-a t h o s-

Alan sat up, looked at the girl, then at Sion, then back at Helena. Not afraid to die, eh? This delicate looking, fidgety young girl had chosen the right place to get a sandwich. She certainly spoke like she belonged there. Helena was a girl from the circle, yet she looked ready for a fight, and she spoke like she had nothing to lose. She answered the questions of rough strangers with blunt honesty and without a stutter. Alan was vividly reminded of himself. He wondered if Sion thought the same.

As far Alan could tell, XIII was a good place for her, and that weighed on his heart. Sitting before him was lost innocence, no doubt, probably stolen by the war he was fighting, the one they were all fighting. What forces a daughter of the inner circle out to the ring to fight and die with the rest? The sins of her father.

"You lost everything, didn't you?"

Alan could have answered the girl in a several ways. He could have explained to her what freedom meant to him. He could have told her about his lost friends and relatives. He could have delivered a speech focused on the suffering he saw everyday in the ring, and he could have confessed to how good he was at hurting the people that caused that suffering. But, instead he chose to say: "Grass."

To clarify, he said: "Ms. Helena, I want grass. I've never seen grass, or felt grass, or tasted grass. But I've heard the stories, and I want it." The Musketeer studied Helena for a reaction. How do I sound to you? Insane or alive?

"Ragnarok prevents me from having it. That is why I'm here. I kill for grass.", he stated plainly. Though, if Alan was being honest, he would have admitted that grass was just one of the many things he killed for.

Now fully conscious, Alan stood up and gave himself a thorough gear check. He felt for his kopis at his hip (It hadn't gone anywhere) then for his handgun, which was safe and secure in it's dockers clutch under his jacket. He then brought his messenger bag to his front. Opening it, he revealed a multi-tool, a flashlight, a few bandages, a vial of morphine and syringe, an extra magazine for his handgun (empty, of course), about a meter of parachute chord, and a lighter. Could be worse.

The heaviest item of all was his mask. Most of his kind wore one during operations. It was the closest the Musketeers came to a uniform. The bland, steel colored face of Alan's was crudely engraved with the phrase "Grandson of Liberty". This small touch had made him quite popular among government agents as well as the few people in the ring that knew any history. It was a nod to his home's past and, hopefully, it's future.

He decided to keep it off until they reached whatever preset rally point Sion was about it bring him to. Wearing it wasn't easy. The weight of the mask was both literal and metaphorical. It's composite ceramic and steel construction had a heft that was hard to ignore, especially on long nights. But, knowing it was capable of stopping a .357 Magnum in it's tracks made the weight worth it to most. The other weight, the weight of taking life, was another set of pros and cons. Alan's mask had a slight dent in it's side that showed exactly how he felt about that type of weight.

Alan closed his bag and slung it much tighter this time. "Ill follow you. Details as we walk, Mr. D" The musketeer looked down at his boots to make sure the laces weren't coming undone before he started moving, then back up at the girl. "It was nice talking to you, Helena. Promise you wont tell on us." he said with a smirk.

Alan stood there with the box of ammunition in his hand, not sure what to do with it. It read '9x19mm Parabellum'. They were a millimeter too small in diameter to work in his gun, a 10mm, but he decided to take them. "Wow... I... thank you.", he said before stashing them in his bag. He didn't have the heart to say they were the wrong caliber, and there was a good chance he could find another use for them.

He looked at her for another moment, still shocked. The boy from the outer ring never thought people from the circle could be like what he saw before him. He wondered if Helena understood what she had just given him. But even more so, Alan thought about her hand. It was soft but not weak. Her touch was naive but comforting. The girl was generous and honest despite losing everything that mattered. Now, she wanted to join their fight. Alan had already begun to admire her, she was perfect for the job, and that was why he refused. "I won't put you in harm's way so quickly." His eyes grew wide at the thought of her getting hit with a bullet or a bolt and hitting the ground. Without knowing this girl's last name, Alan knew he could never allow that. Helena was far too beautiful to lay in the dirt, dying of a sucking chest wound, and it would be a long time before another girl like her would fall out of the sky and land a few bar stools down from his.

"Don't worry", he managed a smile, "If you really knew me, you would know I'm gonna come back just fine." And if you knew what my hands were capable of, would you still be so quick to grab them? Even if the girl finished the night without a scratch, Alan wasn't sure he wanted her to see him in the field. She had lost enough. Who was he to take what little innocence she had left?

"Thanks again for the extra rounds. But really, stay here so Mr. D and I can look forward to coming home, okay?" Alan turned to the elder musketeer with an uneasy look about his face. He hoped they were in agreement, and he hoped that if they weren't, tonight's operation wouldn't involve much more than gathering intelligence. This surprised him. He usually found himself hoping for the opposite.

"It's what we're here for." Alan replied with a smile of his own as he followed Sion through the door. A heavy sigh of relief escaped his lungs as he went back out into the real world. Though, he felt a slight reluctance attempting to hold him back, a feeling totally foreign to him. Alan was usually eager to get moving. He volunteered for any assignment he could and was always ready to run out of that door, but he couldn't help the feeling that he had left something back at the bar this time. He had, actually. They both had, and he was thankful for that. He looked forward to talking more with Helena when they got back. 'just, don't die yet'... don't worry, I've got too much to do tonight to waste my time with dying.

"That meant a lot, Sion. If she robs you I'll make up for it", Alan said to the elder musketeer, "but I doubt we'll have to worry about that. Thank you." Sion was a stoic, but always a good man, always putting others first. He was one of the few who remembered what honor meant, and that was why Alan trusted him more than anyone else.

With the girl safe back at XIII, Alan was able to focus in on the night's operation. "So, what type of situation are we headed into, and how much time do we have to work with?" Alan's nerve was coming back to him. He had the feeling they were about to make real progress. He had that feeling often.

"PR shit..", Alan repeated distantly. "Right." Typical of war, much of the fighting was political. Hearts and minds. The goal had always been to spark a massive uprising of the general population. History had shown that this was the most effective way to topple a tyrannical government. The difficult part was getting it started. Many of the outer ring population centers were fairly pro-musketeer, but it wasn't much more than half of them. And, those sections weren't overflowing with able-bodied, fighting-age men and women. Without a united ring, war could never be brought to the circle, and none of the people living there would even begin to think of fighting for either side until there were corpses littering their streets. Sion was right. Looking good was half the battle. This did it's best to hide the other half which was best described as well calculated bursts of savage violence and sabotage.

"It's just us then." Alan confirmed as he put on his mask, and buckled the kevlar helmet over it. As he mounted the bike the deep droning of it's electric engine moved up his body and into his skull. He loved the feeling of power it gave him, but he made sure to keep his focus on the operation which was starting to sound more like wishful thinking than an ambush. "Sion", Alan raised his voice to compensate for the two running engines and the mask over his face, "I'm going to be honest. This one seems pretty rough to me. With an escort that size and just the two of us, this op would be hard enough if we had the green light. Now we're expected to be less than lethal? Tell me our plan is a bit more sophisticated than 'beat them senseless'."

Alan was a hot head among the musketeers, but even he understood his own limitations. He knew an attack on a superior force wouldn't get far without speed, surprise, and a hefty bit of deception. However, now that he thought about it, it seemed the bartender had the first two already covered. Alan smiled under his mask. All that was left was the magic trick - the drinking of the flaming shot. What's up your sleeve tonight, Mr. D?

EMP devices were one of the many things Alan had never anticipated seeing for himself. "You've outdone yourself, Sion." The bartender always managed to get his hands on very rare goods. It was one of the benefits of of his profession. He was well known and well liked as far as Alan could tell. With friends like these... Alan made a mental note of getting to know the man better if they survived the night's raid.

It was a solid game plan, but Alan still worried. He didn't show it, and usually said the opposite, but he was afraid of death. It made him stronger. Survival instinct was an ugly yet effective advantage in a fight. Desperation and fear was rarely defeated by confidence and a salary, but it went beyond that for Alan. He had too much to do, too many things to change. He thought of Helena again. 'You still haven't seen grass' He hadn't seen anything. How could he die? He wasn't alive. Not yet. He thought maybe Helena might know something about life from living in the circle. When he got back, if he did, he would ask her. Hopefully she hadn't taken his decision to leave her at the bar too personally and would be in the mood to talk.

First, he needed whatever obscure item was in that truck. If it's nuclear I'm going to find the time to beat your ass, Sion. Alan drew the string of his crossbow and slung it on his back. "I'm following your lead, Mr. D. Watch my back and I'll watch yours."

((Don't you die on me! Starting first aid on this thread ..also skippin ahead just a little))



Alan sped wildly around the corner of what he hoped was the right street. The convoy, except for one vehicle, followed him. He had managed to fry one of the escort vehicle's engines with the EMP devices Sion had given him before taking a bullet to arm and losing his crossbow to the pavement. The bleeding was slow, but his left humerus had been cracked in half by the Ragnarok agent's shot, and maintaining control of the bike became many times more difficult.

Swerving down the road, Alan felt another round skim the top of his helmet. He ignored it, focusing on the rapidly approaching intersection. It was the right one, and it was alive with pedestrians. Breaking was useless. The bike was moving too fast and none of those in front of him seemed to take notice of what was about to happen. He would end up killing one or more of the people he was trying to free. There was only one way to stop in time. Making use of his legs and good arm, Alan spun the bike into a sideways skid across the asphalt and let go of the handlebars. Bracing himself the best he could, he tumbled behind the bike in a shower of sparks. As his body was tossed about by it's own inertia, a handful of thoughts shot through Alan's mind. I'm not walking for a long time. Sion is on his own for now. I miss Helena. My arm really fucking hurts. I hope those Ragnarok vehicles break in time. These thoughts were cut short as Alan's head came to an abrupt rest on the side of a building just beyond the alleyway Sion was waiting in. The helmet had saved his skull from shattering, but not his brain from concussion. He was unconscious.

Meanwhile, nearly all of the Ragnarok vehicles had come to a stop just short of the intersection, all of them except for the much heavier target truck, which was still skidding towards the crossroads and all of the people in it who were too busy gawking at the mess Alan had made to notice the wall of steel screeching towards them. In a last ditch effort to stop, the driver furiously turned his steering wheel to the left with all of his tires locked, and the truck began to tip.

The first thing Alan felt was his headache, which was comparable to having the top of his skull unscrewed and filled with razor blades. Then he felt the hand contacting his cheek. Then he saw Sion's blurred face hovering over him, saying something. His hearing focused in time for him to catch "Can't get back to XIII like this." Alan panicked and groped frantically for his legs. Still there. Not what he meant. He reached for his face next. "Sion, where is my ma- AAGGHHHH son of a bitch! My arm is broken. The left one." His legs however felt usable despite the pain. "Help me up!" They were badly marked by the road, and he couldn't put much weight on his ankle, damn left side, but he could limp. He would have to. Ragnarok was closing in quickly, and they would be lucky if they weren't under surveillance at that very moment. The black clad wolves could smell the blood on Alan's clothes.

He found his mask on the ground with his battered helmet, put it on, and drew his gun, as ready to move as he was going to get.

In a perfect world, Helena would be waiting behind the counter of XIII with a 16-liter bottle of pain killers and a smile. He was anxious to get back, yet at the same time he was in no rush to discover to full extent of his injuries. Already imprisoned by Ragnarok, the last thing he needed was the same from his body. Getting the medical care they had in the circle was next to impossible in the ring. He knew from experience. This wasn't the first time Alan had been shot.

"I'm alright. I'm alright. Let's get moving.", he said, looking back at his partner, realizing now that Sion was holding a little girl at gunpoint. He hoped it was just a hallucination from his head injury. "I guess you'll explain later. Which way?"

"I'm not sticking myself with anything until we get back. I'm hazy enough as it is" Alan said, refusing the morphine. He holstered his own gun as Sion handed over the revolver. Alan counted the rounds as the three of them made the painful trek home. One was missing. the hell did he shoot? And, now I'm aiming a gun at a little girl. Alan held his hand as steadily as possible anyway. Sion's order made her a threat, and he didn't waste his breath, so she was a threat.

Though alan wasn't entirely convinced, because he slipped out of consciousness once Sion let him down to rest. For just a moment, he was out of the city. He stood on a hill and looked on at the blue above him and the green below. His breath was effortless, untaxed by the dead air of the ring. And, just as quickly as he arrived on that hill, he was back on the pavement. Sion was moving toward him saying something about the enemy.

They started moving again, back in reality. This time Sion started questioning the girl whose tone came as a bit of a shock. Sion wasn't great with kids apparently. Alan thought himself more of a people person, so he gave it a try.

With her lower body in the sight picture, he said: "We know you've had a rough night, and I can tell you don't want to be treated like a child. We don't either... It looks like we have chance to help each other out. And we both know that if you didn't need something from us you would have ran off when I passed out. We've got food and water for you where we're going. So, can we get along."

We'll see? "Well obviously. But, I..." Alan trailed off. He watched his feet as they did part of the job of moving his mass forward. His body thoughtlessly followed the support of Sion's shoulder. He realized there was a hole scraped into the side of one of his boots and cursed weakly. And then he was sitting. He was sitting against a wall. He was in the garage again. A deep sigh followed this discovery. Alan heard Sion say something. Take the damn morphine. Suddenly, he remembered his arm, and the bone screamed with each slight shift in the crowd of fragments and lead. He quickly slammed the morphine filled syringe Sion had given him into his left thigh, muffling the chorus of agonizing sensations.

His arm, his legs, his ankle, his head, and at least one of his ribs all hushed their cries for attention. Alan closed his eyes and tilted his head back, his mind a little clearer. His thoughts and heart rate slowed. I am home in the care of friends, and the mission was a success, except for... His eyes opened. Except for the truck, for those people. He had made a few more souls into martyrs that night.

Helena Penelope Alabastar

Helena peeped out of the door leading from the bar and took in the peculiar scene. There was Sion, Alan, and a girl? A young girl as well. That's quite strange. It was then that Helena noticed Alan's state. "Oh my god, okay. I can help you. Okay. Please forgive me for this." Tentatively, Helena grazed her fingertips over Alan's clearly broken arm. The morphine dulled the senses, but there's no way in hell that didn't hurt like a bitch. Helena rushed behind the bar and got the biggest towel she could find and a wooden spoon. She quickly washed her hands before turning back to Alan. "Okay, I learned how to do this once" . Hesitantly, she felt Alan's arm. It seemed like a clean break, though it was a bit messy. Wetting the towel and taking vodka, she examined the wound closely. "This will hurt... a lot." Dabbing the towel with alcohol she placed it onto the wound. She counted backwords from 10 in her head. She learned in school that that could sterilize a wound. Lifting the towel she rinsed it with water. Wringing it and twisting it into a rope, she brought it back to Alan. "Okay. 1...2...3" she muttered under her breath. She then quickly set the bone and wrapped the towel around it with the spoon as a brace. "Oop, shit, I used the towel. " taking the scarf from her neck, Helena wrapped it around Alan's neck and arm and tied it in a knot. "Okay. Arm, done. Leg? Not broken. That's good, isn't it. Right."
Getting a chair, Helena took the chair she had been sitting on and pushed it in front of Alan. Lifting his leg, Helena placed it on the seat of the chair. "This is scraped up pretty badly, but it also seems dislocated. Your knee is definitely popped out right now, so we got to fix that. As for other diagnosis..." Helena lifted Alan's shirt. There was some harsh red blotching, showing injured ribs, which meant that Alan really shouldn't be sitting right now, he could compress his ribs and puncture something.
"You boys should really take it easy. You know, not practically kill yourselves." Helena rushed to the bar and cleared it ." Okay Alan, come with me." Taking him under his good arm, Helena led him to the bar. "Lay down on it, that's it. Okay. Umm, this is weird. But take off your shirt? I need to work on your ribs. " Helena went to the ice chest and gathered some ice cubes in another dishtowel, preparing to put them on Alan's chest.