Merry Christmas to Aerika! <3
First: Knowing I was going to write this for you made me so happy! You write such an amazing Raiden. I just hope this little piece measures up in quality, and that you like it. It was my first time writing the characters, and I had a lot of fun working the prompt, though I must confess I'm a little nervous too!
I also hope you're having an amazing holiday <3
Title: Anamnesis
Characters: Solidus and Raiden, plus one cameo.
Genre: Gen
Rating: Mostly PG-13, maybe R for disturbing themes.
Wordcount: 1324 words
Jack has come to expect the sharp lightness, the absolute, focused relaxation that comes with every meal. It’s such a strange feeling, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t like it.
His life is an easy, clean-cut one.
The battlefield is all bright lights (explosions), olive shapes (the enemy), and khaki ones (his unit). It should be a noisy place, but all of it sounds muted on his head, and that’s okay. It helps him focus.
So very simple, like the movies he watches every weekend. The action scenes sometimes in slow-mo, bullet time, and he’s learned to dodge and roll and deflect in those eternal, relative seconds. Kind of owes his life to the distortion in his perception.
And it feels so good, too.
Almost like dancing with the Good Girl (he’s come to expect a good girl in the movies, a petite brunette, a girl-next-door kind that somehow landed in the middle of catastrophe and needs to be saved). Jack finds his own rhythm and moves, and shoots.
He sees and breathes red, red, red…
There’s a light sensation on his stomach (euphoria), and his limbs (adrenaline), and there goes the enemy. One less, two, three…
He knows nothing of scientific names, though, if only because his training doesn’t call for it. But Jack knows he’s smart, because being smart means surviving, the smartest thing he can do here is to follow orders, and he’s awfully good at that.
"Don’t disappoint Father," he thinks, and almost like a chant, it helps him find a center, to balance on his own two feet.
"I want Father to be proud."
***
It’s “Commander Sears” for everyone else. Commander George Sears, who looks awfully young for a general. Jack has tried to guess his age before, but he’s no good at that. Settled on thirty-something, and didn’t think more of it.
He can get away with calling him “Father” on his head, if only because he’s been traveling with him since…
Can’t actually remember.
Was there anything else, anyway? He has a fuzzy memory these days. The farthest one he can recall is holding an AK-47, being taught how to dismantle it in a clean, efficient way. Every piece delicate like a clockwork cog.
He had done it right, he remembers.
***
In the drowning heat of midday after battle, back in camp, Father strokes a comb with missing teeth through Jack’s hair.
Water is a scarce good these days, but Commander Sears always makes sure to save at least half a liter to do this, just for Jack.
Father never says "you’re my favorite, Jack."
But Jacks knows it anyway, and savors those moments, sitting quiet and still and naturally relaxed in between the Commander’s legs. Father never does this for any of the other kids in the Small Boys Unit. He asks why, once.
"It’s important," Father had said, made a pause before he continued: "Tell me, Jack. Have you heard what they call you?"
Jack likes the sound of his voice. He wants to sound like that one day.
"The White Devil," he had smiled, showing missing teeth too, from a half-completed dentition. Jack doesn’t know his own age, either, but he does realize he’s younger than at least half the unit he belongs to and the nickname fills him with pride.
"Very well," agreed Father, working the comb through a knot in Jack’s long hair. He tugged at it, hands strong and gentle. "And you’ve earned it."
Once the knot was undone, Father used a drop or two of water and a standard-issue bar of soap to scrub at his hair. He formed a dry, sticky foam to work into his scalp.
"A reputation, Jack," he said, "is a matter of image. And as long as you keep it, you have to earn it every time, in every possible way."
Then he washed out the foam, almost tenderly. As always, it came out dirty brown, the color of dried blood.
Jack’s hair shined white-blond under it.
***
"To the victor go the spoils," that’s the motto. The deeper they go into the mountains, the harder ammo and weaponry are to obtain. They receive crates of supplies with some regularity, but they never last enough.
Albeit not the leader of his unit, Jack usually assumes the role when he’s in scouting duties with other children. He knows how to be fast and silent, and how to lead the others into an enemy encampment in the dark.
Small and almost weightless, they pass unnoticed.
They steal whatever they can, too, and go back to their own camp. And usually the new day finds them leading the whole unit into the same enemy encampment, as fast as the day before, deadly this time and ready to raid the place once every enemy soldier is dead. Like lightning, gunpowder and the sound of fire thundering almost after they’re done.
Not this time, though.
Caught with a long, straight blade at his throat, Jack freezes and wonders if his unit is safe. The man before him has dull dark eyes, deep and merciless, skin bronzed by the Liberian sun, gray hair bleached in contrast.
He gives Jack a long, uninterested glance before lowering his sword. And when Jack doesn’t move, he strikes him with the flat of it on the hip before turning his back to him, by all means unconcerned by his presence.
"Not an enemy camp," the man says, and goes back to his tent.
For all he escaped undamaged, Jack’s pride hurt the worse. He regroups with the other children at their checkpoint, knowing he has to report this back despite the mistake and mark that particular mercenary camp as being on their side.
Commander Sears applies the usual punishment in front of the unit and removes him from scouting duties for a while after hearing the tale, disapproval showing clearly on his face.
Jack goes back to the mercenary camp each night in an attempt to steal the blade as silently as possible, until he just finds it lying outside the strange man’s tent, wrapped in a rough fabric with a string. He’s not sure if it counts as a success, but he takes it anyway.
He teaches himself the basics of the sword training every day with it until he cannot feel the weight of it tensing his shoulder, his wrist; and moving with it is easier than firing a rifle. There’s no finesse in his movements, but they’re fast and effective, and the day he brings it to the battlefield instead of his AK he knows for sure he doesn’t want to use anything else in his life.
He laughs, and moves, and cuts; and it’s just so easy he does this for himself this time.
Jack still can hear the screams calling him "a ripper" after he’s done, but it only adds to the euphoria. The flavor of smoke and gunpowder in the air not at all different of the meal they had eaten hours ago.
After the battle ends, Commander Sears orders the unit to regroup, and calls Jack to the front of their line.
"I'm proud of you," he says, and suddenly he's Father again and fighting on the same side as this man is all Jack has ever wanted. He barely manages to salute in return, and stands by waiting.
Right there by the ruins of the enemy camp, Father gives a short speech before promoting Jack to leader of the Small Boys unit. The youngest leader the unit has had, and there's nothing to restrain Jack from feeling pure, unadulterated joy. From feeling appreciated, and rewarded.
(By his Father, no less.)
Jack doesn't know of anything outside of the battlefield, nor he wishes to.
His life is an easy, clean-cut one.
*-*-*-*-*-*
Thanks to everyone who gave concrit for this one before I dared to post it. You know who you are <33 I'm really grateful, and I feel you helped to greatly improve both the weaker points of this fic and my confidence on it.
I also hope you're having an amazing holiday <3
Title: Anamnesis
Characters: Solidus and Raiden, plus one cameo.
Genre: Gen
Rating: Mostly PG-13, maybe R for disturbing themes.
Wordcount: 1324 words
Jack has come to expect the sharp lightness, the absolute, focused relaxation that comes with every meal. It’s such a strange feeling, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t like it.
His life is an easy, clean-cut one.
The battlefield is all bright lights (explosions), olive shapes (the enemy), and khaki ones (his unit). It should be a noisy place, but all of it sounds muted on his head, and that’s okay. It helps him focus.
So very simple, like the movies he watches every weekend. The action scenes sometimes in slow-mo, bullet time, and he’s learned to dodge and roll and deflect in those eternal, relative seconds. Kind of owes his life to the distortion in his perception.
And it feels so good, too.
Almost like dancing with the Good Girl (he’s come to expect a good girl in the movies, a petite brunette, a girl-next-door kind that somehow landed in the middle of catastrophe and needs to be saved). Jack finds his own rhythm and moves, and shoots.
He sees and breathes red, red, red…
There’s a light sensation on his stomach (euphoria), and his limbs (adrenaline), and there goes the enemy. One less, two, three…
He knows nothing of scientific names, though, if only because his training doesn’t call for it. But Jack knows he’s smart, because being smart means surviving, the smartest thing he can do here is to follow orders, and he’s awfully good at that.
"Don’t disappoint Father," he thinks, and almost like a chant, it helps him find a center, to balance on his own two feet.
"I want Father to be proud."
***
It’s “Commander Sears” for everyone else. Commander George Sears, who looks awfully young for a general. Jack has tried to guess his age before, but he’s no good at that. Settled on thirty-something, and didn’t think more of it.
He can get away with calling him “Father” on his head, if only because he’s been traveling with him since…
Can’t actually remember.
Was there anything else, anyway? He has a fuzzy memory these days. The farthest one he can recall is holding an AK-47, being taught how to dismantle it in a clean, efficient way. Every piece delicate like a clockwork cog.
He had done it right, he remembers.
***
In the drowning heat of midday after battle, back in camp, Father strokes a comb with missing teeth through Jack’s hair.
Water is a scarce good these days, but Commander Sears always makes sure to save at least half a liter to do this, just for Jack.
Father never says "you’re my favorite, Jack."
But Jacks knows it anyway, and savors those moments, sitting quiet and still and naturally relaxed in between the Commander’s legs. Father never does this for any of the other kids in the Small Boys Unit. He asks why, once.
"It’s important," Father had said, made a pause before he continued: "Tell me, Jack. Have you heard what they call you?"
Jack likes the sound of his voice. He wants to sound like that one day.
"The White Devil," he had smiled, showing missing teeth too, from a half-completed dentition. Jack doesn’t know his own age, either, but he does realize he’s younger than at least half the unit he belongs to and the nickname fills him with pride.
"Very well," agreed Father, working the comb through a knot in Jack’s long hair. He tugged at it, hands strong and gentle. "And you’ve earned it."
Once the knot was undone, Father used a drop or two of water and a standard-issue bar of soap to scrub at his hair. He formed a dry, sticky foam to work into his scalp.
"A reputation, Jack," he said, "is a matter of image. And as long as you keep it, you have to earn it every time, in every possible way."
Then he washed out the foam, almost tenderly. As always, it came out dirty brown, the color of dried blood.
Jack’s hair shined white-blond under it.
***
"To the victor go the spoils," that’s the motto. The deeper they go into the mountains, the harder ammo and weaponry are to obtain. They receive crates of supplies with some regularity, but they never last enough.
Albeit not the leader of his unit, Jack usually assumes the role when he’s in scouting duties with other children. He knows how to be fast and silent, and how to lead the others into an enemy encampment in the dark.
Small and almost weightless, they pass unnoticed.
They steal whatever they can, too, and go back to their own camp. And usually the new day finds them leading the whole unit into the same enemy encampment, as fast as the day before, deadly this time and ready to raid the place once every enemy soldier is dead. Like lightning, gunpowder and the sound of fire thundering almost after they’re done.
Not this time, though.
Caught with a long, straight blade at his throat, Jack freezes and wonders if his unit is safe. The man before him has dull dark eyes, deep and merciless, skin bronzed by the Liberian sun, gray hair bleached in contrast.
He gives Jack a long, uninterested glance before lowering his sword. And when Jack doesn’t move, he strikes him with the flat of it on the hip before turning his back to him, by all means unconcerned by his presence.
"Not an enemy camp," the man says, and goes back to his tent.
For all he escaped undamaged, Jack’s pride hurt the worse. He regroups with the other children at their checkpoint, knowing he has to report this back despite the mistake and mark that particular mercenary camp as being on their side.
Commander Sears applies the usual punishment in front of the unit and removes him from scouting duties for a while after hearing the tale, disapproval showing clearly on his face.
Jack goes back to the mercenary camp each night in an attempt to steal the blade as silently as possible, until he just finds it lying outside the strange man’s tent, wrapped in a rough fabric with a string. He’s not sure if it counts as a success, but he takes it anyway.
He teaches himself the basics of the sword training every day with it until he cannot feel the weight of it tensing his shoulder, his wrist; and moving with it is easier than firing a rifle. There’s no finesse in his movements, but they’re fast and effective, and the day he brings it to the battlefield instead of his AK he knows for sure he doesn’t want to use anything else in his life.
He laughs, and moves, and cuts; and it’s just so easy he does this for himself this time.
Jack still can hear the screams calling him "a ripper" after he’s done, but it only adds to the euphoria. The flavor of smoke and gunpowder in the air not at all different of the meal they had eaten hours ago.
After the battle ends, Commander Sears orders the unit to regroup, and calls Jack to the front of their line.
"I'm proud of you," he says, and suddenly he's Father again and fighting on the same side as this man is all Jack has ever wanted. He barely manages to salute in return, and stands by waiting.
Right there by the ruins of the enemy camp, Father gives a short speech before promoting Jack to leader of the Small Boys unit. The youngest leader the unit has had, and there's nothing to restrain Jack from feeling pure, unadulterated joy. From feeling appreciated, and rewarded.
(By his Father, no less.)
Jack doesn't know of anything outside of the battlefield, nor he wishes to.
His life is an easy, clean-cut one.
*-*-*-*-*-*
Thanks to everyone who gave concrit for this one before I dared to post it. You know who you are <33 I'm really grateful, and I feel you helped to greatly improve both the weaker points of this fic and my confidence on it.