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Don't drag me out if I go down
IP: 71.216.41.214
Posted on May 26, 2019 at 04:10:37 AM by Mace

Warning: Language, weapons



Mace


In rare moments of stillness, Mace remembered that his life used to be boring.

He’d seen combat, of course, in that past that felt so far away it may as well have been another life. He’d deployed enough times for that. But with the exception of magic, his service in the US military and the Alliance had been basically the same – long months spent far from home, dodging occasional enemy fire and writing endless reports. Logging every mundane detail. Guard rotations. Training.

But ever since he’d lain eyes on Morgana, everything had changed. Mace couldn’t say whether it was because of circumstance, or because everything had higher stakes, now. Whatever the reason, nothing was boring anymore, for better or for worse. Today, it was for worse.

The highs were so high, and these lows…

He tucked his dogtags into his shirt, heavier now that they were interspersed with wedding bands, and scanned the canopy for whatever dark omen was lurking at the edge of his awareness. Even with his heart lighter than it had ever been, Mace had soldier’s instincts – and the forest was too quiet, too still. Something was wrong, and he couldn’t help but feel they’d somehow caused it. Their love, in defiance of everything that was happening, demanded some kind of payment.

But this…this was too much, surely. His face paled as Kraar landed heavily on a branch above, obviously winded by a desperate flight through the trees. Mordred was coming? Now? Internally, he calculated the distance he would have to travel to make it to the camp in time. How long did they have?

The raven did not have human expressions, but his voice and posture said enough: they were out of time.

Mace didn’t reply. He broke into an immediate sprint, relying on familiarity and instinct and sheer adrenaline to point him in the right direction. The woods were deadly silent as he ran, roots gently receding before his racing feet, heavy branches lifting away – the only sounds were his harsh breathing and the blood pounding in his ears. Whatever had been his sprinting record before, he was going to break it, today.

Or he would have, if his attention were not divided by whoever was pursuing him. Shit. They ran in tandem for a while, and Mace wrestled with the question of whether or not he should make for the camp first, or deal with this adversary. Was he unwittingly leading Mordred’s men to camp? Had he planted that seed, pretended to know, specifically because Mace would undoubtedly race to intervene?

He skidded to a halt with a frustrated growl, drawing the sidearm he’d picked up before leaving Earth. But when he whirled on her, raising the .45 to point at her forehead, he was briefly stunned into inaction by her shout.

“God damnit,” he hissed. What was this Alliance timing? They wanted to arrest him now? Couldn’t it wait? And he’d almost wasted precious rounds on her! He lowered his weapon but kept both hands on it, scanning the surrounding forest while she approached. She was well-trained, professional; she’d probably read him his rights before insisting he “come with her quietly.” He was ready to tell her where she could put her orders when she said something utterly baffling, instead. Mace blinked, fixed her with a hard look. He had seconds to make a decision.

On the one hand, he didn’t know her. On the other, she was armed, presumably knew how to use them, and seemed cooperative enough.

“Come on, then,” he said, turning back toward camp and resuming a rapid pace. He kept his gun drawn, and filled her in with stilted phrases between ragged breaths: “Mordred’s men coming.” Breath. “Raid.” Breath. “Mostly kids in the resistance.” Breath. “It’s gunna be bloody.”

Gods, if they didn’t get there on time.

“Alliance doesn’t normally pick sides. Why are you?”




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