of what happened. We killed them all, those who didn't flee, lined them up by the side of the road, and buried the bodies of the villagers over the next day. The commander and three of his men made it out, though."

She looked at him. There was so much despair in her eyes, so much disbelief in humanity in there that he felt himself sucked down in the bottomless abyss of faithlessness he'd felt opening this day.

-You deciding to help these people means you've lifted the curtain, Michael. You know what humans do to each other. You can't go back now, and I think neither can Kenneth. You and he will have to do things you won't be proud of and you'll believe you'll do them for the right reasons. And you'll have to face monsters your worst nightmares cannot prepare you for. And be prepared to let them live if you need their help."

He started to rise, but she caught his arm. He helped her up, too, and she leaned close to his ear before he could react.

-One more thing. I haven't said it to anyone, but when you see Ramon... Never mention the fact that he cannot lift his right arm very well." His mind refused to make the connection, but she supplied the answer anyways. "He took a sniper bullet in the shoulder in Iraq, five years ago."

She disengaged herself from him and walked back towards the compound, hunched over under the rain's onslaught, as he stared after her, his mind reeling.

Description
St. Trisha Island, same day 2100 hours-give or take.

I'm a sky boy. I fly in choppers. That's what I keep telling myself. If I die in combat it'll be in a very painful but brief ball of flame, or a brief plummet followed by nothing, but it'll be just that. Brief. And clean.
Being in a ground war is something totally different.

It's brutal. It smells. You see things you shouldn't, ever. You shoot because they're shooting at you and because you've seen what they've done. And if you land a hit and someone crumbles because of YOUR rifle, YOUR bullet, then you put it at the very back of your mind and. You. Keep. Firing. Because if you don't the others will get you. And when it's over and you look back, there isn't anything you can do or say that will make it right, because it isn't. That men, that people should kill each other is wrong.

We got to Kingala maybe an hour after the boy had told us what he did, flying below radar coverage so as not to draw attention. Raised the police guys on the horn when we got close enough. Medea had sourced two M-16s from the compound, three frag grenades and five smokes, so me and Ken were equipped to go to ground with her. Doug dropped the three of us off and headed back to St. Trisha fast- we did not want the chopper in range if the Mollies had MANPADS launchers. From what the police told us, they had a few trucks going village-to-village on the South coast and a runner from Orellan, farther west, had come in the morning to say they were under attack. Orellan isn't so far from Kingala, maybe ten minutes' drive, and you could see the plumes of smoke on the horizon when on the small hill north-west of the village. I asked Medea what the cops were saying, and she said "burning bodies" with such an expression that I thought she would char the Mollies themselves to ash if she but set eyes on them.

We knew they were coming to Kingala next. Closest settlement and all that. I'd taken my sling off during the ride there, my injuries weren't severe enough to use it anyway. I kept it, though- something tells me first-aid supplies of any quality will be hard to come by.

Medea took charge at that point. She's efficient, and we were motivated. She kept me and Ken on the flat roof of one of the houses south of the access road, and strung the five cops at ground level, on the North side of the road but farther back. She scraped together a mine, nothing more than a mortar shell armed and planted in the road's dirt, in the furrows. We didn't have to wait very long- barely an hour- before the plume of dust from a truck obscured the smoke from Orellan.

I don't remember much after that, flashes mostly. Ken says it's normal, that combat makes the hindbrain take over and you fly on autopilot. Something about the frontal lobe shutting down. From what I know, the truck came over the rise, tripped the shell, lost a wheel and ended up on its side. The Mollies in the back were thrown out -it wasn't even covered by a tarp so they just got tossed about, many of them didn't get up after that- and we poured fire into them until they didn't move anymore. Medea asked to be covered, went to finish off those that were still breathing, and picked up what she could from the bodies and the crates in the truck. They had a few M16s, no doubt appropriated, with their ammunition - I'll make a list later on of what we salvaged. Me and Ken were given sets of Molatian combats, jungle-pattern, and she kept one for Doug. We need to wash the blood off of them but I haven't been able to touch them yet. Can't bring myself to. There were four full barrels of kero in the truck, too, AVGAS. One split open, but the others just bounced. That should complete the chopper's fuel load.

We took two of the police officers with us and piled into a jeep to go and check on Orellan, but we probably shouldn't have.

The Mollies had piled the corpses into communal graves at the edge of the settlement, doused them with fuel- I thought I recognised kerosene- and lit them on fire. Three buildings were also ablaze, and several bodies had been left where they'd fallen. The stench was horrific. The only thing preventing me from breathing through my mouth was that I knew I might filter who I was inhaling better if I breathed through my nose. I tied a rag around my face like everyone else, but that didn't stop it all that much. I retched several times, so did the others, but that was absolutely nothing compared to when I found The House.

They'd cut up every body part, of every kid under... Maybe thirteen? Twelve? And stashed them in there like some fucked-up jigsaw puzzle, arms on one side and legs on another, with what I assume were their mothers. Signs of rape, obvious. Everywhere. Flies buzzing around, landing in places I'd rather not speak of. I stepped out and threw up what little I had left down the side of the house. As horrific as it was I couldn't have done it inside- too disrespectful, somehow, to desecrate them even more. We weren't enough to bury them all so we did what we could... The only thing, really. We siphoned the tank of the jeep and lit the house up. I took pictures, too, I have my camera. They need to see this back home. To understand. I didn't think I could do it.

There was one other thing of note, before I forget. A guy had been shot in the head and left on top of a building, apparently forgotten. He had a Molatian tag on his flak jacket but he was white- pale as hell, in fact, with sunburns on his neck and arms. Good-quality gear, binoculars, grenades, NVGs, an AK-74, a bag full of gear - all of it Russian-made, and recent.

We got back a while ago but none of us has had anything to eat. We can't stomach anything just now. There's a storm brewing, and I need to make some sense of what I saw before I can sleep- but no food for me tonight.

Retrieved from the mission today:
Weapons:

-Three (3) M16 assault rifles in working order with twenty-three (23) STANAG 30rd 5.56x45mm disposable magazines and roughly three hundred (+/-300) rounds of corresponding ammunition. Two (2) spare units unusable except for parts.
-Eleven (11) AKM- type assault rifles in working order, in several variants, with fifty- one (51) 30rd 7.62x39mm disposable magazines and roughly six thousand (+/-6000) rounds of corresponding ammunition. Five (5) spare units unusable except for parts.
-One (1) AK-74 assault rifle in working order, with six (6) 30rd 5.45x39mm disposable magazines with ninety-seven (97) rounds of corresponding ammunition.
-One (1) SVD-M sniper rifle in working order, wi

Mike stopped typing. The lamp he was using, suspended under the palm tree, was shaking too much in the wind to make it practical, and casting shadows he was not interested in meeting up close. Not tonight.

He retrieved the pages he'd already typed up from under the rock that held them in place, and picked the lamp up as well. A spider the size of his palm lazily slid on its silk strand back to the ground from the lamp's base, and he found he was too upset by what he'd seen in the afternoon to be bothered by its obscene, swollen abdomen like he might have been twelve hours and a small eternity ago. The crawling insect-eater scuttled off into the shadows, and he noted it was braver than he, who didn't feel like he could face the dark just yet.

He walked across the courtyard to their barracks, not quite leaning against the wind but already feeling its force. They had rolled the folded-up helicopter halfway into an empty shelter, so it would not get damaged should the storm be worse than they thought. Not being able to get a regular, updated Met forecast grated at Doug, but he didn't much care for what ailed the grumpy pilot at this time. They'd brought back all the AVGAS, most of the weapons and ammunition, and three of the five cops. The other two would be alerting the U.N. camp to a possible attack in the morning, and letting them know there was a friendly, airborne presence in the area. Radios did not carry well; They assumed the Molatians had deployed a jamming effect.

Nobody was sleeping when he pushed the door. There were ten double bunks in the room, complete with spartan lockers. The bathrooms were at the end of the barracks, past a tiny rec area with a threadbare couch that had to have been red at one point in the distant past. It was currently occupied by two of the soldiers manning the outpost, watching a videocassette (he'd been stunned when seeing the player) on the ancient television. One of the policemen was leaning on the wall behind them and nodded to Mike when he came in.

Doug was reading on the bottom bunk, closest to the door on the left. He had one of the chopper's maintenance manuals open, and Angel's logbook was on the floor next to him. Mike ambled towards him, but was stopped by the pilot's venomous glare.

-I don't want to hear it."

-Hear what?" asked Mike, genuinely confused.

-That you can't sleep. Or that you can't get it out of your head. Or anything like a retelling of what happened down there. Ken's wandering the perimeter looking like he's been through hell, and you look even worse, so I'll just tell you this: You asked for it. We could have gotten out of here and flown to Diego Garcia, for Heaven's sake, but now we're deserters, get it? We acted without orders. And I'm determined to keep flying my chopper and get us through all this, but you were the one who wanted it. So don't come crying to me if there's a problem- deal with it.

-... I was just putting my logs away, O Mighty Driver. I get your point, though. Wasn't going to tell you anything about it either way, expecially if you're in such a sunny disposition."

-Oh. Well... As long as you know where you and I stand, Brit boy."

Mike shrugged. He stapled the papers together, shoved them in his near-empty locker and slammed the door, then stormed back out. He'd try to find Kenneth and... Well, he hadn't planned that far. But if he was wandering around outside and alone, that was bad enough. The kid needed to be sociable, not shut himself in.

He was going around the helicopter's cockpit when he heard a sound coming from inside, and saw a shape move. Instinctively, he huddled near the starboard gear and drew his pistol and a small tactical lamp. If there was anyone with bad intentions and armed with explosives, he didn't want to give the perp a hint of his presence by shouting. He crouched his way to the cargo hatch, and found it unlatched. Another noise, a bit like a whimper, made him react.

He flung the hatch open, swinging the Beretta around and lighting the torch in the same movement. In his crosshairs, a black, semi-naked woman, who straddled the body of a man he recognised as Ken. His challenge died on his lips, but the woman shrieked. Ken covered his eyes from the light.

-Aaar... That you, Doug? I can explain, man..." stuttered the co-pilot.

-Nope, it's Mike. I'd ask what you're doing here, kid, but I'm not old enough to have forgotten quite yet." Ken shrugged- quite a feat given his position

-Then would you mind turning that light off, and, um, pointing your gun somewhere else? And maybe letting me finish, too?"

-Sure." Mike complied. "Just so you know, Doug's worried about you. Don't keep him waiting too long."

He closed the hatch on the tryst, shaking his head, and ambled in the direction of the other barracks and the infirmary. It had been left to the ministers and their families. A boy, in his early twenties, was coming out of the building just then, casting inquiring looks left and right. He caught sight of Mike and walked towards him in long strides.

-Lieutenant. Good evening." British-accented English, this was probably one of the sons. "I'm looking for my sister. Have you seen her anywhere?"

Mike almost asked what she looked like, but a sneaking suspicion about what he'd seen just before made him shake his head.

-Not that I can say, Mr...?"

-Saint-Ange. Gabriel. The son of Ernest, the Interior minister."

-You're the second son, Lugo's brother, correct?"

-Yes, Lieutenant. My father wanted to hear something from you... He knows you have helped our policemen, but he wants to hear it from your mouth. He is at Lugo's side now, if you would...?"
-Sure."

Mike did not want to have to retell or relive any part of the day, but his instincts told him that the farther Gabriel was from the helicopter for the next twenty minutes or so, the better. He followed the young man to the infirmary, which was not much more than a scaled-down barracks with five old hospital beds, a doctor's office and air conditioning. The farthest bed was occupied, and three people were clustered around it: The minister, his wife and his youngest daughter. The doctor, a civilian with little more expertise than that afforded by stitching up fishermen with die-cast immune systems, was nowhere to be seen, probably sleeping at this late hour.

-Sir." Mike saluted. The minister waved dismissively to him.

-Not to me, Lieutenant. I should be the one doing that. I don't know if we were ever properly introduced... Forgive me for being a bit preoccupied."

-Gabriel took care of it, sir. No need to apologise. You wanted to see me?"

-Ah... Yes, I did. Forgive me for a minute?"

The minister spoke a few words in French to his wife, put a hand on his daughter's head and clasped his son's shoulder. Everyone was clearly distraught and just as clearly putting on the brave face for the others. He went and sat down with Mike on the furthest bed, as far away from his family's ears as he could.

-Go ahead, Lieutenant. From when you took off to when you landed."

Mike was as precise and as clinical as he could recounting the story. There were no words from the minister, no indication he was at all aware of what the crew chief was saying. When Mike finished, however, there were tears in the statesman's eyes and on his cheeks, indistinct in the shadow.

-Thank you, Michael."

-Has Lugo woken up at all?"

-No. The fever is not letting up, and he is... Very weak. We are preparing to say our goodbyes soon."

Mike could not find anything except an awkward, "I'm sorry" to say, so he left unobtrusively. He stood under the porch's light, trying to make sense of what he was feeling, when a shadow moved across the yard.

Medea appeared at the edge of the lamp's light. She indicated he should follow her with a tilt of her head, and started walking towards the edge of the camp. He didn't like her expression, or the fact that she was still wearing her full combat gear, but he followed anyways.

She walked on past the fence gate, along the compound's wall, always keeping to the edge of the light, and settled down where the cracked strip of tarmac ended, looking south-east. Her posture was strange, he'd expected her to sit cross-legged but she had just drawn her knees up and put her hands around them. She called out over the wind:

-Turn the lamp off. You won't need it." and patted a spot to her right.

He set the lamp down, walked to her and sat down like she had. They stared out to sea, barely visible in the gloom, but they could feel it was getting choppy. He could not make out much at all, and had to wait for his eyes to adjust.

-If you keep walking in light, you can't see what's in the shadows until it's too late." she said, not particularly forcefully now that he was close.

-Deep. Did Ramon teach you that?"

She sighed.

-Not you, too?"

-Yeah, me too. Go find Ken if you want a yes-man. I can't go play nice to this scumbag when thi- this..." His words caught in his throat, and then something he did not expect at all happened.

He began crying. Bawling. The wave of emotion just broke his defences and slammed hard against his skull, and the only release was through his eyes and his voice, howling with the tears and in the rain that began to fall. He couldn't comprehend what had happened, couldn't make sense of why things like what he'd found in the house could happen, couldn't think, couldn't breathe until the overflow of grief and frustration and helplesness had been expelled thoroughly. After what felt like hours, when his throat was too raw to do more than whimper and he couldn't tell whether it was rain or tears drenching his face, he realised Medea had spoken.

-What?" he croaked.

-I said "was it your first time?".

-What? Finding burned bodies, or having to burn some myself, or killing people?" He felt like he couldn't go through with it. The images, old and new, just swam in circles through his mind and bit hard into his soul on each pass.

-Yes to all three, I'd imagine." She'd drawn her knees up, protectively, and tightened her hold around them. He couldn't be certain with the rain and the wind, but he could have sworn her voice was as raw as his.

-No. I've seen burned bodies before. Three or four, I guess. A galley fire on a pleasure craft three years ago- two dead, charred to bits, and one who died on the way to Inverness with third-degree burns. And one... One in a house fire." He shut that last one out of his mind, quickly. He'd learned to do that over the last ten years.

-The medical pros I've met, the ones with any experience at least... They say the only thing you never get used to is the burns. There's just something so inherently wrong with that, it shocks even seasoned professionals. Don't feel bad about it." she patronized.

-It's not just that!" he snapped back.

The sea crashed against the cliff below with thunderous force, as if to underline his anger. He realised he'd ground his nails in his palm, and sluggish trails of blood mingled with the droplets on his rain-soaked skin. He wasn't about to tell her.
After a moment, she resumed.

-I reacted like you the first time..."

-Figures. With your fancy little skulking job, you go places, right? Look, girl, you can't know what that means to me, so what are you even trying to do, you sick fuck? Break me even further?"

-Unpleasant ones mostly, but true, I go places. If you want to insult me, pick something that actually applies. I've likely been called worse. Call me a traitor, call me an assassin, call me a bitch, call me a whore, I've heard it all before. Question my judgement and my motives all you want, even my character, but don't question it when I say I know how you feel."

He didn't react, so she continued.

-I saw something... Similar. Five or six times. In the Hindu Kush, they made the town elders watch as their kids and family were slaughtered- no rape, though. The tribal lands in Pakistan are probably the worst place to be if you're a woman of any status, but they legalised forced sex, because it's not rape if it's your husband, right?" She spat, and he knew for certain that she was crying- with rage. "In Nigeria, during the uprising. Nursing mothers with their nipples cut off so they couldn't feed their kids. I was holding one when she died. Children made to kill their own parents while high on heroin, then unleashed on villages in Sierra Leone. I know, I know what I speak of, Michael. Too well for anyone to tell me otherwise."

She lapsed back into silence, although he felt she had more to tell him. Then she whispered, forcing him to lean towards her to catch her words above the worsening wind and crashing sea.

-The worst was that village in Iraq. We'd been casing it for three or four days, trying to stay out of sight. There were rumors that Islamic State top commanders were there and we wanted to snatch one up if we could. A convoy rolled into town, black SUVs... And some mercs jumped out. American and Australian, we learned later. They... They killed most of the adults. Raped the women before or after they'd killed them, and then they..." She swallowed hard. "They brought this little girl... Beautiful. Eyes the colour of obsidian, like a sparrow. She must have been... Merde, six or seven at most. They brought her in front of the commander, and he... Cut her throat. Vertically, like you'd do for a tracheotomy. Very precise, surgical, while his men held her. So she was still alive. And he raped the wound. I want to make this up, I do- but I saw it."

She sniffed, and buried her head between her arms.

-I took a shot I wasn't supposed to that day in Iraq. Took the commander's shoulder out- I was aiming for his throat but I was shaking too badly, I suppose. But no one on the team ever spoke of what happened. We killed them all, those who didn't flee, lined them up by the side of the road, and buried the bodies of the villagers over the next day. The commander and three of his men made it out, though."

She looked at him. There was so much despair in her eyes, so much disbelief in humanity in there that he felt himself sucked down in the bottomless abyss of faithlessness he'd felt opening this day.

-You deciding to help these people means you've lifted the curtain, Michael. You know what humans do to each other. You can't go back now, and I think neither can Kenneth. You and he will have to do things you won't be proud of and you'll believe you'll do them for the right reasons. And you'll have to face monsters your worst nightmares cannot prepare you for. And be prepared to let them live if you need their help."

He started to rise, but she caught his arm. He helped her up, too, and she leaned close to his ear before he could react.

-One more thing. I haven't said it to anyone, but when you see Ramon... Never mention the fact that he cannot lift his right arm very well." His mind refused to make the connection, but she supplied the answer anyways. "He took a sniper bullet in the shoulder in Iraq, five years ago."

She disengaged herself from him and walked back towards the compound, hunched over under the rain's onslaught, as he stared after her, his mind reeling.