The door on the craft was open. Charlie was sitting on the edge, feet hanging into space. He had another cigarette in his mouth. His hands were shaking nervously. He inhaled deeply, drawing in a lungful of smoke. It was too close with Gael. This was not a fight he wanted yet. Not one they could handle. But at least the mission was a success. He made it out without so much as a scratch. He smiled. The necklace really did work. Tossing the cigarette into the sky, he swung his feet back into the craft and slid the door shut.
"Damage report, everyone?" John called aloud.
Charlie lifted his arms, examining himself. "Nothing at all."
"Same here," said Red, coldly.
"Nothing physical," grunted Louis.
"Nice to have a successful mission for a change..." Charlie said, taking a seat. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey, taking a swig. "Anybody else?" Louis grabbed the bottle, taking a massive swig.
"Good God, man. Got something you need to drown?"
Louis didn't respond, just handed back the bottle. It was already down the neck. "So what happened back there?" John asked Louis.
"I couldn't tell you... Damion knows something about me that I don't. And I'm not happy about that." He squeezed his knuckles in his hand, gritting his teeth. "And he knows how to set off the Baron."
"He's someone from your past?" Charlie asked, taking another pull from his bottle.
"Perhaps. I don't know... I didn't bury my past, I just have no recollection of it." Charlie felt like that was a jab at him personally. He shook his head.
"Well how far back do you remember?" John asked, making sure to keep an arm's distance away from Louis, just in case he had another episode. Louis reached a finger onto his back, pointing to the brand. It was a vulture skull. "That. Initiation for the Vulture Gang. My earliest, coherent memory. The scars tell more about me than my memory ever could. If you want to know anything, ask about those."
John ran a finger down his face, imitating Louis' facial scars. "How bout those?"
"That was the mark of the Desolate. The clan I formed after I... dealt with the Vultures. Better, more humane band of people."
"Relatively speaking," Charlie added in, taking another pull, then holding it out as an offer. Nobody took it. "Oh come on, it's a celebration! Somebody else take this from me before I drink it all!" Charlie cracked a toothy smile, clearly ecstatic about the mission. John took the bottle from him. "Why'd you leave them?" John asked, taking a small sip.
"I didn't. They're dead. We never had much in terms of numbers. Initiation for that was a little too tough, I suppose. The few that made it through ended up dying in the desert. Some by other bandits, some by soldiers, some by the Charred," Charlie's eyes rolled at that. "The last few of them were with me. We went after a convoy for some supplies. It was a trap. Three people survived the explosion. But only I survived the aftermath..."
"Continue."
"Nox set it up. Apparently he wanted me to be a free agent, so I would sign on to this."
"You would willingly work for the man who killed your brothers-in-arms?" Charlie asked, motioning for the bottle to come back his way. John didn't pass it back. "Very begrudgingly," Louis continued. "And as far as I'm concerned, we work for Will. Not him. Will hasn't killed any of our friends. Yet. And it was about time I did something worthwhile with my life."
"I second that," John said, thoughtfully taking a sip of whiskey. He still was angry about Ben's death. All this talk about Nox was riling him up again, bringing that all back. "Now, going back to the subject of scars, how'd you get that?" John asked Charlie, pointing to his tooth. He wanted to quickly change topics, lest he dwell on Ben's death. Charlie stopped, mouth open. He ran his tongue over his upper left canine. His gold tooth. "Good story behind that one... Alright where do I begin?"
"I was seventeen or so at the time. Just before I joined up with the Army. I had this friend. A really good friend. Female." Marissa. "One of her older friends had just graduated high school, so we went out to her graduation party. Now my friend, believe it or not, wasn't much of a drinker. In fact, she didn't do any of that. She was just there to see her friends. And I, of course, not really liking people was there for the booze. And for my friend. Anyway, she and I got separated for a bit, and I just hung around the drinks table for awhile. She went off to go find some friends. When I see her next, there's some guy talking to her. And I am just getting the worst vibe from the fucker... Everything about him is putting me on edge. And I can tell she's not enjoying this talk. So I come say hi to her to try to help get her out of there. He was not happy about that at all. So she finds some of her girlfriends and goes to talk to them, leaving me alone with fuckboy. So I have a word with him, and let him know he'd be better off trying his luck with someone else." She wasn't one of those girls. "And he was pissed. He got mad at me for 'cockblocking' him. I wasn't cockblocking, because he had no chance to begin with. I explained that to him, and apparently I have a bit of a mouth on me?" They all chuckled at that. Exact words: "Why do you care, she's not your girlfriend!" "Well, she's not yours either." "Because the next thing I know, I'm on my hands and knees, swallowing a tooth and spitting blood. But, that was the only shot he got on me. Long story short, I ended up putting him in the hospital that night. Don't know if he ever got out before the Day of Fire, but oh well. Good riddance, fucker." He reached for the bottle of whiskey, taking a swig. That wasn't the end of the story, but that was as much as he was going to share. Any farther would have brought about more bittersweet memories. Like how that was the night of his first kiss with Marissa. The talk he had with Marissa's father about it afterward. He shook his head Stop! "Anyway, John, I showed you mine, now show me yours." John sighed heavily. "Fine..." He rubbed his index finger across his scar on his right eye. "This one, right here. Remember that task force I mentioned?"
"Vaguely..."
"Well to refresh your memory: near the end of the war, what was left of the UN put together a task force. They learned about the Adoskye Plamya bombs, and were concerned Karlov would use them. So they made TF-104. Recruited me to be part of it. The day before the Day of Fire, we were dropped into Moscow. We were supposed to infiltrate the Kremlin and kill or capture him before he did something... Drastic."
"I remember this. So what went wrong?"
"Bad intel."
"Of course..."
"He knew we were coming... It was a deathtrap."
"Anybody else make it out?"
"No. They were all dead before the bombs fell. The only reason I survived was because I wasn't actually in the building. They were supposed to bait him outside, where I would take the shot. He wasn't even in the Kremlin. Soldiers found me. Counter-sniper took a shot through the scope of my rifle. If I had pulled away a millisecond later than I did, it would've killed me. Instead, I caught some shrapnel in the eye. You ever shot someone from three hundred yards through a broken scope with a bloody eye? It's not easy, but I did it. Then after... Seo found me. The same one on that team. I was in pretty heavy facepaint, so I don't think he recognized me. But we fought to a draw. But he wasn't trying to kill me. He was just trying to buy time for Karlov to get away. Barely left me with time to get to shelter before the bombs fell..." There was silence. Charlie handed John the bottle. Then Red finally broke the silence. "Then how'd you make it back to America if you were in Moscow on the Day of Fire?"
"Caught a ride in one of the Zhati transports. When they sent the skeleton crew out to make a presence in their newly acquired territory, I decided to head back to familiar land."
"So did you go straight home?" Charlie asked. Charlie hadn't been home yet. Wasn't particularly eager to either.
"I did. There wasn't much to begin with. Little town in Kentucky. Probably all cleared out long before."
"Why would they have gone before? There wasn't any warnings for the bombings," Red inquired.
"The town was... overrun with crooked drug cookers, violent bigots, and their ilk. Odds are, marshals had them all locked up in county years before. Rest probably skipped town. Nothing left for 'em there." Charlie reached for the bottle again. That was deeper into the past than any of them cared to go. But there was one missing. "Red," John said, "why don't you tell us something?"
"What's to tell?" she said, staring at the wall.
"Your story. What you do, who you worked for, training, etc..."
"It's not important."
"Evasive much..." Charlie said.
"If I had a story, I wouldn't be doing my job well. I'm not supposed to have one."
"Right. That's why..."
She turns to face Charlie, shooting him an angry look. "What do you mean by that?"
"Oh nothing. It's just that that's gotta be why you don't have a story. Or a past. Or anything you want to talk about. It's the job. Everything's about the job with you."
"Charlie, cut that shit out," John says sternly. Charlie raises a finger, dismissing him. "Has everything you've ever done been because of your job? Do you have any sort of identity outside of that job?" She doesn't answer. "Have you ever made a decision not because of the job, but because you wanted to?"
"I'm about to make the decision to smack you across the face," she snarls. Only the second time she has ever shown much emotion. Charlie smiles. "It'd be the first thing you ever did on your own..." She stands up to slap him. John snatches her arm, Louis pulls Charlie across the cabin. "Are you both done?!" Louis shouts. Charlie bats away Louis' hand and stands up. "Guess it's nice to find out what each other's triggers are." Red scowls, and simply says "Marissa." Charlie freezes, a furious expression breaks on his face. Then he shakes his head, walking over to the door. "Guess I had that coming..." He forcefully pulls the door open, then takes a seat, lighting another cigarette.