The 47th

[Tonic]

Peto brought his wrapped hand to his forehead, moving it to wipe the moisture collecting within the crevices of his forehead as he stared parallel to the hanged battle mat.  The mat, first used by one of the prior Lieutenants upon the 47th's arrival on Scarvis, had seen continuous use and revision over the months that he had been stationed on here.  Peto muttered a curse as a brushed bead of sweat landed on the parchment, resulting in an inked line to blur.  "Damned Privates using cheap ink",  he sneered, before an audible chirp echoes out from behind, the source of which centered on his desk by the entrance to the elongated, lean-to cabin.

 

A sharp click from the throwing of a stationary radio's switch is followed by the man's practiced and ritualistic posturing, "47th.  Major Agamemnon.  Be concise."

 

A feminine voice spoken through a stretched smile echoes about the cabin, obfuscated at the cabin's entrance by only the continuously buffeted lead-lined curtain. "Greetings, Major Agamemnon.  My office has been so cold without your presence... may-haps you should do something to fix this."  The Major replies in kind, "Hell hath truly frozen over, it seems."  Peto could envision the woman's smile growing wider, and could even hear the first strained syllable of her retort being formed, only to be cut off by a curtain being thrown open to make way for a figure coated in dark matted sand with boot tracks of crimson sand following his path.

 

The Lieutenant speaks, "Major.  Repo--", "LIEUTENANT!"  The Major's reddened face drops a hue almost as quickly as it rose, "Manners."  The younger figure assumed a lesser posture and presented himself in apology.  The disembodied voice sang out for the Major's attention, "Major, his report can wait.  What I have to say cannot."  Major Agamemnon frowned deeply while gesturing to the Lieutenant to pull up a chair.  The Major then sets his focus back towards the source of the woman's voice once more.

 

"What does the damned Fox have to say, this time?"

 

 

---

 

 

A metallic coffee mug flew across the cabin before impacting against a wall, resulting in a new dent joining the others.  Major Agamemnon turned to Lieutenant Dennis and swore, "Going to have a pelt by the time I retire, I swear on it!  The last thing we need is to give more bodies to these sands... yet the spooks just give us more bodies to throw away -- new bodies that will turn around and bury us, no less!"  The Lieutenant chimes in, vying to subdue the Major's temper, "Sir.  These men and women coming to join us... They're experienced.  They've been through the thick of it -- they'll easily--", the Major cuts in, "-- easily undermine our authority through their own heroic deeds brought about by past actions from passed men!  Men and women living in the waning glory of the real heroes they dare claim to follow after!  You and I have heard the same broadcasts, received the same notices from SICON-- Make no mistake... These newcomers are going to drown you in false pretenses and stolen valor.  And we will lose our chance at keeping our word to those who have not returned home."

 

Lieutenant Dennis had learned to stop holding his own ground when the Major had this level of determination and conviction in his voice.  The Major always spoke so confidently, ready to stake everything on his own word.  It was as admirable as it was unnerving, to always be willing to put so much value in words.  Dennis spoke softly, "Sir.  Captain Malik.  She died in the ambush."

 

The Major looked to his Lieutenant and nodded, speaking softly to match the gravity that the situation demanded of him.  "You and Jax did everything you could, I'm told."  He approached the Lieutenant with ginger footfalls before placing his hands upon the Lieutenant's shoulders, resting on his patches.  They had yet to fray.

 

The Lieutenant muttered, "But it wasn't enough."

 

The Major replied, "It never is."

 

The sound of velcro being torn can be heard over the howls of the burgeoning dust storm.