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phormthevixdjinn"Commander, I'm just saying we've incurred some heavy losses lately," Clayton Harven tried his best to choose his words carefully. "This is the third... incident... in as many months. If this keeps up, eventually morale is going to collapse."
Clayton knew this wasn't true. After all, it hadn't just been the past three months. It had been happening regularly for years and years. Since before he could remember. And yet somehow, morale never seemed to suffer for it. Of course, that wasn't to say that morale was abnormally high, or that it was exceptionally low. Morale just... was. Even in the wake of impressive success, or in the face of deeply painful loss, no one on the roster seemed to care much about such events. They had enthusiasm for the work, at points even passion - But Clayton wasn't so ignorant as to believe they held pride in their institution. They truly seemed to have no concern for anything but carrying on, fulfilling expectation, and of course, fighting the enemy.
"So recruit more," Remmington's voice cut through Clayton's thoughts abruptly. "Are you, or are you not, the Captain of this organization?"
Harven rubbed his face nervously, the room filling with the sound of gloved fingers grating across days old stubble, scratching. He always found it hard to look directly into Andrew's eyes for some reason. There was something untoward there behind Remmington's pupils, something that he just couldn't understand. A kind of vacancy that was somehow simultaneously full. Less that there was an abyss of nothing piercing back at him, and more as if his brain simply refused to engage with what was there.
"Sir, it's not that simple. You know this," Clayton's tone was careful, deliberate. "The men just lost three of their friends to su-"
"They have no friends, Clayton. None of us have friends." Remmington didn't raise his vision to meet Clayton's desperate attempt at empathy. He kept his head down, focused on the impossibly large handgun before him, strewn in pieces across his office desk. Remmington always seemed to be cleaning and maintaining that gun. It was understandable, given that Remmington not only ran the entire private military company, but that he also insisted on being front and center for almost every single deployment they fielded. Even so, that gun made Clayton uncomfortable.
It just shouldn't have been possible, that weapon. The barrel was too long. The grip was just slightly awkward, and far too heavy. The custom rounds it required felt akin to small grenades, less than actual cartridges. In a world that made sense, Andrew would've broken his arm every time he pulled the trigger on that monstrosity. And yet, Clayton had seen Remmington do things with that firearm that bordered on showmanship, rather than combat.
As if murder weren't interesting enough for him, so he had to make it a challenge.
"Morale plays an important role in our organization, sir. Our men can't work as a cohesive unit if they're not in tune wi-"
"Friends are a fucking weakness, Harven," Remmington deployed Clayton's name with an ichored tongue. "Each man in our organization stands on the strength of himself. Nothing else."
"You know that's absurd," Clayton's words trembled with a combination of thinning patience and mounting anxiety. "We need them to look out for each other, care about each other. Not isolate from one another. How can they effi-"
"Connections are exploitable, corruptible. You know well the kind of threat we deal with daily. Any one of them could be infected at any time. And as a consequence, any one of them could be defiled - physically and mentally. One compromised solider is easily replaceable," Remmington finally glanced upward at Clayton without moving his head. The pallor of that angled face sliced the captain like a razor blade. Clayton felt a chill emanate down his spine.
The middle-aged man let out a sigh. This wasn't a winning argument. It never was. Andrew would be steadfast, as always, that things should maintain just as they were. Just as they had been. That there was justice in that stability.
"Could you, for maybe five minutes, appreciate the fact that someone under your command - in your organization - put a bullet in his own fucking head?"
Remmington stopped his work cold.
Very slowly, the man's unsettlingly thin fingers drew backward across the table, like retracting tendrils. Remmington raised his head and leaned back in his chair, his angles and limbs making a concerted motion as he folded his hands in his lap in an approximation of humanity.
"So fucking what."
"Wh... So fucking what? So start fucking caring about th-"
"He was weak."
"W..." Clayton's eyes raced wide. His gaze flew directly toward Andrew in a sort of astonished indignity, but his eyes darted to the side at the last moment. He felt as if his own body were fighting him, aborting any attempt to look directly at his commander, no matter how desperate. His unease was mounting visibly. "With all due respect, sir, this was a solider who put his life on the line for this company. I think he's owed a little more dig-"
"He's owed nothing. He's a corpse."
Clayton stood, mouth agape, unable to respond. At once, at last, he felt Remmington's eyes meet his, full on. It felt as if his vision was caught against his will, drawn in, and held there despite protest from his body.
He couldn't look away.
"I suggest you unburden yourself of these unbecoming Saturday morning cartoon ideals, Captain. Our mission is both serious and dangerous. It will take a toll on us all, both our bodies and our minds, and we will pay that price inevitably. We, all of us, understand that. We push through that. Because the alternative is a world ruled by impulsive chaos and dangerous excess. We stand in the way of that evil so that others need not sacrifice. Any man who breaks, who shatters, who dies in this way should be regarded as doing us a favor. By succumbing to his weakness in such a manner, the only mess he leaves in his wake are his own remains. Were that man were pathetic enough to allow that weakness to infiltrate our organization, to taint others as well as himself? The mess would be far greater."
The moment seemed to widen in mid air, stretching into the distance beyond the horizon. Clayton was trapped in the unending depth of into Remmington's dark gaze, an inky abyss of cryptic, chilled ice. He was frozen in time, and in spirit.
"Assess the weakness in yourself, Captain Harven." After an extended, infinite moment, Andrew Remmington broke his line of sight. He leaned back over his firearm, resuming his work with an overtly dismissive air of informality.
Clayton swallowed hard, feeling himself able to move again. A lump that he could barely stomach rolled down his throat as the Commander's words choked him. He felt ill as he internalized them, as they became a part of him.
But then, what else could be done? This was his job.
"I see," Harven murmured slightly, "I suppose I'll look into scouting for three new recruits to make up the gap, then."
"Nine."
"What?"
"Nine recruits," Remmington's words were casual, "Bravo team was wiped out in Santa Monica."
"T... the entire team?"
"The target was misclassified. The threat index was much higher than we had originally anticipated. Recommend halting operations in the area until a later date."
"Wait, wait, wait, the freaks from Transgressions wiped out a six man squad?" Clayton's dismay was rapidly decaying into panic. He had just seen Bravo squad off days prior, on what everyone in the organization considered to be a milk-run. "And with you on point?"
"No, not Transgressions targets. Independent. Target was misclassified," Remmington repeated. His words were distracted as he worked, muttered, uncaring. "Consider it a temporary setback. For now, Santa Monica and target: Do not engage."
Clayton felt a shock of ice hit his veins. The loss of an entire squad in a single operation was the heaviest and most costly loss the Apex Alliance had ever suffered. That price had been paid with six human lives... And the Commander was treating it as if someone had told him they had run out of soda.
"I... I suppose I'll start contacting the families," Clayton started to back out of Remmington's office, overwhelmed. "Do... do we at least have the bodies?"
"No," Remmington stated flatly.
Andrew glanced up at Clayton through that sharp angle once again.
"Liquified."
Clayton knew this wasn't true. After all, it hadn't just been the past three months. It had been happening regularly for years and years. Since before he could remember. And yet somehow, morale never seemed to suffer for it. Of course, that wasn't to say that morale was abnormally high, or that it was exceptionally low. Morale just... was. Even in the wake of impressive success, or in the face of deeply painful loss, no one on the roster seemed to care much about such events. They had enthusiasm for the work, at points even passion - But Clayton wasn't so ignorant as to believe they held pride in their institution. They truly seemed to have no concern for anything but carrying on, fulfilling expectation, and of course, fighting the enemy.
"So recruit more," Remmington's voice cut through Clayton's thoughts abruptly. "Are you, or are you not, the Captain of this organization?"
Harven rubbed his face nervously, the room filling with the sound of gloved fingers grating across days old stubble, scratching. He always found it hard to look directly into Andrew's eyes for some reason. There was something untoward there behind Remmington's pupils, something that he just couldn't understand. A kind of vacancy that was somehow simultaneously full. Less that there was an abyss of nothing piercing back at him, and more as if his brain simply refused to engage with what was there.
"Sir, it's not that simple. You know this," Clayton's tone was careful, deliberate. "The men just lost three of their friends to su-"
"They have no friends, Clayton. None of us have friends." Remmington didn't raise his vision to meet Clayton's desperate attempt at empathy. He kept his head down, focused on the impossibly large handgun before him, strewn in pieces across his office desk. Remmington always seemed to be cleaning and maintaining that gun. It was understandable, given that Remmington not only ran the entire private military company, but that he also insisted on being front and center for almost every single deployment they fielded. Even so, that gun made Clayton uncomfortable.
It just shouldn't have been possible, that weapon. The barrel was too long. The grip was just slightly awkward, and far too heavy. The custom rounds it required felt akin to small grenades, less than actual cartridges. In a world that made sense, Andrew would've broken his arm every time he pulled the trigger on that monstrosity. And yet, Clayton had seen Remmington do things with that firearm that bordered on showmanship, rather than combat.
As if murder weren't interesting enough for him, so he had to make it a challenge.
"Morale plays an important role in our organization, sir. Our men can't work as a cohesive unit if they're not in tune wi-"
"Friends are a fucking weakness, Harven," Remmington deployed Clayton's name with an ichored tongue. "Each man in our organization stands on the strength of himself. Nothing else."
"You know that's absurd," Clayton's words trembled with a combination of thinning patience and mounting anxiety. "We need them to look out for each other, care about each other. Not isolate from one another. How can they effi-"
"Connections are exploitable, corruptible. You know well the kind of threat we deal with daily. Any one of them could be infected at any time. And as a consequence, any one of them could be defiled - physically and mentally. One compromised solider is easily replaceable," Remmington finally glanced upward at Clayton without moving his head. The pallor of that angled face sliced the captain like a razor blade. Clayton felt a chill emanate down his spine.
The middle-aged man let out a sigh. This wasn't a winning argument. It never was. Andrew would be steadfast, as always, that things should maintain just as they were. Just as they had been. That there was justice in that stability.
"Could you, for maybe five minutes, appreciate the fact that someone under your command - in your organization - put a bullet in his own fucking head?"
Remmington stopped his work cold.
Very slowly, the man's unsettlingly thin fingers drew backward across the table, like retracting tendrils. Remmington raised his head and leaned back in his chair, his angles and limbs making a concerted motion as he folded his hands in his lap in an approximation of humanity.
"So fucking what."
"Wh... So fucking what? So start fucking caring about th-"
"He was weak."
"W..." Clayton's eyes raced wide. His gaze flew directly toward Andrew in a sort of astonished indignity, but his eyes darted to the side at the last moment. He felt as if his own body were fighting him, aborting any attempt to look directly at his commander, no matter how desperate. His unease was mounting visibly. "With all due respect, sir, this was a solider who put his life on the line for this company. I think he's owed a little more dig-"
"He's owed nothing. He's a corpse."
Clayton stood, mouth agape, unable to respond. At once, at last, he felt Remmington's eyes meet his, full on. It felt as if his vision was caught against his will, drawn in, and held there despite protest from his body.
He couldn't look away.
"I suggest you unburden yourself of these unbecoming Saturday morning cartoon ideals, Captain. Our mission is both serious and dangerous. It will take a toll on us all, both our bodies and our minds, and we will pay that price inevitably. We, all of us, understand that. We push through that. Because the alternative is a world ruled by impulsive chaos and dangerous excess. We stand in the way of that evil so that others need not sacrifice. Any man who breaks, who shatters, who dies in this way should be regarded as doing us a favor. By succumbing to his weakness in such a manner, the only mess he leaves in his wake are his own remains. Were that man were pathetic enough to allow that weakness to infiltrate our organization, to taint others as well as himself? The mess would be far greater."
The moment seemed to widen in mid air, stretching into the distance beyond the horizon. Clayton was trapped in the unending depth of into Remmington's dark gaze, an inky abyss of cryptic, chilled ice. He was frozen in time, and in spirit.
"Assess the weakness in yourself, Captain Harven." After an extended, infinite moment, Andrew Remmington broke his line of sight. He leaned back over his firearm, resuming his work with an overtly dismissive air of informality.
Clayton swallowed hard, feeling himself able to move again. A lump that he could barely stomach rolled down his throat as the Commander's words choked him. He felt ill as he internalized them, as they became a part of him.
But then, what else could be done? This was his job.
"I see," Harven murmured slightly, "I suppose I'll look into scouting for three new recruits to make up the gap, then."
"Nine."
"What?"
"Nine recruits," Remmington's words were casual, "Bravo team was wiped out in Santa Monica."
"T... the entire team?"
"The target was misclassified. The threat index was much higher than we had originally anticipated. Recommend halting operations in the area until a later date."
"Wait, wait, wait, the freaks from Transgressions wiped out a six man squad?" Clayton's dismay was rapidly decaying into panic. He had just seen Bravo squad off days prior, on what everyone in the organization considered to be a milk-run. "And with you on point?"
"No, not Transgressions targets. Independent. Target was misclassified," Remmington repeated. His words were distracted as he worked, muttered, uncaring. "Consider it a temporary setback. For now, Santa Monica and target: Do not engage."
Clayton felt a shock of ice hit his veins. The loss of an entire squad in a single operation was the heaviest and most costly loss the Apex Alliance had ever suffered. That price had been paid with six human lives... And the Commander was treating it as if someone had told him they had run out of soda.
"I... I suppose I'll start contacting the families," Clayton started to back out of Remmington's office, overwhelmed. "Do... do we at least have the bodies?"
"No," Remmington stated flatly.
Andrew glanced up at Clayton through that sharp angle once again.
"Liquified."