He had a reputation for being a light sleeper. Most people put it down to situational awareness, but the truth was he'd simply always wake up ten or twenty times during the night. Hounded by dreams and memories, he'd never really get into a deep sleep. Recently, it had been worse than usual, and tonight, he barely slept at all. As usual, when it got too much, he'd slip out of bed, a certain sort of mania flooding his body with energy he'd never normally have. Sometimes he'd clean. Sometimes he'd obsessively go over his equipment and sometimes, he'd train.
Tonight was a night for training. How could he possibly not, in the face of what was coming? He dressed quickly and silently and if anyone was woken up by it they had the decency at least not to ask him what the fuck he was doing. Up, dressed and out the door in two and a half minutes, his assault rifle slung in easy reach. Soon enough he was out in the open air, his boots ringing on the metal flooring of the supply strut. It was a cool night, which suited him well. For as much experience as he had with the tropics, he was still Irish and the relentless heat bothered him. Give him cold rain and cloudy skies any day.
He passed a few night guards on his way to one of the many shooting ranges set up on Mother Base, a few greetings passing between them. 'Hello's' and 'Up again's?' with a cheeky 'They should have you on night shift, you daft dog.' thrown in for variety which got an insult hurled back. They knew his quirks and even if they were so green that they didn't, he was Old Guard now. That seemed to count for a lot, even if he personally wished he didn't have to be reminded of the past with every respectful glance from someone new. Surprisingly though, he wasn't the first one there. Sub Commander Miller was running through the range, or rather, hobbling. He couldn't help but hang back and watch.
The clatter of gunfire, the ring of a bullet hitting it's target. He might have lost an arm and leg, but anyone who considered him crippled was a blind fool. He was damned good, even if he was wearing sunglasses at night. As he watched from the shadows, Sub Commander Miller let out a sigh, pausing to reload, having difficulty given that he was doing it one handed. "Come out. I know you're there."
He felt strangely bashful, like he'd been caught seeing something he shouldn't have. Intruding on a quiet moment, but it was far too late to slip away now, so instead he strode out, offering a salute to his superior.
Miller looked up from his now reloaded gun, offering a quick salute of his own. "Wolfhound. Awake again?"
"Awake again, Sir. Old pains." Patrick replied. God, he sounded tired, but Miller just nodded at that. Then again, he'd know better than most, understand better than most, even if he was ten years younger.
"They always seem their worst in the quiet hours." Miller said, before eyeing the assault rifle. "You normally use a LMG, don't you?"
"An ALM48, yeah, but I was practically born with a rifle in hand. Then Assault rifles came into circulation before I hit double digits during WW2. Da brought me home one of the originals, straight from a Nazi's cold dead hands. I grew up with them. Old dogs and new tricks I suppose." He said with a ghost of a smile.
Miller stood back. His hand gripping his cane after holstering his sidearm. "Lets see how good you are, then."
The dance was one he had been learning since he was a child, never standing still, always seeking cover, raining precise shots at every enemy he saw, because he always had to consider himself outnumbered and make every bullet count. He pushed, faster and faster, trying to keep his movements as sharp and smooth as he could and at the end of it, he reloaded, putting the safety on as he slung the weapon again. The silence was heavy, and he expected the response before her got it.
"You've gotten slower." Miller said, though there was no sound of judgement in it.
"I know, three seconds slower." He hated it. He was never cut from the cloth as the FOX types, and God forbid he was compared to The Boss. But he was slowing down. Old injuries, Middle age, even his depression. He had read that it slowed reaction times, maybe he should finally dredge up the courage to go to the medical strut about it, though he hated the idea of it.
The silence stretched on, and he felt a laugh bubbling up. He wished things were different. Every day he wished things were better, that the past had turned out better, but there was only the future, and it seemed so bleak now. Before he knew it, the words were pouring out like a waterfall, things he had never said but which haunted him every night, staring at the ceiling and trying to sleep. "You know, Sub Commander. I knew we were fucked the second we captured the first nukes with no casualties. But then, then Boss did so much more than that, and at that point I knew we were all going to die here. The Americans alone would have crushed us, but all the major powers at once? Huey, that rat bastard, the snake in the grass coming forward to stand trial, confessing even! Everything going right, everything lining up perfectly. I knew it was going to blow up in our faces. But crystal zombies invading from another world... holy fuck, but even I didn't see that one coming. Every time something good has happened in my life, something has taken it away, you know? Every time. This time though, I'm an old, graying Wolfhound, my teeth aren't as sharp, my eyes are duller, the strength of youth is slipping away. But I'm not going down without a fight. The Universe can throw everything it has at me, at us. I don't care. Fuck the Universe, I'm going down swinging. I'm still alive. We're still alive. We're going to save the World."
Patrick looks over to Miller, who has an inscrutable look on his face. Eventually, he nods. "We're not here to suffer."
They looked to the stars, and then to the slowly rising dawn. It might be the last either of them ever see.
rofl:
