06-18-2014, 06:54 PM
In the distance, the sounds of .50 machine guns roared their dominance over the din of small arms and the occasional flash and bang of explosions. Michael's earlier display had bought them the time they had needed to get to the VTOLs, but the horrors he had unleashed had lost their effect on the enemy as more and more insurgent fighters reached the Legionnaire's line.
Insurgents occasionally drew close to the VTOLs, but they were easily dealt with by the CCD troops. Advanced imagery and sensors gave them the edge they would have had had they not been taken by surprise when it all began so many hours before.
VTOLs lifted off when ready, making a steady line over the ocean and away to safety and carrying the civilians and wounded to safety. Too few of those wounded were his men; far too few of those departing crafts carried the blue ID markers of a Legionnaire.
His gaze shifted to face Michael as the man approached; the Doctor, Weston, stood out in the dark night even for all the dark stains on her white coat. Even now the woman was still hard at work.
He did not step back in fear as Michael drew closer, although some of his command staff lingered in the area, hands near their pistols. But Jacques waved them away; the man was clearly exhausted. He hadn't the energy to destroy them all even if he wanted to. That energy had been expended on their mutual enemies, and had won the lives of hundreds of innocents.
The man seemed confident the end of his days drew near, but Jacques strongly doubted it. "You are not the first of your kind to reveal yourselves tonight. The American."
He glanced towards Trano, who was being loaded onto a stretcher in the distance, Reed lingering nearby. "The face of war has changed. There are more like you out there. They had one. Yesterday. I believe Monsieur Trano saved my men then, too."
Was it really so short a time ago, when he had been gallivanting through the streets of Mecca? Eager to start new and lucrative contracts, to build connections that would see his Legion grow? And now he had lost so many, hardly a day later.
He glanced to the south, where his men still fought. Markers flashed red and turned grey as they died. The translucent fields that marked their arcs of fire diminished. "This soldier, I realized, must have had friends at home and in his regiment; yet he lay there deserted by all except his dog. I looked on, unmoved, at battles which decided the future of nations. Tearless, I had given orders which brought death to thousands. Yet here I was stirred, profoundly stirred, stirred to tears. And by what? By the grief of one dog.
Napolean. Standing triumphant on a field of battle. He had walked upon the body of a nameless soldier bearing his colours and realized he knew not the man's name. I know their names, Mr Vellas. Every one of their names."
Fresh tears watered his eyes, and he let them fall freely. He did not blind himself to what his actions had cost his men, but he also wasn't lost to sorrow. Their deaths won the lives carried in each VTOL. "It is the cause, not the death, that makes the martyr. Also Napolean. You will not die, Mr Vellas. Your kind will be the weapons of the new war. You will live, whether you wish to or not, I fear. And so you must do your duty. Do not let this night be forgotten. Do not let this be their victory."
He turned then to address Dr Weston as she approached. He offered a melancholy smile. He refused to be destroyed by the loss he suffered that day. His men needed him to stand, and so he would. "Doctor. You have acquitted yourself well. For an officer."
A ghostly hint of his mischievous ways showed through, but faded again, perhaps giving way the question of whether he was truly the care-free man she had met in her office, or if that were the mask of what she saw now.
He studied her a moment, then glanced to Michael and back. There was an uncertainty there, a trace of fear. "Do not fear the man, Doctor. Fear what man will do with those like him. Fear what they will do."
He looked to the south again. The last of the equipment from his command post was loaded into his jet, and some of his men quit the field bound for the VTOLs; they would escort the wounded Legionnaires.
Edited by Jacques, Jun 18 2014, 08:34 PM.
Insurgents occasionally drew close to the VTOLs, but they were easily dealt with by the CCD troops. Advanced imagery and sensors gave them the edge they would have had had they not been taken by surprise when it all began so many hours before.
VTOLs lifted off when ready, making a steady line over the ocean and away to safety and carrying the civilians and wounded to safety. Too few of those wounded were his men; far too few of those departing crafts carried the blue ID markers of a Legionnaire.
His gaze shifted to face Michael as the man approached; the Doctor, Weston, stood out in the dark night even for all the dark stains on her white coat. Even now the woman was still hard at work.
He did not step back in fear as Michael drew closer, although some of his command staff lingered in the area, hands near their pistols. But Jacques waved them away; the man was clearly exhausted. He hadn't the energy to destroy them all even if he wanted to. That energy had been expended on their mutual enemies, and had won the lives of hundreds of innocents.
The man seemed confident the end of his days drew near, but Jacques strongly doubted it. "You are not the first of your kind to reveal yourselves tonight. The American."
He glanced towards Trano, who was being loaded onto a stretcher in the distance, Reed lingering nearby. "The face of war has changed. There are more like you out there. They had one. Yesterday. I believe Monsieur Trano saved my men then, too."
Was it really so short a time ago, when he had been gallivanting through the streets of Mecca? Eager to start new and lucrative contracts, to build connections that would see his Legion grow? And now he had lost so many, hardly a day later.
He glanced to the south, where his men still fought. Markers flashed red and turned grey as they died. The translucent fields that marked their arcs of fire diminished. "This soldier, I realized, must have had friends at home and in his regiment; yet he lay there deserted by all except his dog. I looked on, unmoved, at battles which decided the future of nations. Tearless, I had given orders which brought death to thousands. Yet here I was stirred, profoundly stirred, stirred to tears. And by what? By the grief of one dog.
Napolean. Standing triumphant on a field of battle. He had walked upon the body of a nameless soldier bearing his colours and realized he knew not the man's name. I know their names, Mr Vellas. Every one of their names."
Fresh tears watered his eyes, and he let them fall freely. He did not blind himself to what his actions had cost his men, but he also wasn't lost to sorrow. Their deaths won the lives carried in each VTOL. "It is the cause, not the death, that makes the martyr. Also Napolean. You will not die, Mr Vellas. Your kind will be the weapons of the new war. You will live, whether you wish to or not, I fear. And so you must do your duty. Do not let this night be forgotten. Do not let this be their victory."
He turned then to address Dr Weston as she approached. He offered a melancholy smile. He refused to be destroyed by the loss he suffered that day. His men needed him to stand, and so he would. "Doctor. You have acquitted yourself well. For an officer."
A ghostly hint of his mischievous ways showed through, but faded again, perhaps giving way the question of whether he was truly the care-free man she had met in her office, or if that were the mask of what she saw now.
He studied her a moment, then glanced to Michael and back. There was an uncertainty there, a trace of fear. "Do not fear the man, Doctor. Fear what man will do with those like him. Fear what they will do."
He looked to the south again. The last of the equipment from his command post was loaded into his jet, and some of his men quit the field bound for the VTOLs; they would escort the wounded Legionnaires.
Edited by Jacques, Jun 18 2014, 08:34 PM.