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Heroes [Earthsiders]
Aug. 10th, 2006 10:22 amCharacters:Futatsu, SingKueh, unnamed male character, Rela.
Rating:PG
There’s a city street, or what used to be a street, but it’s more of a war zone these days. Potholes abound. Chunks of concrete are strewn about it.
Futatsu runs down it like the hounds of hell are behind him.
He’s laughing – wild, dangerous laughter that’d make people run away if there was anyone to hear it. Problem is, anyone within hearing range… well. Some of ‘em still have heads.
Futatsu presses the detonator and lets out a whoop of glee as a three-storey building bursts into flames a quarter-mile behind him.
Fast as he’s running, he almost passes his alley, until someone grabs him around the waist and drags him into the bolt-hole. He’s about to attack, ‘cause he’s on edge already but it turns out to be SingKueh, who he’s got better things to do with than fight.
“I take it you were successful?” the other man whispers.
Futatsu’s still grinning, though the crazed laughter has stopped. “Hell yes. Textbook. Beautiful,” he says.
“Good. Come on, then.” And SingKueh starts walking down the alley. He’s looking at the windows above, so Futatsu looks to either side. They’ve just pulled off a hell of an attack, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe.
Not until they’re back in the town centre do they relax at all. Once they pass the border guards – looks like it’s Sivier and Kies again, poor bastards – they’re as safe as they ever get, so SingKueh stops looking for shiny death from above. Doesn’t mean they take their hands off their knives.
People give them approving looks as they walk down the street. They can tell where this pair’s been. Futatsu’s grin and the dust and scrapes and paranoia on both of them attest to it. But none’ll ask until they’ve given their report to the boss, and they might swagger a bit but they won’t speak to anyone else.
There’s a girl watching them intently, one of the preteens who dye their hair and wear combat boots all the time. This one’s hair is orange and her bootlaces match. Futatsu gives her a wink and she shifts her gaze to a mildly interesting piece of graffiti.
They walk right on in to the boss’s tent. He’s asleep with his head on the low table that serves for a desk, sprawled out across a map filled with pins. He sits up immediately when they enter. He looks surprised. More than understandable.
“What, you’re not glad to see us?” Futatsu smirks. The man shakes his head, like he’s snapping himself out of a dream.
“’Tatsu, ‘Kueh, you two’ve been gone for three days. You know that, right?” he says.
SingKueh nods, and takes a seat on the opposite side of the table. He grabs a red pin from the box in the corner and stabs it into the map, to the East of the town they’re in. “Mission accomplished.”
Futatsu drops down beside him, says nothing. The boss is looking from the map to the pair of them, disbelief in his eyes.
“Don’t believe us? Don’t blame you, I wouldn’t either, ‘cept that it’s true,” Futatsu finally says, to break the silence. The boss sighs.
“Should’ve known that if anybody could do it it’d be you. But you could’ve told us you were going.”
SingKueh shrugs. “Perhaps, but we felt it best to keep the mission… quiet.”
The boss rolls his eyes. “Quiet. My best black-ops people gone for three days and you say you wanted quiet. Are you insane? Don’t answer that.”
Futatsu shrugs. “We did get the job done.” And he’s still smiling at the memory of that, at the mental image of flame pouring out every window in the place, and then the roof coming off in a fireball. Pure glory.
The boss nods. “You did.” Not a question. He knows Futatsu never lies.
“We did,” SingKueh repeats, and then all three of them are grinning like kids with a secret.
It’s a small victory. But damned if it doesn’t feel great. Futatsu latches on to SingKueh and mutters something about getting a shower and celebrating properly; the boss pretends not to hear and pulls out a sheet of paper, calling for a runner.
They walk out to fill everyone in on the news. Yes, we did it. No, we don’t know the casualty count. No, ‘cause we were the only ones there, and do we look like we’re dead? There’s celebration. Someone gets a bonfire started and someone else pulls out guitar and drums.
The victorious bombers, holding hands, walk off into the bath-house. They don’t notice that they’re again being watched by a girl with orange hair and a disconcerting gaze.
Rating:PG
There’s a city street, or what used to be a street, but it’s more of a war zone these days. Potholes abound. Chunks of concrete are strewn about it.
Futatsu runs down it like the hounds of hell are behind him.
He’s laughing – wild, dangerous laughter that’d make people run away if there was anyone to hear it. Problem is, anyone within hearing range… well. Some of ‘em still have heads.
Futatsu presses the detonator and lets out a whoop of glee as a three-storey building bursts into flames a quarter-mile behind him.
Fast as he’s running, he almost passes his alley, until someone grabs him around the waist and drags him into the bolt-hole. He’s about to attack, ‘cause he’s on edge already but it turns out to be SingKueh, who he’s got better things to do with than fight.
“I take it you were successful?” the other man whispers.
Futatsu’s still grinning, though the crazed laughter has stopped. “Hell yes. Textbook. Beautiful,” he says.
“Good. Come on, then.” And SingKueh starts walking down the alley. He’s looking at the windows above, so Futatsu looks to either side. They’ve just pulled off a hell of an attack, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe.
Not until they’re back in the town centre do they relax at all. Once they pass the border guards – looks like it’s Sivier and Kies again, poor bastards – they’re as safe as they ever get, so SingKueh stops looking for shiny death from above. Doesn’t mean they take their hands off their knives.
People give them approving looks as they walk down the street. They can tell where this pair’s been. Futatsu’s grin and the dust and scrapes and paranoia on both of them attest to it. But none’ll ask until they’ve given their report to the boss, and they might swagger a bit but they won’t speak to anyone else.
There’s a girl watching them intently, one of the preteens who dye their hair and wear combat boots all the time. This one’s hair is orange and her bootlaces match. Futatsu gives her a wink and she shifts her gaze to a mildly interesting piece of graffiti.
They walk right on in to the boss’s tent. He’s asleep with his head on the low table that serves for a desk, sprawled out across a map filled with pins. He sits up immediately when they enter. He looks surprised. More than understandable.
“What, you’re not glad to see us?” Futatsu smirks. The man shakes his head, like he’s snapping himself out of a dream.
“’Tatsu, ‘Kueh, you two’ve been gone for three days. You know that, right?” he says.
SingKueh nods, and takes a seat on the opposite side of the table. He grabs a red pin from the box in the corner and stabs it into the map, to the East of the town they’re in. “Mission accomplished.”
Futatsu drops down beside him, says nothing. The boss is looking from the map to the pair of them, disbelief in his eyes.
“Don’t believe us? Don’t blame you, I wouldn’t either, ‘cept that it’s true,” Futatsu finally says, to break the silence. The boss sighs.
“Should’ve known that if anybody could do it it’d be you. But you could’ve told us you were going.”
SingKueh shrugs. “Perhaps, but we felt it best to keep the mission… quiet.”
The boss rolls his eyes. “Quiet. My best black-ops people gone for three days and you say you wanted quiet. Are you insane? Don’t answer that.”
Futatsu shrugs. “We did get the job done.” And he’s still smiling at the memory of that, at the mental image of flame pouring out every window in the place, and then the roof coming off in a fireball. Pure glory.
The boss nods. “You did.” Not a question. He knows Futatsu never lies.
“We did,” SingKueh repeats, and then all three of them are grinning like kids with a secret.
It’s a small victory. But damned if it doesn’t feel great. Futatsu latches on to SingKueh and mutters something about getting a shower and celebrating properly; the boss pretends not to hear and pulls out a sheet of paper, calling for a runner.
They walk out to fill everyone in on the news. Yes, we did it. No, we don’t know the casualty count. No, ‘cause we were the only ones there, and do we look like we’re dead? There’s celebration. Someone gets a bonfire started and someone else pulls out guitar and drums.
The victorious bombers, holding hands, walk off into the bath-house. They don’t notice that they’re again being watched by a girl with orange hair and a disconcerting gaze.