Reapers: The Shadow Soldiers

by Josh Collins

  Even though he began to feel a little vulnerable in a place like this, Burns knew Dominion Intelligence would have a hell of a time trying to track him. If he even survived the night.

  Moving forward down the hall, Burns heard all sorts of different languages, each from a different planet beyond the Dominion’s borders. The apartments seemed to be a melting pot of diversity. It was just too bad that it was also a melting pot of depravity.

  Passing a hefty old man slumped down in the middle of the hall, Burns noticed a bottle of half-drunk clear booze lying limply in his open hand. The man looked like he had little life left, so Burns took the liberty of stealing the booze for himself.

  Popping off the cap and taking a sip, he smacked his mouth to figure out the taste. As he figured, it was cheap rum. Still, it would do the trick.

  Moving on again down the hall, he found a door that looked like its hinges were still intact. He knocked first, making sure no one was home. He received no response, which either meant it was vacant or the occupants were dead. Both were a plausibility in this place. Seeing as the door was locked and he had no key code, Burns decided he would have to bust in. It would damage the door and prevent it from being locked again, but that’s nothing a repositioned article of furniture couldn’t fix.

  Backing up slightly, Burns aimed for the area next to the deadbolt and drove the heel of his foot squarely into it. The wooden frame of the door was made of poor, rotten material, so it only took this one shot and the door was sent flying open. Making his way into the newly available quarters, Burns lightly shut the door behind him and then moved in to clear the room.

  The good news was that it had no current occupants, dead or otherwise. The bad news was that it was about as comforting as the rest of the building. It had one room for the bed and then a wall down the middle, which the bathroom sat behind. However, this wall had a giant hole in it. So, bathroom privacy wasn’t something to be had.

  The bed itself looked flat and full of stains. It sat in front of an empty desk that seemed to have once supported a television, but that was probably stolen years ago.

  The tattered drapes hanging in front of the window were parted, which gave a nice view of the markets below. Fearing people could see in though, Burns opted to close them. He then threw the clear bottle of booze onto the bed and got to shifting furniture in front of the door. After that was complete, he turned back and made his way to the grungy bed.

  Removing his black coat and throwing it onto the floor, he collapsed onto the unforgiving mattress and got positioned comfortably. He then grabbed the clear rum lying next to him and took another gulp.

  It’d been a long day and despite his best efforts, it seemed like it was going to end the way the previous did—with a bottle of booze and a head full of regrets.

  REGRETS

  Burns lay in the darkness, sipping on the rum, but sleep continued to elude him. All he could do was reminisce about the days of old. Of Evelyn. He really wished she were here.

  His stomach then began to feel like it was being twisted and wrung out.

  He sat up, putting his legs over the side of the bed as he coughed. He knew the outburst was caused by the rum, but he drank more anyway. He swished the liquid around in his mouth a little and then spat it out onto the carpet below.

  Not feeling much better, he put the bottle onto the floor and placed his head into the palms of his hands, letting his long hair cascade over them. Nearly a whole day and he still felt horrible. He always felt horrible.

  Sitting up, he removed the portrait from his pocket and looked down at it. This woman, Evelyn: he had truly loved her once. Not only because of her fiery-red hair or because of her quiet way of doing things, but also because of what she had done for him. She had saved him. She gave him a second chance, and all he had to show for it was violence and cheap booze.

  He let the photo fall onto his lap as he closed his eyes and put his head in his palms again. This wasn’t what he wanted. He would’ve rather just been left to die.

  He then felt something roll out of his pocket. Casually, he glanced down toward the bed to see what it was. To his surprise, it was the vial of pills. He must have accidentally pocketed them after he verified the pallet. He knew they were dangerous, but they seemed innocent enough. However, as he continued to look at them, bad thoughts entered his head—thoughts Evelyn wouldn’t have liked him thinking. It wasn’t up to her though.

  What kind of life was spent hiding in the shadows during the day and drinking away sorrows at night? His second chance was meaningless; he’d done more harm than good. He’d always tried to be righteous, and now this was the righteous thing to do. He figured if he kept up his drinking, it would happen sooner or later anyway. Expediting the process would only make things easier, with less suffering. She would have wanted that.

  “Three hours,” he said out loud to himself. That’s all it would take, that’s how lethal Flenin was. He’d only need to survive another three hours of the memories before everything was better. No more regret, no more anger, and no more of Dominion Intelligence.

  He reached down and grabbed the vial, bringing it forward and looking upon it. His hand began to tremble, causing the pills inside the vial to jitter around. He scoffed. After everything he had done—he was afraid? His heart started to fill with the all too familiar burn of rage, this time at himself.

  How could I so easily take the lives of others, but when it comes to my own...I hesitate? he silently wondered. He knew the answer already though. He was a coward. He’d tried to convince himself that he wasn’t, but deep down he knew that he was. It was why he no longer had her, and it was why he ended every night with a bottle of booze instead of just ending it on the spot. His fear had caused him so much pain, and it was time it all ended.

  Clenching his jaw, he grabbed the rum off the floor and sucked down the last gulps. He then slammed the empty bottle on the nightstand and popped open the pills. No more stalling—this was it.

  He pulled the picture up. His eyes looked upon the careful lips of hers that always managed to whisper, in soft tones, little bits of hope. He needed that right now; he needed her to tell him it would be alright. But she wasn’t here. He was alone in the room with the sounds of death and destitution echoing around him.

  Tears began to run down in full force. He regretted everything that had happened to her and that he’d failed to protect her. She was better than the rest of the people in the galaxy, and she was a hell of a lot better than himself. He wondered if she would have even bothered to save the man he’d become now.

  He then began to feel weak. Pushing through it, he tried to pull back his head and take the pills, but this only made him feel fuzzier. He then collapsed backward onto the bed, letting the medicine spill out of the vial and fall chaotically onto the floor. The rum had finally gotten to him, and he passed out.

  For a while, it was nothing but peace in his mind. Utter blackness and silence. Then the world began to turn blood red and the stark-white ceiling of a makeshift medic tent began to appear.

  People with masks and white coats suddenly tore into his body, removing bits and pieces and then sewing him up. He felt every slice of the scalpel and every turn of the needle as he was being unmade and then put back together. He writhed in pain and tried to push the faceless people away, but they only came back. One even grabbed his head and forced him down. He struggled against them.

  “What are you doing to me?” he screamed out. One of the masked people responded in a soft but toneless voice that sounded eerily similar to Evelyn’s.

  “We’re fixing you. You’ve had an accident,” they said. He shook his head violently, shaking them off for a second.

  “No! It’s too much! Let me die, just let me die!” he pleaded desperately to them. They wouldn’t stop.

  The pain continued to sear through his body, and the world had become completely red. He struggled some more but couldn’t get free. The pain reached an all-tim
e high as he screamed for mercy. The shriek broke the nightmare and jarred him awake.

  He sat up rapidly onto the side of the stained bed. Breathing harder than he ever had, he tried to shake off the shivers up his spine.

  He looked down at the picture again as he attempted to forget the nightmare. It was to no avail. He still had an eerie feeling about him, like it had come out and was crawling around inside the darkened room.

  Perhaps it would be a lot easier to shake had it only been a dream, but the majority of it was real. Those memories had all but been blacked out in his mind, but the events of late had caused everything to come flowing forward.

  Burns swallowed deeply and then looked toward the nightstand for the safety of the rum. A tall bottle filled with a velvet liquid sat in its place. It hadn’t been opened.

  Shifting off the bed, Burns stepped over to read the label. He suddenly got shivers again. This was a rare, fifteen-thousand dollar bottle of wine. He then noticed the shadow of a man suddenly cascade over him and onto the wall in front. He grimaced. It must be one of his junkie neighbors. They would be sorry.

  He grasped the head of the wine bottle and then quickly whirled around, swinging it toward the junkie’s head. However, the man had good reflexes and blocked his strike. He then threw a painful jab at Burns’ stomach. He gagged as the junkie grabbed his shoulders and threw him colliding back onto the bed.

  Burns writhed around on the mattress, trying to get in a better position to counter a further strike. However, one never came.

  “Morning,” the man said in a familiar accent. Burns sat up to see that the intruder was Control.

  “Control? How did—”

  “I find you? Mr. Burns, I never lost you,” the thin man in black said as Burns shifted off the mattress and stood up decisively in front of him.

  “I thought I told you to leave me alone?” he growled.

  “I thought I told you I was persistent?” Control refuted, causing Burns to scoff and look away.

  “I’m useless to you anyway,” he murmured.

  “Oh, really?” Control snickered as he bent down to pick up the bottle of wine Burns had previously tried to bludgeon him with. “What’s so useless about a man who covers his tracks so well that highly trained government operatives have to sweat to find him?” he asked as he popped open the wine bottle and poured its velvet liquid into glasses he seemed to have brought with him. “I’d say that is the kind of man I need.”

  Burns didn’t respond as the man handed him one of the glasses. That same anger began to boil his heart again, only this time at Control. All he wanted to do was get better. After all the strength it took to admit that he had problems and that he would talk to Lagona, it was frustrating that Intelligence intervened. He didn’t want this—he didn’t want the pills—but Intelligence had worked him up into a lather. Why did they think they could just shift people around like pieces on a chessboard?

  Control took a sip of the wine and then motioned to Burns. “Go ahead, try some. It’s a bit gaudy, I admit, but I’ve never felt comfortable negotiating while drinking cheap alcohol. We’re gentleman, not pirates,” he stated, taking another sip of the wine.

  Burns grimaced again as he threw his glass aside and charged at Control, pinning his elbow on the man’s neck and slamming him against the wall.

  “You have no right to meddle in my affairs!” he shouted, face only inches from Control’s.

  “No right?” Control repeated. “Thousands of people on Silverset need a savior…a hero. I have more than a right to meddle—I have the responsibility!”

  “A hero? I’m no hero,” Burns quickly renounced. “I’m a failure! I’m weak! I can’t save anyone! I couldn’t even save her!” he screamed painfully.

  “Forget the past!” Control yelled back, momentarily losing some of his tactful composure. Realizing his mistake, he took a moment and regained his cool. He then spoke again. “I’ve been watching you, Mr. Burns. You may be a lot of things, but weak isn’t one of them. In a galaxy full of apathetic people, you have found a way to care. I believe there are a number of veterans that would be thankful you cared enough to intervene in that Flenin business. So, maybe you think you’re weak, but I’ve known a lot of weak men. You and them are different. You have grief, but grief is not a sign of weakness. Grief is the price of love, of caring.” Burns tried to find something to say in response, but no words came to mind. It’d been a long night. He dropped Control and slowly stepped back, looking to the ground at the portrait to sort through his feelings.

  “I’ve had this conversation before,” he grumbled. “You’re trying to lower my defenses, trying to lure me in!” he shouted.

  Control continued speaking calmly. “I understand your apprehensions, but I assure you this mission is nothing like those of your past. What I’m offering you here may be complicated, and it may not be what you had planned, but it’s truly in your best interest. What you need more than anything, more than pills and more than whiskey, Mr. Burns, is hope. Belief that everything will be okay.” Burns still looked away from Control’s gaze. He didn’t want to get involved, and he didn’t want to have to deal with the mess that this would create.

  Looking back down at the bed though, with its displaced sheets and repugnant stains, he began to feel poor again.

  Who was he kidding? You can’t make a mess of something that is already spilled. This life here was nothing, and if Control thought he was someone important, then who was he to decline? The truth was, besides Lagona, Control was just about the only person in the past few years who cared enough about Burns to talk to him—let alone get to know his name. Despite his position and what he was asking of Burns, it was reassuring.

  “I’ll go,” Burns blurted suddenly. “I’ll do the mission. Whatever it is you have lined up, I’ll do it,” he ensured. Control gained a pleased smile.

  “Excellent,” he assured. “I promise you, this is the right thing to do. We depart tomorrow, so you had better get some rest and finish off that bottle of wine. It’ll be the last drink you have for quite some time.”

  Burns looked back at the tall, velvet bottle sitting on the nightstand. He felt like he owed the man a drink, but when he looked back up to offer an invitation, he was gone.

  Burns shook his head. It was typical. When you didn’t want Control around, he persisted, yet when you wanted to make amends, he disappeared.

  Stepping over the pills strewn on the ground, Burns decided to take Control’s advice and finish off the expensive wine. At around the third or fourth glass, he passed out cold again. Only this time, his sleep was filled with nothing but peace.

  FRACTURED PAST: PART I

  Medical Camp 23, Fort Hermara, Mardius, 20 years and 4 standard months prior

  Her carrot-colored hair draped over her head like a wildfire. As she redressed his wounds, her careful face was fixed in a concentrated position. The wounds still hurt, so much so that he could barely move, but having her made everything feel okay. It didn’t matter that the medical tent was patchy and dripped with rain, it didn’t matter that the air was filled with the screams of dying men, and it didn’t even matter that the seconds were filled with an unbearable pain. None of those things mattered because he had her.

  Through his naive and young eyes, Ben Burns thought he could take on the galaxy. He failed to recount how easy it was to become unimportant. After being shot up and left for dead, no one thought he’d pull through. No one but a medic named Evelyn Wescott. She was there for him when he needed someone to be.

  It wasn’t without cost. When your commanding officer calls it, and you disagree, especially when your squad is taking fire, it usually ends in court-martial. However, the Major had yet to sentence her. He was a friend of Burns’ illustrious father, and he decided it best if she was assigned to help the young man recover before any punishment was given.

  It would be a long journey—he was in bad shape—but she gladly took it with him. He couldn’
t quite muscle through the pain long enough to say thanks, but he figured she knew how he felt.

  As she continued to redress the wounds on his bare chest, Burns moved his eyes down to get a glance at the wound. He could feel it burning profusely, but he’d never actually gotten a look at it.

  His imagination painted an ugly picture. He’d taken three rifle rounds to the chest. He didn’t exactly know how she revived him, but she had to have done some digging. One thing was for sure: it would definitely leave a mark. Despite his best efforts, he still couldn’t see the injuries completely.

  Unintentionally, these attempts at a glance caused him to notice that a man had entered the tent. Seconds later, Evelyn heard his boots crunch on a few rocks scattered about the ground, and, thinking it was the guard coming to retrieve her, finished redressing Burns’ wounds as best she could. She then stood upright, straightening out her white holding-cell fatigues.

  Only this man wasn’t the guard. Burns didn’t actually know who he was. He wore the same standard issue gray tactical pants as Burns, but his chest was covered only by body armor. He had a dark face, black goatee, and his head was completely shaved. Evelyn realized this and relaxed.

  “Ah, Jonathon Gambi,” she said, seeming to know the man. The man silently greeted her as he approached them.

  “Forgive my intrusion,” he wished, speaking in a thick accent. Burns assumed he was one of the Mardians who’d remained loyal to his government after they decided to join the Dominion. “I do not wish to badger a sick man, but I must ask some questions about the ambush,” the man explained. Burns nodded compliantly back to him as he painfully tried to sit upright. Eve instinctively grabbed his shoulders as he struggled. Her hands were cold on his bare skin.

  “What is it?” she asked, covering for Burns on account of his collapsed lung.