GI JOE Porno Story: Aint War Hell Chapter Two

PART
TWO

—–

Chapter
Five – Shadow

—–

Theyd
stopped. He leaned her against a tree, and she gripped it
forcefully, using it to keep herself on her feet. He lit a
cigarette, and said to her something inaudible to their watchers
ears.

The
watcher froze in her hidden position, coiled herself in a crouch that
was somewhere between readiness and unreadiness. The thoughts in her
mind were somewhere between eagerness and fear. She watched as
Low-Light sucked hungrily at his cigarette, setting
his gaze in the direction from which theyd fled. Her own
training including the fine art of assassination, she did her best
(there wasnt much to go on) to follow Low-Lights career. He
was the best, and she would learn all she could from him before
she removed him permanently from the world. And she vowed that his
removal would be her achievement.

She
would feel more comfortable if she could see his eyes, see through
the red shield that hid them. She longed to glimpse the eyes, those
reflections of the beast within. She had two separate imaginings as
to their appearance. One: Cold and unfeeling,
hard and calculating. The eyes of a wolf scanning for the weakest
prey. Predatory. Inhuman. An enemy to be despised and yet
respected. She rather liked that image. Two: Haunted and paranoid.
The eyes of the wolfs prey, always darting about in search
of that hungry pack of killers. Alone. All-too-human. An enemy to
be pitied, and therefore despised. Such a man – one who has chosen
murder as a job – could be only one of the two extremes. And, either
way, he was to be despised. And respected. And
pitied.

Wildcat
(a tongue-in-cheek moniker if there ever was one; Katherine – Kat
for short – Wilde was the real name hidden behind that particular
smokescreen) continued watching. Scarlett slumped and, using the
tree as crutch, lowered herself to a sitting position.
Low-Light knelt beside her, the cigarette in his lips, smoke
hovering in his face, wisping around his head. He went to work on
bandaging Scarletts wound. Wildcat felt her nose wrinkle a bit as
she imagined the smoke leaking straight from the cigarettes
tip into ones nostrils. Her hatred of cigarette smoke was on par
with her hatred of having to sit idly and simply watch when she could
so easily eliminate two important members of G.I. Joe. Thirty yards
was all that separated them from Wildcats
expert aim.

The
glory of it was enough to make her palms sweat. She felt hot blood
surge in her temples. But the cold knot in her stomach reminded her
of the danger. She had her orders and they were to follow them
without any interference. Bludds cutting Australian
accent had a vicious ring in her memory. She was to observe their
safe escape, head south a few miles, and take on the simple disguise
that would make possible her own safe return home. Her report would
be waited on with anticipation by Bludd. But his
orders didnt account for one of the targets having been dealt a
mortal blow before
Wildcats job began. Scarlett was halfway to death already. Why
not finish her off? There was still glory in that. The
woman who killed Scarlett!
It was tempting, but there was the problem, then, of Low-Light.
Much as she would love to claim his death as her doing, she probably
wasnt a match for him. Yet. But one day…

Wildcats
musings halted as Low-Light finished his work and stood up again.
She was – foolishly, but nonetheless – startled and couldnt stop
her body from its already-decided need to shift positions to assume a
crouch ready for reaction. She hadnt really
noticed the chirping crickets around her until they fell silent at
her movement.

Low-Light
froze and snapped his shielded gaze more or less in her immediate
direction. Oh God, why had she dared to follow so closely? Only
thirty yards away! She had grossly underestimated him. Such a
small change in sound, and such a huge possible change
in fate! She was well-hidden, surely not visible… hopefully not
visible…

I
know where you are, Low-Light called towards her, letting what was
left of the cigarette fall from his lips. Where it landed Wildcat
couldnt be sure, as its red glow could no longer be seen. She
felt her breath return to her, had not been aware that
she had been holding it. The blood in her temples throbbed
sickeningly (like one of Stravinskys elaborately ugly works
pounding in her veins) as she watched him pull his pistol from its
holster (he had dropped his sniper rifle a while back, assumedly to
lighten his load; why this killer-for-hire cared so much about saving
this one life Wildcat could not fathom). He leveled the pistol
shoulder height, pointing at where she was. She didnt have time
to hold her breath again; he immediately fired.

She
flinched at the crisp report of the shot and the brightness in the
guns barrel. But the bullet didnt find her. It slashed a
low-hanging branch a few feet to her left and thudded to its end in a
tree behind her.

Why
is it so cold suddenly?
Wildcat wondered. She realized then that it was the nights cool
breeze drying her sudden sweat. Her eyes never left Low-Light,
though. His bluff was bold (and almost not a bluff!), but at least
she was sure that he couldnt actually see her. For another
moment he held the gun steady, then, finally broke his aim. He
backed off, rejoining Scarlett.

A
brick fell from somewhere in Wildcats throat and landed in her
stomach. She slowly – oh so slowly – reached for her own sidearm.
Her grip on the handle was unsure (damn
sweaty palms),
and so she would wait. Though she was still hidden, her position was
not the secret she had believed it to be. She could not afford to
make the wrong move. She would leave the next one to him.

—–

Chapter
Six – Keep Moving

—–

I
am relaxed, lying in sweet-smelling grass. There are butterflies.
It is summer. The sun is angry, like the stinging heat of the bullet
in my belly…

Start
over.

It
is spring. Flowers. Butterflies again. Theres a smell in the
air. Like death. Blood and smoke…

Start
over.

It
is winter. Snow and ice. Freezing, dying. Theres a smell of
fire somewhere. The smoke is sweet, though. Cigarette smoke mingled
with saliva. An exhalation…

Stop.

Try
as she might, Scarlett could not turn her mind away from the vile
NOW. The smoke had been from Low-Light. The throbbing ache in her
stomach was the result of his attempt to slow the bleeding. Before,
when it was simply a bullet wound, there had been
a dull fire, like a sun-baked stone pressed there. Now, there was
the hot stone AND something that felt like a fist inside her stomach,
clenching and unclenching with complete disregard for the fact that
it was doing so in the most annoying of places. He
had pulled the bandages so tight! Bastard!
she thought. At
least allow me to die without new pain!

His
smoke clung to her like some hungry parasite. It gnawed at her eyes
and nose, and if shed had the energy, she might have coughed. For
now, though, she could only sit and allow the gnawing. Well,
your host wont be alive for long, parasite. Enjoy it while you
can.

She
heard him say something: I know where you are. The voice was
far off. Imagined? She found an answer to it, though, if only in
thought: Im
where you left me. My back to a tree, bleeding to death in the
middle of Yellowstone National Park. How absurd is that?

The
vague headache shed been managing to keep at bay suddenly leaped
against her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut at the new (and wholly
unnecessary!) pain. Some loud sound had given the ache its new
hunger for conquest of her head. Unlike the voice, the
sound seemed much closer, much sharper. She knew it was a gunshot.
So trained was she that she could even classify the caliber and make,
and she knew it was their standard issue.

She
wanted to ask what Low-Light was shooting at but could not find the
power in her lungs to make the sound. They were pressured enough
just to run through the routine of breathing.

The
smoke was back then. She opened her eyes (slightly) and his face was
near hers, the smell of tobacco flowing from him. Gotta keep
moving, he whispered. His voice worked its way into her left ear.
Put your arm around my neck, he ordered.

No,
she was surprised to hear herself breathe in reply. Youre
going to get us both killed. Leave.

The
muscles in his jaw tightened in what she guessed to be anger. Then
her own jaw clenched (though perhaps not so much in anger as in
shock) as his hand grabbed her chin and shook her head as if to jar
her into consciousness. It had at least some of the
desired effect. She felt her eyes widen and her breath come more
rapidly, but she doubted that was a good thing. (It certainly didnt
help in her fight against the headache.)

Im
not leaving you to die here! he spat harshly. Youre coming
with me, if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.

Fat
chance of that,
she let her mind snicker. If shed had it in her to kick and
scream, surely she could walk by herself. Maybe even run!

Put
your arm around my neck, he repeated.

She
didnt move.

His
annoyance at what he must have interpreted as her odd defiance
manifested itself equally oddly. He ripped the red goggles from his
face and flung them over his shoulder. He turned his pale eyes
toward hers, and she wondered what he meant the effect to
be. The eyes did not burn with any sort of passion. His jaw was
still clenched in anger, but his eyes were devoid of that anger.
They didnt show much of anything, really. They looked rather
lazy, unconcerned.

Do
it, he hissed.

No
need for us both to die, she answered quietly (for she could do no
better). Missions accomplished. Just leave.

Without
warning his arms were suddenly around her. She had a sensation
similar to that felt during a falling dream, which was curious,
because she could tell he was lifting her up. Her knees buckled (so
apparently she was on her feet) but he would not let
her drop. He reassigned his grip so that he and she were somewhat
side by side, his arms unmercifully holding her more or less upright.
She allowed herself to slump into him and felt his weight adjust to
the strain.

You
have to help me, he whispered through clenched teeth.

Why
am I not helping?
she wondered. I
am being rather pathetic, arent I?

He
attempted a few steps forward. She didnt help. She was aware of
his bodys heat, the acrid odor of his sweat. And she was aware of
something else: How cold she was. How much more blood did she have
to lose?

Im
cold, she managed to whisper.

I
know, he said. He glanced at her stomach. Youre still
bleeding. You have to help me.

She
refused to look at her own stomach, feared what she might see. Fear!
I am afraid!
It was a realization, rational and logical. Then the
rationalization dissolved into the true emotion. Her hands (quite
against her will) groped for him, clumsily found him. They had
become wild, alien things and grasped tightly. She was, however, not
entirely ignorant of their need. Im dying! she said, her
voice clipped and frightened (and not whispered! It was the voice of
a living woman!).

She
realized her legs were moving, imitating the motion of walking.
Imitating because they could not really walk of their own power. But
thats what Low-Light was there for. He was leading, like a dance
partner. The dance was made complete in its clumsiness
by much stepping on of toes by both parties.

Keep
moving, he said, his voice somewhat harsh, somehow soothing.

Her
heart lurched with every painful breath. Their haphazard progress
had quickened. She watched her feet as they tried (valiantly?
stupidly?) to keep up with Low-Lights desperate pace. Their
combined weight dragged them forward. Scarlett could not stop
now if she wanted to (and why didnt she now?).

Sorry…
she panted, wondering if the word was recognizable as such or simply
another in a series of agonized wheezes. If hed heard
(understood), he didnt answer. She turned her blurred gaze to his
face. The jaw was still set in anger (or something similar),
and though pulled as wide as they could be pulled, the eyes were
still mysteriously dead. If the clich was to be trusted,
Low-Light was a man without a soul.

Why,
then, does he work so hard to save me?

Perhaps
aware of her eyes on him (though he was, she thought, careful not to
look at her), he spoke. Talk to me.

To
keep me occupied,
she realized. To
keep me alive.
But what was there to say?

Talk,
he insisted. Whats your favorite color?

She
felt her hands going lax and renewed her grip on him. The heat from
him was more intense. Rather, she was much colder now. Much closer
to death. Her feet were mostly dragging now.

What
did he ask?
Green. She forced the word out as soon as she remembered his
question. How long ago had he asked it?

Her
head slumped and her eyes caught a sight of her stomach. So much
blood! Panic seized her spine (an odd target, really; surely there
were better places to attack) and her fingers once again found
further strength to claw at Low-Light.

But
her legs hardly moved now. She felt her arms trying to hold on.
Trying… They went limp. Low-Lights arm tightened around her
back.

I
need your help, Scarlett, he warned. But she had no more help to
give. He was saying something else now.

What
are you saying? Ah, yes. Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep
moving…

She
knew they had been on the ground for a moment, remembered vaguely the
impact, but the sensation of moving forward still carried her mind,
which now raced in every direction. He was still talking, pleading
with her. She felt tugging. Had she fallen?
Was he trying to pull her back up?

No.
Were moving. Keep moving…

He
was further away now. His voice came from her left. They were
running. Or was she still on the ground?

Keep
moving, Scarlett. Not much further, Scarlett.

Grit
pushed against her face. Dirt? Something moved, tickling her cheek.
Ants, maybe? His voice echoed to her from what seemed an impossible
distance. So far away. Ah, but so right, so soothing.

Keep
talking to me, Low-Light. Make me follow you. Keep me moving.

She
could not open her eyes and realized only then that they were closed.
She was so tired. And so cold. Though she knew he was right beside
her, not a foot away, his voice faded into that false distance. It
had become nonsense, whatever he was saying.
A vague ringing in some back corner of her mind. From the same
corner came an image of trees flying by, of two people, a man and a
woman, running in tandem. Falling. The man screaming at the woman,
who would not get back up. She was dying. He was shouting.
What? What was he shouting? Something hed said before…

Keep
me going, Low-Light. Say it again. I need to hear you.

But
he was silent. All was darkness. He was gone.

Keep
moving…

—–

Chapter
Seven – Medic

—–

04:30.
Low-Light and Scarlett hadnt shown. They shouldve made it
with time to spare. Lifeline had heard gunshots, all from the same
gun, one right after the other. Someone emptying a clip rapidly.
Perhaps a signal? That had been about fifteen minutes
ago.

Time
to go, Clutch reminded the medic.

Lifeline
turned to see him sitting calmly in the jeep, finishing off a yawn.
He met Lifelines stare, and to make his reminder more vivid,
started the engine. Lifeline walked to the jeep (hed gotten out
when hearing the shots), not sure what he meant, exactly,
to do. The idea of taking a punch at Clutch had crossed his mind,
however.

Before
he could ponder the merits (or lack thereof) of such an action, a new
sound drifted into his awareness. He stopped and looked over the
treeline to see a flash of metal in the distance, struck by the pale
light of the full moon. A helicopter (a big
one – a transport), its color the signature Cobra blue, descended and
disappeared into the trees.

Cut
the engine, Lifeline said, allowing a tinge of the annoyance
(anxiety, really) he felt to color his voice.

Clutch
revved it. Orders are orders. Its time to go.

Lifeline
shot a stern glance at Clutch. Cut the engine.

Clutch
ran his hand over the stubble of a new beard. You getting in?

Lifeline
grabbed his medical pack (which, as always, was stocked with all the
necessary supplies, including – for this assignment – several packs
of blood plasma of the types owned by Low-Light and Scarlett) from
the passenger seat. No, Im not getting in,
he said, his voice edged now with anger. Im going to take a
walk. He drew his pistol from its holster, ejected the clip,
checked that it was full, replaced the clip to the pistol and the
pistol to its holster. I think those shots might have been
some kind of signal. They werent that far off. Im going to
check it out.

Suit
yourself, Clutch said with a nod of his head. He killed the
engine. Ill give you five minutes. Then I take off.
One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand… Clutch
continued counting. He could be quite annoying when he chose to
be. Which was almost always.

Thanks
a lot, Lifeline muttered as he turned and started toward the
trees. He hadnt gotten more than a few steps when the helicopter
re-emerged and rose above the forest, lurching its way east. He
watched it float off into the night and disappear.

He
looked back at Clutch, who had also been keeping a thoughtful eye on
it. The jeeps headlights sparked to life and the engine roared
back into readiness. He pulled the jeep up to Lifeline.

The
snakes have scattered, he said in a voice just loud enough to be
heard over the engine. Youre right. Those shots came from one
of ours. Get in.

Relieved
that Clutch had deigned to humor the lowly man of medicine (no, that
wasnt fair; he was a soldier following orders, and, for all his
callousness, he did finally realize that orders were less important
than lives), Lifeline started climbing in and
was promptly slammed back into his seat when Clutch veered the jeep
into action before his passenger had assumed a proper sitting
position. He reached for his seatbelt only to remember that there
wasnt one. Clutch had had them removed (If I crash bad enough
to need a seatbelt to live, I deserve to die, he had said earlier
when Lifeline questioned the seatbelts absence. Lifelines
subsequent inquiry as to the safety of Clutchs passengers was
answered with an unamused grunt).

As
the jeep entered the cover of the trees (jolting violently over the
uneven terrain), Lifeline set his mind to hoping for the best,
preparing for the worst. A fluttering began in his stomach. He
focused on it, trying to gauge it. Was it the one that a
man feels when consumed by the excitement of victory? Or was it the
one that a man feels as he removes the American flag from a patriots
casket, folds it, and hands it to the deceaseds closest loved one?

—–

Chapter
Eight – Report

—–

The
rude buzz of the intercom forced Major Bludd to sit up. No
rest for the wicked,
he thought sarcastically, opening the line for communication with the
flick of a switch. Bludd. What is it?

A
young male voice answered immediately. Sir, your presence is
requested by Destro, in his conference room.

Bludd
gave his best imitation of a sigh (even that was gravelly). And
what, pray tell, does His Highness want of me? As expected, the
young voice didnt have an immediate answer for that.

Sir…
I… Destro has requested that you–

Bludd
cut off his stammering. Nevermind the snappy patter, boy. Youve
relayed your message, though most clumsily. May I offer you a bit of
advice?

A
second of silence. Then: Sir?

Being
a communications expert, I think you may want to work on your
communication skills. He switched off the intercom, giving the
young man no time to fashion a response, as it would no doubt be not
in the least entertaining.

He
stood up from the bed and walked to his desk. Paperwork. Lists.
Current personnel. New recruits. There was so much dead weight in
this organization, like the young man hed just had the displeasure
of speaking with. People with nothing to add to the
whole, only something to take. A paycheck. The masters pay X
dollars for Y amount of effort, and thats what the masters will
get. That was the formula by which most of the dead weight operated.
Bludd was himself a mercenary, but he would not be the
influential man he was without some understanding of the need for
order, discipline, camaraderie. He was not a savage. He had earned
his place, and, more important, he wanted to keep it. So he worked
hard. And was paid well.

No,
Cobra was not run the way Bludd would run it. Not at all. He would
never let it become a monster of the size it was now. Thousands upon
thousands of men and women, and so few of them dedicated to any real
cause. An army of thugs, vermin, and scum.
Sooner or later, Cobra Commander would lose control of his terrorist
army, and who would pick up the pieces? No one in their right mind,
of course. Not all of the pieces, anyway. Bludd would select a
worthy few and create a small group of loyal soldiers.
He would carry on and continue to turn a profit. Destro would do
the same. Cobra would eventually shatter and spread on the winds of
greed, each surviving seed vying with the others for nourishment in a
world too small for them all to survive. Only the
fittest would make it. Bludd would be among them. Or at least he
would give everything he had in the effort to survive.

But
that prospect was still in the future and the money was still good.
Fanatic presiding over a doomed project or no, Cobra Commander could
at least pay a man what was promised. If not a man of true charisma,
he yet had a certain power in his ability to
run a tight payroll office. But that, of course, was his peculiar
failing. When a mans company (after all, Cobra was above all else
a company, with lawyers, board members, even a public relations
division) became focused on organization rather than innovation,
the company became a thing despicable. And the man became a thing
worse than the company, that thing most hated by every man with a
blue collar: The Boss.

Destro,
Bludd let the word slide slowly from his mouth, reminding himself of
the problem at hand. He wanted the report, no doubt. It had been
eighteen hours since theyd arrived at the Cobra base from
Yellowstone. Wildcat had yet to meet them, but she
was on her own, had to make her own arrangements for getting back.

Bludd
made his way to Destros strategic quarters and was admitted. Dark
eyes stared out from the metal face. He was seated at the end of the
conference table. Bludd sat at the opposite end, offering a stoic
stare of his own.

Has
your man reported in yet? Destros heavy voice asked.

My
man is a woman, Bludd answered, not answering at all.

Ah,
Destro intoned. The one called Wildcat, then? The one youve
been specially grooming?

Bludd
nodded. Nice touch, the word grooming in description of a
woman called by the name of an animal.

Shes
a bit young, isnt she? Destro continued. A bit lacking in
experience?

She
is young, Bludd conceded. And inexperienced. He conceded
that too. But she is capable. He was sure of that. After
all, he had been grooming her himself. Her talent tended
toward singularity – that of spy/tracker/sniper. Bludd encouraged
her
to hone this talent. He himself could not honestly claim to be
master of any one area of ultimate expertise; he preferred to
consider himself similar to all the great men of history who dabbled
in all available outlets of talent instead of focusing on
one in particular.

Destro
sat back in his chair and stretched out his arms, laying his hands
flat on the table. What thoughts might be churning behind that false
face were not to be guessed. Bludd believed that it was perhaps
better not to know. Every man had things to hide,
but in Destros case, they were so delicate, perhaps so horrific,
that they needed an extra face to hide behind. I will not begin
my work with Odem until I am sure our ruse was a success. I have no
time to waste. You understand this.

Of
course, Bludd said. It will not be long, Destro. Wildcat is
like us.

Destro
didnt move, but something in his demeanor changed nonetheless.
His voice, becoming annoyed, confirmed the change. Like us? You
presume to compare yourself and this girl of yours to me?

Bludd
pushed his chair back, giving him room to raise his feet and place
them on the table, which he did, crossing his legs. He clasped his
hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair to make the
gesture all the more galling. Like it or not, Destro,
we are not so different. We both are here temporarily, with full
knowledge that it is indeed temporary. We both live for the day that
we are given our due. And we both do what we do for the money.
He knew this last remark would not be taken well.
Destro was not fond of being linked with the common mercenary.

But
he saw that Destro had not missed his sarcasm. What he said was
honest (thus, commendable to a man of pride like Destro) but
self-deprecating (thus, interesting). That it was crude was
deserving of Destros reprimand.

You
may find it in your best interest to address me with respect, he
warned.

Respect
is relative, Bludd countered, expecting just such a bit of
pomposity. You get what you earn. You may find that earning my
respect could be most… what word would you have me use? Ah, yes.
Profitable.

Oh?
Destro allowed a tone of amusement to cover his consideration of
Bludd. He admitted that of all the factions under the Cobra banner,
those in Bludds influence were perhaps the most loyal. Much as
Destro may have taken exception to the mans personal
demeanor, he couldnt deny that he had a talent (or a skill, which
was really only a talent refined) for winning the trust of his men.
Bludd could indeed be a powerful ally. However, Destro held fast to
his stance of condescension. And what is the going
rate these days for your respect, Major?

Always
taking the superior ground! Well, let him,
Bludd thought. It was good to know the vanities of ones
associates for various reasons, and such knowledge could have various
uses. I couldnt put an exact price on such a thing, of course.
But I do admit that this business with Dr. Odem interests me.

Knowing,
as you must, so little about it, why should it interest you?

Bludd
lowered his feet, assumed a proper position in his seat, and then
leaned forward with a hungry smile on his face. I know only this:
It interests you. And if it interests you, it must indeed be very
interesting.

Are
you formally casting your lot with me then, Major? Destro asked.

Bludd
sat back and folded his arms over his chest. Formally, no. Were
just talking, friendly-like.

Good,
Destro said, a certain steel (not unlike that of his mask) present in
his voice. Because if there was ever a word said about the kind
of conspiracy weve just avoided, formally, Cobra Commander would
possess the heads now sitting on our respective
shoulders. Destro had put that nicely. As it stood now, nothing
was sure, all was possible.

A
series of beeps caught Bludds attention. He pulled the compact
com device from his belt and read the words displayed on the small
screen. Wildcat is on base, he informed Destro. Bludd pushed
a button (one that demanded Wildcat to report to his location
immediately) and hooked the com device back onto his belt. She
will be here presently with her report.

A
few moments of silence passed. Neither man spoke. Bludd spent the
time wondering what fantasies were being played out behind that metal
face sitting across from him. Feeling at a disadvantage for this,
Bludd tuned his face to an amused look in the hope
to inspire Destro to wonder what Bludd was thinking.

The
door opened and Wildcat entered. She was dressed in a blue working
uniform, the Cobra insignia wrapped around the upper part of her
right arm. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back into a bun, and
Bludd noted that she had taken the time to clean herself
up before reporting to him. Shed probably been on base an hour
already. Haughty, this girl. She stood at attention, facing Bludd.
Sir, she acknowledged. This was at least a good move.

Good
girl,
Bludd thought. Let
Destro see your loyalty to me.
She would ignore Destro, focus only on Bludd – her patron – until he
gave her permission to face Destro. I trust your escape went as
planned?

Yes,
sir, she answered.

Give
Destro your report, he said, gesturing toward the other end of the
table.

Wildcat
turned and faced Destro. As ordered by Major Bludd, sir, I
tracked Low-Lights progress after his execution of the decoy.

Destro
cocked his head. Low-Lights progress? What of Scarlett?

After
she was wounded, they fled about four miles, Wildcat explained.
They stopped then and he bandaged her wound… (she left out
the bit about almost being spotted and killed) …and they pressed
on for another mile or two. Scarlett then collapsed.
More details left out. It had been an odd scene. Low-Light shouted
at her to move. Shook her by the shoulders. Slapped her across the
face, more than once. Then he was still for a moment, as still as
she was. He just sat there, staring at her. From
her position, Wildcat was sure that Scarlett was no longer breathing.
In a sudden flash of action, Low-Light thrust his arms under
Scarletts unmoving body, and heaved her over his shoulders,
bounding off again into the darkness. Low-Light carried her
maybe four or five more miles. Recklessly, desperately. He
crashed through the growth like a man possessed by some wild demon.
Or some wild animal. The fierceness of his pace was difficult to
keep up with, and Wildcat had not been shouldering the extra
weight of a person. He over-exerted himself though and also
collapsed. Before he let himself fall into unconsciousness, he
emptied the clip of his sidearm into the air. It had been a signal,
as I realized perhaps ten minutes later when a jeep arrived.
Low-Light and Scarlett were dragged into the jeep by two men, the
driver and a medic. Low-Light was alive, but unconscious. His
ailment was mere exhaustion. I saw him breathing.

Destro
leaned forward. And Scarlett?

Bludd
watched his protege with interest. She beamed with remembered
excitement. The medic was too late. I have no doubt that
Scarlett was already dead.

Destro
tapped his gloved fingers on the table in an even, measured pattern.
It would seem our gambit was a complete success then.

Yes,
sir, Wildcat confirmed.

Destro
waved his hand. That will be all. Dismissed.

She
did not move. Bludd suppressed a smile. She was good. After a
brief moment to let Destro see that his order was ineffectual, Bludd
spoke up. You are dismissed. She turned to leave. Ill
expect a full report when Im done here. One hour, well
say.

She
nodded her understanding and exited. As she closed the door behind
her, images of Low-Light continued to dominate her mind. Why had he
done what he had done? What did he have to gain by carrying what was
probably a corpse for all those miles? Her assessment
of him was defied; he was neither sly animal nor paranoid man. He
was somewhere in between. He was hero. Low-Light the failed hero.
A familiar pang of loneliness emerged in Wildcats chest. She knew
that no one wearing the Cobra insignia would
do for her what Low-Light had done for Scarlett, even (especially!)
if it was an empty effort. She certainly would not do it for someone
else. There was no room for weakness (and, really, wasnt
Low-Lights odd display just weakness? Wasnt it?) in this
army. No room for the sentimental fool. No room for the hero.

Wildcat
clutched at her chest, rubbed her hand in a circle to soothe the
ache, to dispel the weakness. There was no room in her for such a
thing. No room for sentimentality. No room for heroism.