Bandages and Bullets

It was kind of strange, working for the Caribbean Coalition, yet also not.

Then again, a lot of this was strange. The combat armour Talon assigned all its soldiers felt strange – great in offering protection, sure, but still, strange, and not just round the area of the crotch. It was strange, getting the sense that something was changing within the mercenary organization, as it took contracts that led to ever higher death tolls and collateral damage. And it was strange, flying in a Nighthawk over the Caribbean, 120 miles off the coast of Haiti, bearing down on the Red Pearl.

"Target in range. Drop in sixty."

The pilot's voice came over the radio and Jean-Baptiste Augustin stood up, as did every other member of the squad. To an outside observer, they'd have appeared indistinguishable, clad head to toe in the white and black armour of Talon, helmets included. But in each helmet was a pair of glowing eyes, which fed data back to a HUD. So when Jean stood up, he didn't see four faceless men around him. Instead, he saw icons that gave him their names.

Cuerva. Doubleday. Mazzei. Pacanowsky.

"Know the drill," Cuerva said. "Fast in, fast out. Take out the hijackers, leave at least one alive."

"And if they surrender?" Jean asked.

Snorts echoed throughout the cabin.

"What's your motto Baptiste?" Cuerva asked. "Bullet or a bandage, you decide?"

"Not exactly my motto, but-"

"And it's not your choice. Who gets the bullets, who gets the bandages, that's up to me."

Jean didn't say anything. It was true. It had always been true. That the truth of that statement was becoming more and more apparent was his problem, he told himself.

"Dropping in forty-five."

The Talon operatives moved to the back of the Nighthawk. The rear hatch opened up – before him, Jean could see the inky black sea of the Caribbean. Far from the tropical paradise it was usually depicted at, it was even more bereft of life than the night sky. That at least had stars illuminating it. Pieces of light in what was going to be a very dark night.

"Dropping in thirty."

It helped at least that he knew that the men who'd hijacked the Red Pearl had likely offered the same level of mercy to the crew. Nonetheless, as he fingered his pistol with his right hand, he fingered his medikit with his left. Bandages that were meant for Talon soldiers, but still, even now, sometimes their assignments meant saving lives rather than taking them.

"Fifteen."

The squad attached grapple hooks to their belts. They'd drop down soft, hit hard, move quickly.

"Dropping you on the rear deck," the pilot said.

"Hostiles?"

"Most in the bridge. Bastards don't have enough firepower to secure the whole ship."

"Good. More fun for us."

Jean didn't say anything. He knew what Cuerva's idea of "fun" was like.

"Dropping in five."

He didn't want to imagine it, but chances were, such "fun" would be carried out this night regardless.

Tortuga was burning. Mama and papa were dead.

Lots of people were dead. Lots of people were screaming. There was a siren wailing.

Mama had told him it was fireworks. He'd watched, until Papa had taken him off the balcony. Which was good, because then the fireworks had started going off all around them.

Mama had died from the rubble. Papa had died five seconds ago.

Jean was still alive.

So was Papa's murderer.

Jean didn't wince as he watched Cuerva slit the man's throat and toss his body overboard. Stealth was paramount so early in the operation, and besides, the people here weren't exactly saints.

Then again, nor were the people who'd chartered the Red Pearl either. He didn't know the details – not his place to know, nor his place to ask. All he understood was that the cargo ship was bound for Haiti, carrying technology that, for whatever reason, the island nation didn't want to share with the rest of the Caribbean Coalition. He wished he could say he was disgusted, but in reality, he couldn't. War made for strange bedfellows, and the Omnic Crisis had been no exception. The world wasn't divided between empires, or ideals, but it was sure as hell divided along the old political fault lines that had existed for centuries. Maybe a country on the other side of the fault line had hired the mercenary group to hijack the Red Pearl and steer it to a different port. Maybe they were just dealing with opportunists. Maybe…he frowned, as the squad squat-sprinted along the deck, making their way to the bridge. Too many "maybes."

"Hold," Cuerva said.

They were on the port side of the bridge. The sea was to their left. The bridge was to their right.

"Pacanowsky?"

The squad's spotter picked up what looked like a telescope, though Jean knew it was anything but. "Six hostiles," he said, pointing the device at the bridge's exterior. "Poor bastards know nothing."

"Ping them," Cuerva said.

Pacanowsky obliged. On Jean's HUD, six hostiles were super-imposed. It didn't give a layout of the room per se, but it did give a good sense of where everyone else, from Mister "Alpha" to Mister "Foxtrot."

"Who's the big cheese?" Mazzei asked.

"Delta," said Cuerva, after a pause. "Looks like he's in charge."

"Yeah, you'd know all about that wouldn't you?" Doubleday murmured.

"For that, Doubleday, you get to be point man."

"Fuck you."

"Don't worry, I'm on grenade duty." Jean watched Cuerva take a flashbang out of his belt while Mazzei took hold of the door's handle. "On my mark."

Jean gripped his rifle. He knew what was coming. He'd practiced it over and over in the Caribbean Coalition.

"Three."

Training had been easy.

"Two."

The shooting hadn't.

"One."

Though at least back then, the use of flashbangs wasn't always followed by shooting."

"Mark!"

It would this time.

Mazzei opened the door. Cuerva tossed the flashbang in.

"Go!"

Jean obliged, as did the rest of the squad. He obliged in following Doubleday's lead. He obliged by shooting the hijackers dead.

The bastards never stood a chance. In less than five seconds, there were five bodies, all lying in pools of their own blood. All that was left was "Delta." Backed against the far wall, left hand against it, right in his belt.

"The fuck are you people?"

"Hands up," Cuerva said.

"I'm not doing anything."

"Hands. Up," Cuerva said. All five of the Talon troopers, staring down the butts of their rifles, slowly walked towards him.

"You think I don't know who you people are?! Why you're here?!"

"Listen pal, you're in no position to-"

"Gun!"

It happened quickly. "Delta" pulled out a pistol. One of the Talon troopers opened fire. "Delta" collapsed, blood splattering against the walls.

"Cease fire, cease fire!"

Doubleday did so. Cuerva gave him a look before running over to the man.

"Baptiste, get over here!"

Jean did so. He took off his helmet, his right glove, and put a finger to the man's neck. A few seconds afterwards, he looked at Cuerva.

"Well?"

Jean shook his head.

Cuerva, taking a breath, took off his own helmet. The glowing eyes deactivated. But such were the rage in his eyes as he turned to look at Doubleday, that it made little difference.

"Captain, I-"

Cuerva slammed him against the wall of the bridge. Doubleday dropped his rifle.

"We needed him alive!" Cuerva yelled. "What part of 'alive' did you not understand?!"

"Captain, he was about to-"

Cuerva kneed him in the groin, causing Doubleday to recoil in pain. Before he could recoil, Cuerva grabbed him and shoved him to the ground.

Jean looked at Mazzei and Pacanowsky. They just stood there, motionless. Even as Cuerva kicked Doubleday in the stomach.

"God help me Doubleday you fuck-up, I…" He took a breath. "Fuck!"

"Captain-"

"Shut up Baptiste." He began packing around. "Fine. Okay. We move onto Plan B."

"Plan B?" Mazzei asked.

"Plan B is where you and Pacanowsky finish doing a sweep of the deck before coming back to secure the bridge. It's where I and Baptiste go down to the lower decks and make sure the asset is still in one piece. And it's where Doubleday…where Doubleday gets us on a course to Tortuga, provided he's not a complete idiot." He spat at him. "You're not a complete idiot are you Doubleday?"

"No…sir."

"A lie, but I can live with that unlike these poor bastards." He put his helmet back on. "Come on Baptiste. Maybe we'll even find the crew down here."

Jean, putting his own helmet on as well, followed Cuerva.

He didn't scream as the omnic pointed his gun at him. He just stood there. Glaring.

He'd be dead soon as well. The omnics had killed Mama and Papa. The omnics were burning Haiti. They were burning the country across the border. They were burning countries to the south, west, and north. Even across the Atlantic, the lands of Africa and Europe were burning.

They weren't meant to come to Haiti. There was no reason for them to, Mama had said. Papa, though more quiet, had given him the same assurances. There was no reason for the omnics to come here. No reason for them to fight.

They'd come all the same. They'd burnt, as they always did. They killed, as they always did. Men. Women. Children.

He stood there, waiting for the bullets to come through him. So he might join Mama and Papa. So, in this last moment, in the twilight of his people, his country, his planet, he wouldn't give the assassin the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

The omnic just stood there. Pointing the gun at him.

"Anything wrong Baptiste?"

"Hmm?"

"You haven't been the same lately." Cuerva, making his way down to the ship's cargo storage, glanced back at him. "Anything you want to talk about?"

"I…no sir."

"Don't bullshit me Baptiste."

"Sir, really, it's nothing."

"Doubleday bullshitted me, and he's got the bruised balls to prove it. Do you want bruised balls Baptiste? We're arriving at Tortuga, figure you might want some action at your hometown."

"I'm good, sir. And it's flattering to know that you've got such a high opinion of me."

Cuerva gave him a look before moving on. Jean, for his part, just wanted it to end.

He was a medic. In the Caribbean Coalition, he'd taken lives, sure, but he'd helped save them. Sometimes even the lives of the enemies. Now though? All Talon did was take take take. As a soldier, he was in high demand. As a medic, his skills were languishing.

"Alright," Cuerva said. "Bottom level. J. Good letter J. Do you like the letter J Jean?"

"I…guess?"

"Or are A and B more your thing?"

Are you serious?

"I mean, I know you're a Frenchie, but-"

"Haitian. French is just the language."

"And yet you're speaking English," Cuerva said. He opened the door that led to the main hold. "Go on."

Holding his breath, Jean took a step forward. Cuerva followed him.

"You know where we're going?" Jean whispered.

"I'll know it when I see it."

"And if it isn't here?"

He sighed. "Then Doubleday's going to get more bruised balls." He picked something out of his belt – some kind of tracker that was measuring distance and emission. "But luckily for that bastard, it is here."

"And it is?"

"Stay alive long enough Baptiste, you might find out."

Jean kept moving.

The hull was huge. Crates upon crates, stacked up at least five high. He figured that there was a way the upper hull opened, because if not, there was no way the crates could fit down here.

"While we're here, and speaking English," Cuerva said. "Why don't we get back to what's bothering you?"

"Nothing's bothering me sir."

Cuerva stopped and looked at him. "Enough of the bullshit. Come on. Out with it."

"Sir-"

"Get it off your chest, and the sooner we're out of here."

"I…well…"

"Still waiting Baptiste."

"Sir…I can't help but feel that Talon's…changing."

"Changing?"

"Changing."

"I know what changing means Baptiste."

"Like, we're mercenaries," he said. "But when I started, the missions were….well, they weren't this."

"Duly noted."

"And there's all this talk about social Darwinism, or 'humanity is stronger through conflict.'"

"Isn't it?"

Jean said nothing.

"Isn't it?" Cuerva asked. "I mean, humanity gets stronger through conflict. That isn't exactly a controversial statement."

"As someone who's lived through conflict sir…I don't agree."

"Ah yes. Omnic killed your mum and dad, right?"

Jean nodded.

"Well, when I saw an omnic crush my sister's skull, I certainly became stronger," Cuerva said. "Emotionally, physically. People can deny the facts of life all they want, doesn't change the fact that war's always been a good way of bettering ourselves."

"At the cost of how many lives?"

"Too many people on the planet anyway Baptiste, so I don't really care. All I know is that I'm alive, and because my sister wouldn't shut up when we hid from those fuckers, she isn't. It's also the reason why we're alive on this boat, and none of the bastards who took it aren't."

"I…guess sir."

Cuerva chucked and patted him on the shoulder. "Give it time Baptiste. Give it time."

The conversation, at least for Cuerva, was over. He began walking back through the hull. Gritting his teeth, Jean followed him.

It didn't take them long to get to the crate that held whatever Cuerva was after. Physically, it was no different from any of the others. But it had to be the place, because…

"We're here," Cuerva said.

Well, because of that.

"It's locked up," Jean said, fingering the padlock. "Think we can cut through it?"

Cuerva took out a blade from his belt. Flicking a switch, it began to glow orange, then blue.

"Pretty much."

Cuerva was true to his word – the padlock was cut quickly. It actually took longer to get the door open.

"And here we are," Cuerva said. "Aladdin's cave."

"Does that make us the Forty Thieves?"

"No, it makes us the people who are going to get a good pay day." Cuerva stepped into the crate.

Technically that isn't mutually exclusive. Nonetheless, Jean followed him inside.

"And here we have it. Our magic lamp."

It wasn't a lamp, and it certainly didn't look magical. What the device, the only device inside the crate looked like for that matter, was…

"A black box?" Jean asked.

"Good guess," Cuerva said. He walked over and picked up the blinking white thing and turned around to face his protégé. "But no. This little baby…this is a god program."

"A what?!"

"A god program. Kukulkan, specifically."

"I know what a god program is Cuerva, I…" He trailed off, putting a hand to his head. "I mean, this thing…"

"If used properly, could be very useful for Haiti's military forces."

"And if they let it get out…I mean, Anubis…"

Cuerva laughed. "Oh, ye of little faith. I mean, granted, that's Christianity rather than Aztec religion but-"

It happened quickly, how Cuerva raised his rifle and fired. Quick enough that Jean had no time to react. Had Cuerva been trying to shoot him, he wouldn't have had a chance. But Cuerva wasn't trying to shoot him. Rather, it was the thing behind him.

"Christ!"

Jean spun round and saw the body lying there outside the crate. The body of an omnic, its chest sparking where Cuerva's bullet had torn through it. He rushed over.

"You…idiots…" the omnic whispered.

Jean didn't like being called an idiot. Still, he'd been called worse, and again, the omnic had been shot.

"Idiots," Cuerva sneered, walking over himself, swaggering with the god program module in one hand, and his rifle in the other. "Says the person who can't even ambush us correctly."

"Ambush? I'm part of the crew!"

"Oh," Cuerva said. "Sorry about that."

He didn't sound sorry at all. In fact, he didn't sound anything. Which was fine in a way, as it gave Jean time to check the omnic's wound, and remind himself that this wasn't his purview. Bandages were meant to treat the flesh, not metal.

"You been hiding here?" Jean asked.

"Here…there…" the omnic said. He looked at Jean. "You guys…the rescue team?"

"Um…yeah." He looked at Cuerva. "Of course we are."

Cuerva gave him a look. Jean nonetheless got to his feet.

"Well?" Cuerva asked. "Bandages or bullets?"

"I…sir, I'm a medic. I treat wounds. Looking at this guy…I don't know how to treat him."

"Hmm. Okay then." Cuerva walked over to the omnic.

"Sir, we might be able to-"

Cuerva shot the omnic, a bullet tearing through its head.

"Drop the gun!" Jean pointed his rifle at Cuerva. His commander turned around and looked at him.

"Drop it!"

"Calm down Jean, I just took out the last hijacker."

"What?"

"Shame they had to kill every member of the crew and leave the body for us to find." Cuerva walked towards him. "Isn't that right?"

"I…sir, that isn't right."

"Really? You might want to get your story in order. When the report for this op is written, I don't want any discrepancies."

Jean didn't lower the gun, though he did glance there at the omnic. Lying there, motionless on the ground.

"Baptiste?"

He returned his gaze to his captain. He still didn't lower his gun.

"Come on," he said. "It's an omnic. It's dead, so it makes our lives less complicated, and there's one less of those pieces of filth in the world. Or was I wrong about you?"

"Sir…I mean, yeah, sure…"

"For fuck's sake Baptiste, you're wining about one dead omnic. The hell have you ever heard about them showing mercy?"

The omnic just stood there. Pointing his gun at him.

"Do it!" he yelled.

"Baptiste?"

It was strange to get his voice back. But he was ready. He would die with pride, before he joined Mama and Papa.

Yet the omnic just stood there. It lowered its rifle. It nodded to the side, in silent words that Jean understood.

"Run."

"Have you ever heard of an omnic showing mercy?"

"No sir," he lied. "Of course not."

Cuerva patted him on the shoulder. "Good man. Now let's move."

It wasn't that hard, lying to Cuerva Jean reflected. But looking at the body of the omnic left behind, of the handiwork of Cuerva's cruelty and hypocrisy…

Talon was seeming more and more of a lie these days.

And all the bandages and bullets in the world couldn't fix that.

A/N

So, looking at Baptiste's origin video, how exactly did he survive the omnic pointing his gun at him. Either the omnic's a rotten shot, or it showed mercy.

I can't help but wonder if it's a theme for omnics, since the war orphans plot point has been touched at least twice on via Sombra and Baptiste so far. Like, maybe omnics avoided killing children when they could? Dunno. But it did get me to drabble this up at least.