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thejohnlockedfemboy · 4 months ago

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Songbird on a Wall

this is my first full-length fic. please be kind. this isn’t beta’d

[ tw for references to death and grief ]

The military didn’t leave time for many hobbies.

Sure, the men all went out for drinks most Fridays, and sometimes after they finished drills for the day, they’d have a couple hours to catch an episode of Jeopardy or read a chapter or two of a book, but for the most part, their lives were strictly dominated by missions.

Sometimes, though, the 141 would find time for their own little slices of life. Soap had his journal, Gaz had his computer games. Roach loved fantasy novels, Ghost had taken up knitting. And Price– did chain-smoking count as a recreational activity? It seemed to relax him, anyway.

Sergeant Paul “Scanner” Hamish Mander, however, seemed to be a soldier and only a soldier. He woke exactly at lights-on and went to bed at exactly lights-out. He followed the schedule down to the letter and most days the team had to physically drag him away from the training field.

Scanner was quiet but not closed-off, reserved but not standoffish, polite but not overly social. He was a crack shot with an automatic rifle and had nerves of steel, making him a valuable asset on the field. Every order he was given was executed with precision and without hesitance.

What the team didn’t know was that he also loved music. Scanner had learned to sing and play the guitar from an early age during a summer spent with his uncle in County Clare, though he hadn’t picked up an instrument since before he enlisted nearly eleven years ago. God, he’d been young, hadn’t he? Just a pup, really, with no idea what he was getting into, being fed off of convoluted songs of glory and honor.

He knew now that there was no honor in war. When it was down to him or the enemy, he would fight like a pit-bred dog, tooth and nail, to protect himself and his team.

Scanner realized that his moods had been off as of late; the stress of their work got to everyone eventually. The Scouser had finally hit his limit, so, with what pay he’d had put away for later, he bought himself a guitar and some extra strings, hoping that the music would help to temper his disquieted psyche.

He’d been slipping away to practice whenever he could. He was already good, but he strove to improve, just like in his work. He fancied himself a Michelangelo… now to make sure his art was as good as his reputation.

Now he was awake before the first pale grey light of dawn, perched like a songbird upon the half-wall that surrounded the entry point of the officers’ quarters, hoping to snag a few precious minutes before the daily bugle sounded and he had to listen to Soap groan about the hangover headache the Scotsman would doubtlessly have from the previous night’s intoxication.

Scanner slipped off his gloves to reveal dexterous hands mottled dark pink with burn scars. He almost always kept them hidden– they brought up old memories that he would rather forget. His fingers, though discolored, were still nimble as they plucked out a slow tune on the guitar.

Meanwhile, Soap, who had woken up to take a piss, had overheard the folk-ballad style music and peeped out the door to investigate. Though he was bleary from sleep, he recognized Scanner’s scrawny form up on the wall. Against his first instincts to just barge right into the scene, Soap remained quiet and paused to listen. His piercing blue eyes widened after a few moments, and he trundled back into the building.

Like a whack-a-mole in an arcade game, Soap popped back up about a minute later, trailing a sleepy-but-interested Gaz and Roach. Ghost loomed behind them like a ghoul.

Scanner had begun to sing while Soap was gone. The Scouser had a fine tenor voice, just the right amount of husky as he crooned out a chorus to a song that sounded like something from a Dungeons and Dragons campaign. Old-souled and heartfelt.

“When the rounds of bullets fire,

Keep your heads down.

When the brave ones pass on by ye,

Keep your heads down.”

“Bloody ‘ell,” whispered Soap. Gaz elbows him in the side to keep him quiet, but the Scotsman couldn’t resist another low remark: “Got a fine set of pipes on him.”

“When the hero’s blood runs red,

And you’re scared to raise your head,

Just be glad that you ain’t dead.

Keep your heads down.”

The song was on-the-nose for their soldier’s life, hitting perhaps a bit too close to home for the men. Soap shifted, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Roach’s brow furrowed in concern.

“You won’t win no medals here,

Keep your heads down—“

It was true— none of them were awarded recognition for their black ops. With it being strictly confidential, it couldn’t be risked. The men were under-appreciated by everyone except for Laswell.

“—Don’t be fools who know no fear,

Keep your heads down.”

Soap especially felt called-out by that line. He had a tendency to let his Scottish hot-headedness flare up like a bonfire left unattended and rush into a hostile situation guns-blazing, hackles raised like an angry mongrel. More often than not, it was either Scanner or Ghost who saved the Sergeant’s arse from being handed to him by two-to-one odds.

“We can all lay low and sing,

Duckin’ grenades and bullet’s zings.

Let ‘em chuck most anything,

But keep your heads down.”

“D’ye think he wrote this?” Gaz murmurs to Roach, who just shrugs helplessly. Scanner is still facing away from them, completely unaware of his audience.

“You won’t get no martyr’s send-off,

Keep your heads down.

Just a bullet as your payoff,

Keep your heads down—“

The men collectively winced. It was a grim reality for them. Any mission, any breath, could be their last. Playing the hero or the martyr just threw away the life of one more number on some general’s spreadsheet, accomplishing nothing even when done for the sake of their country.

“You ain’t gonna win the war,

You ain’t gonna make it home,

Cursed; forever more to roam,

Keep your heads down.”

Gaz’s dark-bright eyes were shining with unshed tears now. Soap swallowed hard.

The thought that someday they’d all be removed from the field in a body bag was something that they’d had to accept long ago, but it made their stomachs churn nonetheless. In Task Force 141, there was no such thing as retiring. They fought until they died, the end.

“Thought I’d go out with my team,

Kept my head down.

Captain drilled it into our brains,

Keep yer heads down—“

Ghost frowned behind his skull mask. Was the Captain in the song Price? The Lieutenant wasn’t sure, but he had an unsettled sense that he would find out.

Soap, however, stifled a quiet chuckle, thinking it clever and amusing that Scanner would quote Price in a song. The tough-as-nails, hard-arsed Captain certainly was the kind of CO to berate them for not keeping their heads down and taking proper precautions in a war zone.

Price did it out of care, of course. It was tough love, but Price wouldn’t lose more men than he had to. If that meant a good, old-fashioned hollering session, then so be it.

“Now they’re rotting in their graves,

And I survived, or so they say—“

The men’s eyes widened as Scanner continued the macabre lyrics. The song wasn’t about the 141, then, and the Captain mentioned wasn’t Price. The 141 were definitely not yet dead, despite the carrion birds that flocked in their wake after every op.

“—wish I’d taken mortar with my mates,

But I kept my head down.”

Roach looks like he might be ill. He felt for certain that Scanner had been the one to write the dirge. The speech patterns lined up exactly with the slang-throwing Scouser that Sanderson had come to see as a brother.

But with that realization came another, far more sickening.

They all knew that Scanner had been in the Ranger’s Regiment before being reassigned to Task Force 141. Most of his file was blacked out, requiring a higher level of clearance to be viewed. There was little about his former team or why he had been accepted into the Special Forces.

This song was clearly that story. The men were perceptive— they had to be to survive in their line of work. They could put two and two together.

Wish I’d taken mortar with my mates.

Scanner’s team had been killed in action.

“Bounced around from base to base,

Kept my head down.

Doctors sayin’ I need space,

Keep my head down—“

“Och, Paul,” Soap breathed out, his expression pained. He knew what it was like to lose mates, aye, but to lose an entire unit at once, and then have to be placed with a brand-new team to start over? It would be an unimaginable grief.

Gaz looked shocked to his roots. His hand was gripping Roach’s sleeve. “It’s just a song, right? Maybe he’s just singing to be singing.”

“He’s not the kind of man t’say something just for the ‘ell uvvit,” Ghost gruffed out, his Manchester accent thick with repressed emotion. “Never ‘as been.”

“Now I’m with the 141,

Though I thought my life was done.

Maybe learn them through this song

To keep their heads down.”

Scanner strummed the final chord and the note faded into a shimmering echo in the still morning air. Sunrise was painting the horizon with pale pinks and oranges, the clouds streaks with lavender as if the rosy fingers of Lady Eos herself had taken up a watercolor brush to delicately layer over the foggy grey of pre-dawn.

Soap took a step forward, his heavy combat boots scuffing against the concrete. Scanner’s gaze snapped up and he swiveled, one hand reaching for his empty holster so quickly that he nearly dropped his guitar.

“Easy, now.” Soap raised a placating hand as Scanner exhaled in relief. “S’just me, laddie. Tha’ was a right pretty tune ye was warblin’.”

Scanner hesitated momentarily, already swiftly setting his guitar aside to pull on his usual black gloves, hiding his patchworked hands. “I, er, didn’t know anybody else was listening,” he muttered gruffly. He pulled up his gaiter scarf and plunked his helmet down over the messy crop of his greige hair.

“Ah heard ye an’ couldnae help but come tae listen,” Soap explained, rubbing the back of his neck almost apologetically. He had the decency to look sheepish, at least. “Yer right good. Where did ye learn tha’ song?”

Scanner hopped nimbly from the wall, cracking his lower back with a low groan of relief. “Wrote it. Just a wee ditty. S’nothing special.”

The team’s hearts sank to the pit of their stomach. Roach’s guess had been correct; the events of the song were the events that had led up to Scanner being placed in the 141.

Gaz wiped at his eyes, sniffling. “S’really good. You’re a proper Ed Sheeran, mate.”

Scanner gave a low chuff of laughter. “You’re talkin’ a load o’ shite.”

Gaz sniffled again, but managed a weak smile. “I’m not takin’ the piss, really.”

“Yeah, mate, you’re bloody talented,” Roach added, but Scanner just waved a dismissive hand. As if the Scouser had no idea how the other men were crumbling on the inside thinking about his past.

But Scanner wasn’t quite so clueless as he appeared. Admittedly, he hadn’t known that they were listening, but now he did and he recognized that they would have deciphered the meaning of the words. The lyrics certainly weren’t subtle, by any means. Bordering on blasé, really.

But Scanner was a proud man, even if he didn’t like to admit it. He had once been more open, but an adult life of hard training had overrode whatever natural instincts towards emotional vulnerability that he might have once possessed. He’d built up walls, similar to the one he’d just been sitting on, and like that wall, it would take a helluva lot to knock ‘em down.

So instead of acknowledging the questions that were clearly bubbling just under the faux-calm facade that Soap, Gaz, and Ghost were just barely maintaining, Scanner turned and walked inside.

“Go ahead to the mess hall without me,” he called over his shoulder, as it was their usual routine to eat together before being given their orders for the day. “I’ll put away my guitar and be there in a bit.”

Gaz and Soap shared a helpless glance. Ghost looked as if he wanted to follow Scanner, but was holding himself back, the muscular tank of a man withholding his concern behind his balaclava.

“If yew two are so worried about him,” Ghost said after a long moment where they were all collecting their thoughts and smoothing over their emotions, “then go see Price. ‘M sure he’ll know about whatever this lil performance was.”

Soap looked up at the Lieutenant. The Scotsman was biting his lower lip in the way he always did when he was anxious. The man had a heart as big as Mother Terasa’s herself.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Roach interjected. “Going to talk to Price, I mean. He’s the one who recruited Paul in the first place.”

Ghost gave Roach a withering look. “Callsigns or last names only, Sanderson. Don’t make me report ye for breach o’ protocol.”

Roach gave a small huff. “He’s the one who recruited Scanner in the first place,” he corrected with all the sass of a thirteen-year-old girl.

Soap clapped the smaller man on the back. “Aye, Roachie. Let’s go see if the boss man is in his office, eh?”

“Because he’s got some explaining to do,” added Gaz, his expression determined. “We ought to have the right to know the past of our own teammate, don’t we?”

The four men nodded curtly, almost in unison. Whatever had occurred in Scanner’s past that would warrant the words in that song, they would uncover it. You couldn’t run a team without honesty and trust.

And they all felt a bit hurt that Scanner hadn’t trusted them enough to tell them what had happened himself.

What do you think? Should I continue with a part two?

note:

The tune to the song and the first two lyrics + chorus is adapted from “Keep Your Heads Down” by Brian Jacques. Here is the audiobook version for those wondering what the beat of the song is. ( link will take you directly to YouTube and is secure )

The rest of the lyrics are of my own creation.

pt.2 here

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thejohnlockedfemboy · 4 months ago

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Songbird on a Wall Pt.2

pt.1 here

[ tw for references to violence, death, and injuries, along with foul language, alcohol, and smoking ]

Captain Johnathan Price glanced up from a desk full of paperwork, cigar puffing sweet-scented smoke from between his lips, as a knock sounded at his office door.

“Come in,” he called out, only half-interested and half-awake from an all-nighter spent going over reports.

The door opened, and Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Roach shuffled into the office. Price frowned as he saw the serious looks on their faces. He gave a brief nod, his gaze focusing on Ghost. “Lieutenant. What seems to be the issue? Ain’t often I see your mugs so grim.”

Soap, however, was the one who stepped up, cutting off Ghost just as the larger man opened his mouth to speak. “Why was Mander assigned here wi’ us?” the Scotsman asked, never having been one to pussyfoot around a question.

Price paused, blinked, and took the cigar from his mouth. “Where’s this coming from? Somethin’ happened that I don’t know about?” “Scanner bought himself a guitar,” said Roach.

Price raised one bushy eyebrow. “Aye, so? A man’s entitled to buy hisself whatever he wants with his own pay.”

“He’s been singing,” added Gaz, as if that made it all make sense.

Price sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was getting increasingly irritated. “And his singing is bothering you lot, is that it?”

Soap shook his head. “No, sir. Just what he’s been singing about.”

“Is he singing something obscene?” questioned Price, to which there was a round of head shakes. The Captain’s eye twitched. “Then just what are you in my office complaining about?” Roach hesitantly spoke up. “We heard him singing this sort of… dirge. About his team being dead. Almost like a funeral song, or something.”

Price exhaled slowly. He’d known that this day was goin to come eventually, but he’d hoped that Scanner might have told the team about his past voluntarily. However, it was now clear that this would not be the case. “And I suppose you want to know the story,” he said lowly, his voice vaguely disgruntled.

“Only fair, sir,” replied Ghost gruffly. “If there’s somethin’ in his past that could interfere with the mission, we need to be notified about it.”

“Not everything is about the mission, Ghost.” Price snuffed out his cigar in the ashtray and leaned back with a groan, his joints cracking and popping from their prolonged sedentary position. “Not this, at least. But, aye, if you’ll sit your arses down, I’ll brief you on the situation.”

Gaz and Soap quickly claimed the two chairs in front of the desk. Roach sat cross-legged on the floor, which was his usual position even when there were seats available. Ghost stayed standing, as always, his huge hand planted on Soap’s shoulder as if in ownership.

Price poured himself a few fingers of whiskey despite the early hour, then polished off the drink in one long swallow. He set the glass aside and steepled his fingers. “Mander’s history ain’t pretty, lads. You sure you want to know?” The men all nodded.

Price nodded slowly. “Alright, then. You lot stay quiet until I’m done, then you can ask your questions. Sound good?” “Yes, sir.”

Taking a moment to collect himself, Price exhaled. “You all know that Mander was with the Ranger’s. He enlisted when he was eighteen. His home life… wasn’t ideal. But that’s another story for another day.

“After basic training, Mander was stationed in Afghanistan for a year and a half as regular infantry and then transferred into the Ranger’s Regiment and shipped off to the Czech Republic. “He served at a covert operations base there for four years until his team and several other units were called up by the brass as reinforcements for a coup in an undisclosed location. That information is restricted even for me.”

The men frowned at this. Classified information was always an annoyance, especially in briefings.

“Now, I don’t know all the details,” Price continued, “but the mission went south. A lot of good soldiers were killed like dogs by superior hostile forces. Mander, as his team’s on-field surveillance specialist, went into the situation first to recon the area. That alone is what saved him. His team was ambushed from behind in a pincer movement and cut off from the other units. Seven men and two women, slaughtered before they could even blink. Mander’s Captain survived the initial attack and managed to radio Mander and give him orders to stay put and wait for an extraction team.”

“Stay put?” Soap crowed in disbelief. “In a hot warzone? That’s utter shite. Scanner should hae been allowed to fight back an’ die with his team. S’only the done thing.”

Price silenced the Scotsman with a severe glare. “Shut your mouth, MacTavish. There’s never any use to throw away the life of a perfectly capable operative. The first rule of military life is to live to fight another day, you understand that?”

Soap cowered down in his seat, looking chastised. “Aye, sir.”

Price gave a grunt of approval. “Good. Now, as I was sayin’. Mander’s orders were to wait and avoid capture. Mander…” Price sighed. “Mander’s radio was still on when the enemy found his Captain. Mander heard his last moments.” “Jesus,” Roach murmured. “That’s messed-up.”

Price nodded. “It is. And it messed Mander up, too. He was forced to wait four days without supplies for an extraction team, but he refused to leave without the dog tags of his teammates. The extraction team wouldn’t go with him; they had their orders. It complicated things when Mander realized they were all of equal or lesser rank than he was. "Technically, he couldn’t give the team leader orders and orders couldn’t be given to him unless relayed directly from a superior officer. So Mander went rogue. "He got his hands on an assault rifle and some grenades and rained hellfire down on the enemy encampment. Took multiple bullets in the process and suffered second-and-third degree burns on his hands, but the crazy bastard did what he went there to do and killed every single hostile soldier in the camp, then raided the corpses of his teammates for their dog tags and double-timed it back to the extraction team. "He was medevac’d and awarded a Purple Heart and a handful of other medals for successfully retrieving the tags and taking out the enemy forces. Afterwards, he spent a few weeks in the hospital recovering and completed both physical therapy and a psych eval. I recruited him into the 141. The man needed stability and he’s gotten it here.”

“Our lives are hardly stable,” snorted Ghost. “We’re in the bleedin’ SAS.”

Price gave a low chuckle despite the gravity of what he had just revealed to his team. “Aye, that may be true, but it’s done wonders for Mander. He was… skittish, to say the least, when I first met him. His PTSD was getting the better of him and the brass were already drawing up honorable discharge papers. But I pulled a few strings and called in a few favors, and now we have the surveillance specialist we need.”

Soap ran a hand through his scruffy mohawk. “Bloomin’ ‘ell. That’s a lot to take in, innit? The poor bloke lost ev’rybody that meant anythin’ to him.” “Loss is just a part of life,” Price reminded the Scotsman, though his tone was not unkind. “Now, this should be obvious, but I never know with you boys: none of this information leaves this room. Understood?” “Understood,” parroted the four men.

Roach raised a tentative hand. “Permission to ask a question, sir?” “Permission granted.” Roach hesitated. “Where was Scanner shot?” Price paused, thinking for a moment. “He took more than a handful of bullets. I believe one was to his shoulder, two or three to his stomach, and one to the chest. Why do you ask?” The team gave a collective “Ohhhh,” as if this resolved some great mystery for them. Price cocked an eyebrow in silent question.

“His right shoulder,” Gaz explained. “One of the old bullet wounds must flare up. He’s constantly rolling it. I thought it was just a nervous tic, or something.” “He applies heating packs to it all the time,” Roach notified. “And massages the joint like it’s bothering him. He never goes to medical, though.”

Ghost gave a quiet rumble, like a discontented mastiff. “Buggering fool. What’s he gonna do if his shoulder flares up while we’re on a mission, eh?” “Sod off, Lt,” Soap chided him, swatting the Lieutenant on the arm. “Show some compassion, y’spook.” Ghost stared down at the Sergeant with his usual deadpan countenance. “Caring idn’t an advantage, Johnny. Y’should know that by now.” Soap appeared genuinely hurt by that statement. He lowered his gaze.

Gaz shot Ghost a disapproving side-glance. Roach raised a hand to rest gently on Soap’s thigh in a silent gesture of comfort. Ghost huffs. “Sentimental idjits.” “Ghost,” Price warns. “You either speak respectfully or you don’t speak at all. Somehow I think you’ll choose the latter.”

He then turned his keen gaze to Soap, Gaz, and Roach. “You three, remember what I said. Not a word about this to anybody.” “What about Paul– er, Scanner?” asked Roach. “He knows we heard him singing.”

Price lit up a fresh cigar and took a long drag. “Don’t approach him. You know how he is; you’ll scare him off and have him runnin’ like a fox flushed by the hunt. Let him come to you in his own time.” “And if he doesn’t?” Soap interjects, his blue eyes creased in concern.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Price decided, scratching at his short-cropped beard. “For now… just skirt the subject. Act like you usually do around him. Mander isn’t some porcelain doll to be coddled. He’s a soldier, just like us.”

The Captain stopped to glance at the clock on the wall. “S’almost breakfast time, lads. Best go get your victuals. We’ve got a hard hike today. Seventeen miles, full kit and combat gear.”

The men gave a collective groan, except for Ghost. He gave a gutteral noise of something that was as close to excitement as the hefty Lieutenant ever voiced. It was the equivalent of the average fellow jumping up and down and whooping.

Price nodded towards the door. “Go on. Mander will be waiting for you in the mess hall, I’m sure. Dismissed.”

pt.3 here

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