fic ❀ if there's no war outside our heads
There's nothing unusual to Sam about finding himself in the midst of a war; it's almost as if he's unknowingly drawn straight into the chaos, and with how often they seem to happen, he's hardly surprised by it now. He doesn't like them, certainly, but he knows humanity well enough to also know that they won't stop. Fighting is a natural instinct - when fight or flight kicks in on such a big scale, flight is either impossible, or unbelievably worse than fight. Pride and patriotism cause a lot of problems.
He ends up in the dead-centre of Vietnam with the sound of gunfire and the whistle of bombs in his ears, the roar of helicopters overhead. Not wanting to be caught up in the middle of a battlefield, he quickly manoeuvres his way out of the jungle to somewhere safer - a nearby village.
It's still in disarray, but he's not surrounded by bullets flying through the air, here; there are some wounded men, Vietnamese, trying to recover their strength so that they can plunge back into the fray.
That's not an unusual sight. What is, however, is the teenage girl marching around; unlike the other girls, who are tending to the wounded, bringing what water and food they can, this girl is dressed in full military garb, guns and knives hanging from her belt, ammunition strapped around her chest, a rifle slung over her back. She's barking orders at the men, all listening to her intently, and Sam watches her move around the soldiers with a strange stride; light and soundless, graceful - but purposeful, proud and determined.
In fact, as he looks at her longer, he realises that almost everything about her is strange. The first thing he locks onto is her injuries, which are out-of-place; this obviously isn't an area that has been hit with napalm, and none of the other soldiers have any burns, but the girl's entire right side is covered with serious-looking burns. Her left side is still wounded, but it pales in comparison to the other.
Once she's finished instructing the men, she approaches the tent he is seated outside of, and stops short when they lock eyes.
Her hand goes to a semi-automatic pistol at her hip.
"Who are you?" she asks, speaking Vietnamese. Her voice is hoarse, no doubt from the transition between disuse in battle and shouting orders outside of it, but there's a melodic tone beneath it that would be pleasant without the scratchiness. "You aren't one of my men."
He listens to her words and hums thoughtfully. "I'm just passing through," he says, responding in the same language - he makes sure to use the North Vietnamese dialect. "I mean you no harm, I promise. I won't get in the way, and I'll be out of your hair very shortly."
She's obviously still suspicious, but she nods stiffly and starts taking off her various weapons. She slips off her military jacket, nothing but a low-cut white singlet underneath, and waits patiently while some of the girls bustle about getting bandages and water.
Sam doesn't outright stare at her (he has a better sense of survival than that), but he glances at her out of the corner of his eye, inspecting the bizarre burn marks on her right side, and he notices a large scar that runs straight down the middle of her chest, disappearing under her singlet top. It looks fresh.
He looks away politely as she goes about cleaning wounds, wrapping them in bandages that aren't quite new, and lightly, he asks, "What are you fighting for?"
There's a pause, but then the girl goes back to washing her burns, and he accepts that he probably won't get an answer.
"Rights."
His lips curl into a tiny smile. "Oh?"
There is no uncertainty or hesitation in her voice when she speaks again. "Right now... To get America out of my country."
Sam looks over to her, and they lock eyes. He's hit with something - strange but not quite unfamiliar. He can recall getting this sensation from a number of people before, people he's encountered in various parts of the world over time. An energetic blonde child in the outback of Australia, a boisterous young man from America, a cold and broken girl up near Russia, a quiet and reserved Asian boy as he passed through Japan. When he looks at this girl, he thinks of rivers and farmland, melodies and folklore, dragons and tigers and rain. It's somehow a powerful feeling.
Her eyes make her look dangerous, he thinks vaguely. "And the rest of the time?"
She looks away. "It's complicated," she says. And then, "I don't know." Her hand is over the scar on her chest.
The second sentence she says is in a different dialect. South Vietnamese. It's less harsh, a softer voice. Sam can't help smiling, a little bemused, almost. There are many strange things about this girl.
With her open wounds washed out and bandages wrapped around only the most serious ones, she stands and puts her jacket back on. She gathers weapons, clips them wherever she can on herself, disassembles and reassembles her guns to check for flaws, reloads ammunition and there, with a rifle in-hand, she's ready to go, and her men are ready to follow.
"Where are you going?" Sam asks, still sitting behind her while she watches the men clear out of the area, march off into battle.
"I have to go back," she tells him, and glances back at him over her shoulder. "My men won't stand alone. I have to fight America." It happens again, a bizarre flicker; for a moment, she is ruthless, furious, proud and determined, she is an entire nation scorned and betrayed and she is out for blood - but then, for a split second, she is sad, regretful, mournful, broken kindness and with no desire to fight. Something peaceful, gentle and wistful that is overpowered by the raging soldier.
"Could you tell me your name?"
She turns away once more, and there is strength and pride in her stance, but there is melancholy and softness in the way she speaks. Both of the two sides.
"Việt Nam."
Of course. There's really only one thing he can say to her, now, so he smiles warmly and says, "I see. Chúc may mắn, Vietnam."
Good luck.
She nods, but she doesn't look back, and she goes off after her men with that purpose and absolute drive in her posture and stride, a proud and old country and her strong children - even as a country that is torn in half, and a girl that is barely holding herself together.
He ends up in the dead-centre of Vietnam with the sound of gunfire and the whistle of bombs in his ears, the roar of helicopters overhead. Not wanting to be caught up in the middle of a battlefield, he quickly manoeuvres his way out of the jungle to somewhere safer - a nearby village.
It's still in disarray, but he's not surrounded by bullets flying through the air, here; there are some wounded men, Vietnamese, trying to recover their strength so that they can plunge back into the fray.
That's not an unusual sight. What is, however, is the teenage girl marching around; unlike the other girls, who are tending to the wounded, bringing what water and food they can, this girl is dressed in full military garb, guns and knives hanging from her belt, ammunition strapped around her chest, a rifle slung over her back. She's barking orders at the men, all listening to her intently, and Sam watches her move around the soldiers with a strange stride; light and soundless, graceful - but purposeful, proud and determined.
In fact, as he looks at her longer, he realises that almost everything about her is strange. The first thing he locks onto is her injuries, which are out-of-place; this obviously isn't an area that has been hit with napalm, and none of the other soldiers have any burns, but the girl's entire right side is covered with serious-looking burns. Her left side is still wounded, but it pales in comparison to the other.
Once she's finished instructing the men, she approaches the tent he is seated outside of, and stops short when they lock eyes.
Her hand goes to a semi-automatic pistol at her hip.
"Who are you?" she asks, speaking Vietnamese. Her voice is hoarse, no doubt from the transition between disuse in battle and shouting orders outside of it, but there's a melodic tone beneath it that would be pleasant without the scratchiness. "You aren't one of my men."
He listens to her words and hums thoughtfully. "I'm just passing through," he says, responding in the same language - he makes sure to use the North Vietnamese dialect. "I mean you no harm, I promise. I won't get in the way, and I'll be out of your hair very shortly."
She's obviously still suspicious, but she nods stiffly and starts taking off her various weapons. She slips off her military jacket, nothing but a low-cut white singlet underneath, and waits patiently while some of the girls bustle about getting bandages and water.
Sam doesn't outright stare at her (he has a better sense of survival than that), but he glances at her out of the corner of his eye, inspecting the bizarre burn marks on her right side, and he notices a large scar that runs straight down the middle of her chest, disappearing under her singlet top. It looks fresh.
He looks away politely as she goes about cleaning wounds, wrapping them in bandages that aren't quite new, and lightly, he asks, "What are you fighting for?"
There's a pause, but then the girl goes back to washing her burns, and he accepts that he probably won't get an answer.
"Rights."
His lips curl into a tiny smile. "Oh?"
There is no uncertainty or hesitation in her voice when she speaks again. "Right now... To get America out of my country."
Sam looks over to her, and they lock eyes. He's hit with something - strange but not quite unfamiliar. He can recall getting this sensation from a number of people before, people he's encountered in various parts of the world over time. An energetic blonde child in the outback of Australia, a boisterous young man from America, a cold and broken girl up near Russia, a quiet and reserved Asian boy as he passed through Japan. When he looks at this girl, he thinks of rivers and farmland, melodies and folklore, dragons and tigers and rain. It's somehow a powerful feeling.
Her eyes make her look dangerous, he thinks vaguely. "And the rest of the time?"
She looks away. "It's complicated," she says. And then, "I don't know." Her hand is over the scar on her chest.
The second sentence she says is in a different dialect. South Vietnamese. It's less harsh, a softer voice. Sam can't help smiling, a little bemused, almost. There are many strange things about this girl.
With her open wounds washed out and bandages wrapped around only the most serious ones, she stands and puts her jacket back on. She gathers weapons, clips them wherever she can on herself, disassembles and reassembles her guns to check for flaws, reloads ammunition and there, with a rifle in-hand, she's ready to go, and her men are ready to follow.
"Where are you going?" Sam asks, still sitting behind her while she watches the men clear out of the area, march off into battle.
"I have to go back," she tells him, and glances back at him over her shoulder. "My men won't stand alone. I have to fight America." It happens again, a bizarre flicker; for a moment, she is ruthless, furious, proud and determined, she is an entire nation scorned and betrayed and she is out for blood - but then, for a split second, she is sad, regretful, mournful, broken kindness and with no desire to fight. Something peaceful, gentle and wistful that is overpowered by the raging soldier.
"Could you tell me your name?"
She turns away once more, and there is strength and pride in her stance, but there is melancholy and softness in the way she speaks. Both of the two sides.
"Việt Nam."
Of course. There's really only one thing he can say to her, now, so he smiles warmly and says, "I see. Chúc may mắn, Vietnam."
Good luck.
She nods, but she doesn't look back, and she goes off after her men with that purpose and absolute drive in her posture and stride, a proud and old country and her strong children - even as a country that is torn in half, and a girl that is barely holding herself together.