capeandcowllogs | In A.D. 2011, war was beginning.

In A.D. 2011, war was beginning.

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He was, habitually, a light sleeper. Years of being awoken by scramble orders or strafing had made that a rather non-viable option. He could recall with absolute clarity the droning made by the biplanes the Soviet Night Witches had flown...

He had fallen asleep while reading. Some poetry. He could enjoy some culture now, between aerial patrols. He enjoyed that greatly, and he didn't stop simply because there was a guest in his 'home, as it were.

But, because certain habits died hard, the noiseless paths around the hangar had been strung with little wires, here and there, attached to a handful of tin cans. A habit he had learned from soldiers on the Western Front, and old habits did die very hard.

Sharp vampire hearing, even dulled by sleep and exhaustion, were helpful in the matter, though he hardly needed it with the simple, yet effective system that Hans had set around the perimeter of their location.

Out in the darkness, the tinkling of aluminum cans was short lived, but audible as one of the stalkers tripped the line and froze, a compatriot reaching out and trying to quell the rattling quickly.

Back in the bunker, Aaron's eyelids fluttered, the sound rousing him groggily, until he bolted upright, looking over at Hans.

He sat bolt upright, a second behind Aaron. He was standing a second later, sliding his old combat knife out from under his pillow. He looked over at Aaron, saying nothing. He seemed to look through him, listening.

He moved slowly, silently, reaching over to his nearby holster, pulling out his sidearm. He pointed to his left, where his rifle stood against a cabinet, ready for Aaron's use.

Aaron looked at the rifle and shook his head silently, calm reserve on his face again. He hadn't even taken his holsters off after work so he showed Hans briefly. At least he'd know Aaron was armed, but he didn't take the weapons out. It was Aaron's turn to stare through Hans a moment as he tried to pick out sounds and smells that might betray who was approaching.

He heard something, and pointed toward the hangar door. More space, and while it would put Hans' precious planes in the line of fire, it was preferable to combat in the smaller living space, at least in Aaron's opinion.

There was no panic on his face as he nodded in return. Death was an old companion, his only constant one. Friends and enemies came and went, but death remained. People trying to kill him were a regular part of his life.

He moved silently across the room. He pointed at the Bf109. It was positioned near the wall, where its natural outline joined with the shadows of the wall, enhancing them. He picked up the rifle on the way, awkwardly buckling on the holster. There was no time for extra ammunition - this one would come down to knife work.

He crouched down by the tail, quietly sliding back the bolt of the rifle, checking the mechanism.

Once they were in the dark hangar, Aaron removed his glasses, taking full advantage of his abilities. He had no idea who these unwelcome guests might be, but he was willing to assume their intentions weren't benevolent. He couldn't count how many, but there was more than one of them.

Across the hangar, a side door opened on almost-silent hinges. Aaron pointed toward it to get Hans' attention toward the door. Then, keeping low, he slid off toward the door. It wasn't the only way in, but if he could bottleneck anyone else trying to get through that door, it would help in dealing with further intrusions.

He saw it. This was, blessedly, a far less chaotic situation than many he'd found himself in. He suddenly remembered Leningrad, the Russian soldiers. He'd been unarmed then. And there had been three of them. He had survived that, too.

But overconfidence was the foremost way to exit the land of the living. He raised the rifle, aiming at the door. Aaron was fast, but any head protruding through it would have to be bulletproof.

There was no fear, there never was. Not a drop of panic. It was them or you, life or death. As always, it was about survival.

Aaron was by the door when it opened, and before Hans could have an opportunity to take him down, Aaron was dragging him down to the floor, a hand over his mouth to muffle his shouts and struggling.

He wasn't alone though, and Aaron only realized this as he got the first one to the ground. Everything had happened so fast though, the second arrival through the door had only known his accomplice was no longer standing before him. He was however, in plain view for Hans.

It was an easy shot, and he did not hesitate. He watched the man's head jerk back, blood spattering on the wall. That, too, was familiar. He was already sliding back the bolt, ramming it back home along with another round as the third man came through the door, firing wildly.

He thought that would give him cover. It did not.

Aaron winced as the shots came. He'd been expecting them, but after the silence, it was almost painfully loud. He hoped to subdue the struggling boy, he really couldn't call him much of an adult, but an appraisal of the clothes he was wearing and the symbol stitched onto a sleeve told him everything he needed to know.

It was almost too kind to knock him unconscious, but when the third attacker came through firing wildly, he finished off his own ally as Aaron dodged away from the threat. He too went down, but the gunfire had alerted the remainder of this attacking force that their element of surprise was lost. The few doors into the hangar popped open as ten armed zealots poured into the dark space, some firing at Aaron's shadowed form as he ducked for cover near a plane.

At least they hadn't gotten the main doors open - they could have had a clear shot down the hangar straight across. As it was, they were still stuck in what amounted to very small beachheads. He fires again, hitting one in the chest, though he has no way of telling if the wound is fatal or not, not in the moment.

His next shot misses, owing to the fact that as he fires, a near miss ricochets off the tailplane, causing him to flinch as he pulls the trigger. He ducks back, swearing under his breath, pulling up another round. The last in the rifle.

He lifts his head, trying to locate the most pressing threat.

Aaron took a few shots, one landing a hit, but now the attackers were spreading out through the hangar, firing from multiple angles. His position was very exposed, and so he looked for another place. Some fuel barrels might have worked, if they weren't full of flammable liquid.

He took his chances and headed straight for one of the shooters who had a decent spot. He kept shooting, on the run it was difficult to take aim as he tried to provide a difficult target. Still, a few rounds found home, but with the bullets lacking any silver content he could power through the crossfire.

Edited 2011-05-22 03:32 (UTC)

He would've yelled at him to stay under cover but - it seemed he did not need any of that. He saw at least three bullets strike Aaron, none of which seemed to slow him. He filed that away under 'point of interest', for later discussion.

He fired the last shot, hitting a man in the neck. He dropped the rifle, pulling out the pistol. They were closing in, and there were not enough bullets. Time to trust in Aaron's night vision. He aimed at the two overhanging lights, firing twice.

When the lights went out, Aaron was pouncing for a panicked fighter who was pulling out a knife. He took him down to the ground, but a little luck on his adversary's side meant he took it between the ribs. The enemy suffered a less painful fate, knocked into unconsciousness. There was a pained shout as Aaron took the blade out and realized that it was simply a silver letter opener. So they hadn't come completely unprepared, which meant he was very lucky the bullets hadn't been anything aside from lead. Still, he was more careful as he dropped the blade, his wound healing slowly while he fired from his new vantage point. It would lay some cover now that he assumed the rifle was out of ammunition since Hans started to use the pistol.

He kept the pistol at his side, but he used them and their firing now. They had more ammunition than they had brains, but perhaps they were just afraid. Fear could easily master you, if you let it.

Fear was not something he felt anymore. He had lost that over the trenches. And he had learned a few tricks over the years, the foremost of which was to let them make the light for you.

He maneuvered silently behind two of them, and then allowed the red mist to descend, lashing out with the knife. It was never pretty - it was brutal and cruel, and seldom very fair.

The flashing of his gun barrel may have given away his position, but he didn't necessarily need the extra light the remaining gunmen were producing with their wild shots. It still made it easier as he took his time, taking out one. Another suddenly stopped, and he noticed a familiar form in the dark. It seemed Hans was taking the silent route, and if Aaron could draw attention away from the sudden lack of gunfire, he would help. He kept on, taking down another as the second was killed, and then the last zealot, realizing he was now outnumbered, and without allies, let his fear get the better of him. Rather than be shot down, killed in pained silence, or taken hostage, he ended his own life.

When the silence held sway, Aaron stood and looked over at Hans, straightening up and taking his hand away from his wound. It had healed over, but it still ached as the internal damage was repaired.

He could let his eyes adjust now, allowing the light from the moon outside illuminate the scene. He stood over the last man, wondering for a moment at the power of belief in such causes.

He sighed, dropping the knife, putting the pistol back in its holster.

"Who were they?" He asked, temporarily letting his questions about Aaron fall behind the more important ones.

"I suspect I knew who sent them, but...I had not thought he would find such minds here. I wonder who they were, when they were alive."

"Supporters here for this...cause are few, but there are enough that The Major has managed to rally a small army. It'll be difficult to tell if he sent them or they acted on their own." Aaron kept his gazed down, the smell of blood was heavy on the air. He holstered his gun and returned to the one he had been certain he'd knocked unconscious, but saw, much to his dismay, a pool of blood forming under him. In the fever of action, he'd cracked the zealot's skull in the landing. Nearby was the letter opener, and Aaron picked it up, carefully using his ruined shirt to clean off his blood. It couldn't bring the dead back to life, but he was too paranoid to leave something like that just laying around.

"It hardly matters - he would have sent someone for us sooner or later."

He crouches down by the man with the cracked skull, making sure he was dead.
He heard him pick up the letter opener, giving half his attention to that. He brushed the back of his hand across his cheek, wiping away some of the blood from the last man he had killed.

He stood up, closing one of the doors.

"We had best call in someone to help with the cleanup, and better to tell someone in case they have more friends." And with that, he glanced at the Fokker triplane Aaron had hidden behind.

"And it appears my kite absorbed a few more bullets than you did," he said in a deadpan, an oblique reference to what was on his mind.

"Mmm." Aaron almost seemed to miss the hidden meaning behind Hans' words, but he had caught on. He set the silver blade down on top of a drum and glanced over at the triplane. It was a shame the plane had been damaged but that was the last thing on his mind. "I'll make a call, but we'll be fortunate to get much help. I'll let the Commissioner know what's happened." Aaron turned, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked back toward their living space.

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In A.D. 2011, war was beginning.

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