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senka-mesecine · 2 months ago

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How do you think Barnes would react if another member of the platoon tried to make a move on the reader in front of him? Love your writing btw xx

Free-Fire Zone.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

wonderful gif by @woman-with-no-name

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— Or, alternatively, the things Staff Sergeant Barnes does due to jealousy.

—

Etymology: A free-fire zone is an area in which any person present is deemed an enemy combatant who can be targeted by opposing military forces. The concept of a free-fire zone does not exist in international law, and failing to distinguish between combatants and civilians is a war crime.

—

The army has a form for everything.

Bothersome, smoothfaced greenhorns more than anything else.

Sam Caufield happened to be more than just that. Barnes was no fool; With self-awareness trained like a well-honed, frequently used muscle, Barnes recognized his own antithesis when he saw it reflected back to him in the flesh — handsome, unscarred, unburdened, spritely, exuding positivity, barely on the cusp of manhood — hardly able to grow a few wisps of thinning hair on his chin. Furthermore, beyond just a good countenance, he was social. Knew how to talk. Knew how to charm effortlessly. Knew how to package and time a joke. Knew how to deliver it. Knew how to deliver it to you, most importantly, in a way appealing to women — now, most humor ‘round base camp wasn’t appealing to no broad. Crass, crude and off-putting one would say, made for a company of all-men for all-men — frontier talk aimed at hardened, rough-round-the-edges Lifers — but, this pissant kid? Barnes swaps through the collective of pictures Bunny snapped with that camera of his he got cheap from some two-bit whorehouse in Bangkok, but it did the trick; on each and every one, you were in some phase of smiling or other. Either about to. Either covering your mouth bashfully. Either through motion blur. Either suppressing a giggle through firmly pressed together lips. Either baring your teeth entirely. The Midwestern fancy-pants boy right beside you, engaging in small talk. The task was to spy; and sure, he sent out Bun and Red to do it respectively. Red did it for the praise. One bit of praise — as scarce as a crumb of bed thrown to the devoted, eager, skin-and-bone dog whining at the foot of the boss’s dining table. Barnes found the man was so starved that saying ‘thanks’ to him once was enough to fuel him for a month like those big, old tanks. Bunny? Bunny did it for the pleasure of mischief entirely, downright volunteering for the mission. Hidin’ in the bushes, tailin’ sumn and bein’ a bit of an imp seemed to appeal to him just fine, his juvenile irritant nature serving like a shield of sorts, preventing anyone from taking the nonsense he was up to in his downtime too seriously. Just Bunny-boy doin’ Bunny-boy shit.

What mattered was — it couldn’t be traced back to him.

They all thought Bun was a lech anyhow.

Indulgin’ himself in lech activities?

Who would’ve been surprised by that if he was ever spotted?

They’d shrug it off like one shrugs off a cat dippin it’s paw in butter.

Just a snot-nosed kid pervin’ out on some other snot-nosed kid and the nurse, they’d say. And Red? He was no better, even at his big ol’ age. As for himself? Too straight-laced and serious for nonsense — the war’s his mistress. All he cares about. That’s supposedly the official story, anyway, one he played into. Wasn’t untrue either.

At least until it came to you anyhow.

-"Uh, how do’ya like the photos, Bob-o, huh? Whadaya think? Sure struttin’ his stuff ‘round, isn’t he? Peacockin’ himself, uh-oh! Thinkin’ he’s Frankie Avalon and shit."-

Red crosses his arms over his chest, seemingly made nervous by the heavy, deep silence Barnes has deliberately chosen to fall into, no doubt concluding the pictures weren’t to his liking; truth was, he was too angry to speak. In that silent, subdued, cold way an agitated hound that bites out of nowhere might be. -"Eh. Thanks, Bun."- He dismisses, thanking the youth hovering about eagerly, right beside the anxious Irishman, waiting for some acknowledgement for his handiwork; once he gets it, he bobs his head in contentment, a smile instantly splitting his face like praise for his troublemakin’ tendencies was all he was looking forward to. -"Someone should do sumn’ ‘bout that, Sarge. Jump him in the middle of the night. Code Red his ass good."- Bun suggests, taking a heavy drag out of his cigarette and letting the plume cover his face like a veil; Barnes weighs and considers the notion for a moment — giving someone a whooping because often, newbies needed to get beaten for beating’s sake? Now, there was an idea. But, no. -"That oughta teach him. Stealin’ the Sarge’s girl. Yeah!"- Bunny continues, riled up, but Barnes has already crossed over the notion in his mind; It would only make him a martyr. You’d be there dabbing away at his split lip, bruises and swollen eyes and you would’ve been thinking to yourself what sort of animal does such a thing; Barnes liked his solutions permanent. Fixed once and for all, like castrating a bull and frying the balls over an open fire. -"I’ll give him a smack or two if you ask me, Sarge."- A semi inebriated Sanderson interjects swaying from the sidelines, standing on the edge of the conversation not unlike a court witness, gripping his bottle of bourbon like it was a liferaft; Barnes’s eyes remain lingering on the photographs, swapping and swapping. He must’ve gone over all of them at least ten times within five minutes, no differently from a man possessed. -"Atta-boy, Sanderson."- Bunny agrees with the approach of simply beating Caulfield up for good measure and it is only when he figures he’s being addressed with a question of actual importance that Barnes lifts his gaze up from where he was seated, at the head of their emptied poker table, the rest of them standing around like unfed orphans, that he actually lifts his stare and pins it on Bunny.

-"What about her, Sarge?"-

Bunny points his nose down at his own photographs, impatient and fidgety. Nervously, in the manner of someone not wanting to lag behind in the conversation, O’Neill immediately interjects.

-"Yeah, Bob! Ain’ gonna say anything to the dame having a gigglefit over some limp cheesedick cherry?"-

Barnes holds down Red’s wide, conspiratorial eyes with his own, letting the silence settle in with deliberate awkwardness, watching the man shrink and fall back like a kicked animal, palming the pictures, in color no less, committing every expression you had on them to memory; he gets up then, slowly, leaning his hand on his knee in the process and walking himself to the threshold of the barracks and the lit barrel on the entryway that served as a mosquito repellent and a way to dispose of garbage, not saying anything to anyone, promptly throwing Bunny’s pictures inside once they’ve served their purpose, practically hearing the kid make a clicking tongue sound and inhaling his breath sharply behind him; no, he wouldn’t retaliate against you, unless taking away your admirin’ beau counted as a punishment. It was between the men, as it ought to have been, he thinks, watching the images coil, deform and char, eaten away by the slow, crackling flame, devouring your smiling face and the face of the dog barking up your fence. Yeah. That’s what he needed. He needed this boy disappeared until he was nothing but ash and if Barnes felt any kinder he would have this reported to the higher ups as workplace fraternization and lack of discipline, but somehow, considering the intensity of the itch, a scratch like that didn’t feel sufficient. He needed more. Wanted more. He craved blood like a god craves sacrifice. His doe always came back to him, even when she didn’t know that’s precisely what she was doing. Even when she didn’t know she was his. She’d coil up in the far recesses of his mind not unlike a pet and sleep there, in the darkness. Sometimes, he really thought God and the Devil mutually agreed to write your womb for him and it so happens he decided to agree with both of them.

You didn’t know about him the way he knew about you.

Were ‘bout to find out, though.

—

Barnes never considered spare time around the garrison spare — idleness always felt like a lull.

A lull between battles, in a sense.

Short intermissions interlacing constant action.

That’s how Fridays felt too — how this particular Friday felt.

Thing was, unspoken rule was that everyone on base had to choose their allegiances; either him or ‘Lias’s side. Some took longer. Some took shorter. But sooner or later everyone would end up either classified or classifying themselves — either here or there, because Barnes sure as hell didn’t like that whole ‘sitting on two chairs business’, feeling that a grown up who couldn’t make decisions wasn’t grownup anyhow, not relishing in the notion of someone who keeps the company of druggies and potheads seated at his table; Sure ‘Lias felt much the same, for all his holier-than-thou, waterwalking tendencies. And all it takes is a word from him to release Bun like a wind up toy to approach Caufield; Barnes figured — they were similar in age. As such, similar in relatability. The invite to the barracks would’ve felt more like an attempt at forging a sense of camaraderie between a similar age-group than an outright order or muscling the boy into something if he went and sent someone older, like O’Neill, the transfer document Barnes needed already procured for him by Lt. Wolfe, all he needed was an agreeing signature from the offending party. There was sumn’ Biblical about it; Like David and Bethsheba, he intended on sending the Uriah of the story away — perhaps to the worst place he could think of at the top of his head and pressing the cigarette into his mouth, inhaling the smoke he contemplates all the drinks, bottles and cans lining the poker table in the company of so many scattered playing chips once Bunny leads the boy inside, one arm slung over the sack of shit’s shoulders, both of them already halfway inebriated by the looks of them, stumbling across the building’s threshold. Good. That was the plan. Butter him up. Make him think he was bein’ befriended and welcomed to the fold with open arms. Get him as drunk as a skunk. Bring him back here. Pig for the slaughter. Sanderson and Bun practically sit him down, pressing down on the boy’s shoulder, Sanderson pressing the bourbon bottle into the asshole’s shaking hands, goddamn nearly lifting the liqour’s glassy neck and pouring it down the kid’s throat, causing him to awkwardly choke, splatter and laugh, covering his tensions, lip nearly shivering when he realized he was sitting right in front of him. O’Neill’s hand wiping the poker table in front of him with an old rag, drying the spilled alcohol, sliding the document in front of him.

As far as hazings went, this was mild.

The interlude was mild, anyhow.

The conclusion? Hardly.

-"What’s this?"-

The boy’s eyes dart left from right, up to down, confused, gaze spinning around the room.

Barnes smells his fear.

It was a little like the sort of stuff the scent of blood was made from — thick and vaguely metallic.

-"What’s this, guys?"-

Caufield asks again, this time, his voice cracking in his throat once the men circle him in.

All silent.

All staring.

All standing.

Barnes and him the only ones seated from a group of ten.

O’Neill looks between him and the kid, taking it as a sign to speak; Barnes blinking up at him being enough.

-"Uh, it’s a lottery ticket confirmation, bozo, and you’re gonna sign it, uh-oh."-

Red leers, a smarmy, gloating, self-contented smile adorning his equally smarmy face as he practically swayed in delight looming over the frightened boy attempting to make his own body seem small while O’Neill extended his arm and pressing his finger on the line were a signature should’ve gone — Barnes hums, barely audibly, in the back of his own throat, watching the extension of his will play its winning hand. Everything he did was so these poor boys out here could live, but sometimes, oh, sometimes —

-"Right here."-

Red clarifies, showcasing the bottom of the document on the table — Sam Caufield’s distressed, anguish filled face jolts up in disbelief, eyes wide, glazed over with drunkenness, no doubt quickly glancing at the contents in front of him, finding himself pressed down into the seat by hands from all sides holding him hostage on his stool — the heavy, oppressive humidity inside the barracks enveloping the sticky sheen of his forehead in a veil of dripping sweat.

-"What!? But, why!?"-

-"To win a million cash-dollar prize money and a trip down to China Beach, uh-oh, is why."-

Red taunts and within an instant, both of Sam’s wrists are grabbed, Bunny at the boy’s left, forcing a pen into his hand, practically pressing down on the paper with a thud while Sanderson interlaced his fingers in the tressers of a grunting Caufield’s hair, pulling back, holding him prisoner there — Barnes feeling at leisure, observing the scene, smoking the last of his cigarette down to the butt, crushing the remains on the edge of the metal table, leaving a black, charred dot behind once the signature of consent is where it needed to be.

-"That’s it. Yeah."-

Bun revels, bobbing his head with enjoyment, digging his teeth into his lower lips — sure, they could’ve just gone and forged a signature — muscle Caufield into saying it was his, but there was something about winning out over people in such an ultimatum, undeniable way their own will was overridden it practically made Barnes lick the inside of his own cheek, savouring the victory once Bun and the men let go of the boy having gone pale, like the gravitas of what happened sunk in and all the booze in his gut won out over all sense.

-"Oh god. God. I think I’m gonna be sick."-

The boy jumps up, hand covering his twisted mouth.

Stumbling through the crowd that parts for him to pass, barely getting three steps away.

Not before his spine bent over and he keel over vomiting into a nearby corner.

So much ‘bout that, Barnes figures, taking to shuffling his deck of cards.

He felt like playin’ some poker after this.

O’Neill collecting the signed document, tucking it away into Barnes’s pouch.

Good dog.

Wonderboy drinks like a child would. Wonderboy can’t hold his liquor. Wonderboy made an ass out of himself in the middle of the barracks. Wonderboy covered himself in sick like a wimp. Is that the type of man you can imagine defending you anywhere? From anyone? He imagines getting into your face, saying all of that to you, word for word, drinking from you reactions like someone would drink from the fountain of life. If someone tried to strongman him into doin’ anything against his will, least of all if it mean being separated from you, he’d bite their fingers off, spit them back into their face and then go through court martial and five years in prison for mutilating a serviceman with several witnesses around — fuck it. But, thing was, not all people were created equal. Some were hunted and some were hunters. Boy’s fate was sealed, Barnes knew, the first day he ever talked to you — made you smile. Laugh. Everyone here knew you were off limits. Everyone knew better. But Sam Caufield. Even Lt. Wolfe, walking in warily at the sound of heaving and lurching peppered with the occasional cough knows better than to meet Barnes’s gaze at the head of the table when he enters — instead, he meets everyone else’s. The perks of having Mark Wolfe as a superior was that the man was dead terrified of anyone who hailed south-east of Ohio-”What’s going on here?”- The Lieutenant in his grey, short sleeved, wrestling team college boy jersey asks, putting on the airs of seriousness like he was an actual authority in here; O’Neill wiggles his shaking finger in response, trying to withhold a grin in the middle of a crowd trying to look inconspicuous as they rounded to collect the boy and haul him on outta here for an overnight soberin’ — if tonight seemed hard on Midwestern boy, he ought to have cherished these hours as some of the last he’d spend in relative peace, biggest problems bein’ a hangover and a headsplittin’ migraine. -"Uh, Caufield’s lunch didn’t agree with him, El-tee. Right, Caufield?"- Red bares his teeth at the Lieutenant, addressing Sammy-boy once Sammy-boy was already bein’ hauled out, sick and unable to answer, groanin’ like someone who just swallowed searin’ coal. Wolfe looks around the barracks, mouth slightly agape — he procured the transfer document for them yet he played the role of an innocent clueless like someone born in a travellin circus, runnin’ around with a country Chautauqua.

-"The canned peaches. Yeah. Shit, man!"-

Bunny interjects into the heavy silence of the barracks, the stench of puke hovering in the heat.

Wolfe’s brow’s furrow.

-"Alright, clean the shit up."-

Is all he says to the commotion.

Barnes starts dealing cards, mind drifting in the fog and to the memory of your smile not directed at him.

—

-"Sergeant. A swap request?"-

Captain Harris looks up from his tidied desk, eyes doing a doubletake focused on the signed document in front of him and then glancing back up, blinking in quick succession like someone who seemed like they borderline needed glasses for what they just read; not due to any vision impaired related issues but simply due to what Barnes registered as subdued disbelief. He almost feels proud of himself in some private sense; for bein' able to cause someone who served in two wars before this one shock.

-"Tayn Nihn?"-

The older man asks, and yeah, Tayn Nihn, that's right.

That's goddamn right.

-"At ease; you can explain your reasoning. Why?"-

The Captain's grey eyebrows furrow right along with his sweat drenched, wrinkled forehead and he almost yearns to be honest in all his harshness and say I'm sending the boy away because if he ain' sent away soon, I ain' responsible for my actions; Imma kill him and keep his jaw 'round as an ashtray. He holds his tongue; licking the inside of his cheek as per habit, quelling the need for sincerity, replacing it with the rinsed and washed diplomacy of tactical lies.

-"This outfit’s at maximum capacity, sir! Parrot’s Beak and Fishhook are a major infiltration route for the NVA, sir! Ranks there are scarce. Ranks here are overpopulated for the outfit’s needs."-

He crosses his arms behind his back irregardless of being given ease or not, refusing to be at any sort of state that could be called relaxed or casual, not when he was talking about eliminating an enemy --- there was nothing 'at ease' about this. Robert Barnes hasn't felt at ease in years. Least of all when someone started pepperin' ya with attentions. He felt like a bed spring wire bent under too much weight and pressure, ready to snap, busting through the fabric of the mattress and stab however was laying there straight into the back.

-"Any man spare can do there everythin' he can do here, sir!"-

-"And what’s that, Sergeant Barnes?"-

The Captain seemed speculative, entwining his own fingers on the edge of the desk.

Elbows resting on their precipice.

-"Be useful for the war effort, sir."-

Actually fightin' for his life instead of buzzin' 'round a nurse like a fly in summer.

His nurse.

Captain Harris gets up then, a deep sigh passing his mouth.

-"Sergeant Barnes, I don’t approve of discriminatory treatment of recruits and personal vendettas being settled through bureaucracy."-

He explains, taking on a relaxed posture himself, something about those whole thing seeming to weight heavy on him as he adjusted his uniform, staring down, towards the tiles for a brief blip, contemplative, right before he meets his gaze once more. -"I suggest you settle this."- A finger is pointed at him; a warning issued. A way of saying that whatever caused this ought to have been fixed in private, back in the barracks. If Barnes went around takin' justice into his own hands they'd have a casualty on base camp, because Caufield would've been dead so in a sense, this was almost preferable. Almost the route of peace, as far as peace routes went in his books. -"I aim to settle, sir. I'm settlin'."- Barnes throws his chin out, legs akimbo, not about to flinch. The old Captain seemed incredulous, but in ways, Barnes almost had to admire it --- the fact the man didn't let up easily. That he was defending his outfit. His boys. Doesn't mean Barnes could cave in. If the Captain didn't relent, he'd simply had you reassigned instead. Then, he'd reassigned himself right after you and follow you. -"Settling. Yeah. Settling. By sending a fresh faced eighteen year old to the most dangerous place this side of the continent right about now?"- Captain Harris jabs, visibly outraged, the thin, buzzing wire of his impatience hidden behind the genteel gloves of pleasantries and manners, reading him for filth regardless and causing something about that comment to string somewhat --- a fresh faced eighteen year old --- yeah. Maybe he envied Caufield's years. His unscarred self. Maybe he envied the fact he was everything Barnes no longer was or could be. Maybe he wasn't about to delude himself. The fact you might want someone wholesome and unpolluted and not him. Maybe he wanted the kid to suffer for it. Maybe he wanted him to return back from The Nam, if he returns at all, with a scar just as grizzly as his own. Return with an arm. Without a leg. Feel what it is like to be marked permanently for all the world to see. So, he says nothing. He merely holds Captain Harris's gaze. If this transfer couldn't take place, then he'd ensure he leaves with you --- prepare all the necessary paperwork, have it signed by whatever means needed. After that, it would be easy, dissappearin' with you in the jungle. Disappearin' you. -"Sergeant..."- The old man trails off like a father about to reprimand a son and Barnes catches it, utilizing the long moment of silence to explain himself; he had enough leverage with the years put in to get rid of some damn bothersome ass cherry if he wanted to.

Fact was, however high the stakes were...

He was still more likely to survive a free-fire zone that him here or anywhere.

So, Barnes says just that; decides to explains the simple fact, as democratically and as flatly as he could, that there's gonna be murder on the premises if this boy doesn't get choppered the fuck outta here, and stat.

He was here first, after all.

-"I reckon he’s safer there, sir, than he is here."-

—

The first light of a morning dawn on a Monday, 0600.

There's a change of airs.

He sees and feels it vividly in the routines scattered into small groups around perimeters; the men shaving in the reflections of small, crack mirrors propped up on nearby branches, breakfast bein' eaten out of cans down in the dust, laundry bein' hanged and dried on rope tied between two old tree trunks, someone vehemently polishin' and shinin' the leather of their combat boots, everyone in pairs of two's and threes at best --- a quiet sort of arrangement where everyone minded their own business, kept their eyes down, engrossed in the task at hand whatever the task might've been --- the machine running at a slow but efficient optimum; you occasionally pass groups of men, haulin' boxed up provisions --- bandages and needles, clean gauze, the soft thud of your footsteps followed by no one but him because Barnes watches, he always does, and in ways, all eyes avert at your proximity, downright causing him to catch the sight of a grim Vermucci pretending to be taken with the task of rubbing out a crusted stain on something he was just done rinsing by scratching the blotch off with the tip of his nail from the oily, faded green material purely so he'd avoid looking at you and appear busier than he actually was --- too busy to even acknowledge you, Samuel Caufield pathetically by his side, arms having hugged his knees close to his chest in front of a set up hexamine fuel stove, burning and smoking under the addition of an Esbit heat tablet, warming up what seemed like an extremely early lunch, seeming downtrodden and far away --- crestfallen ever since the day the boys practically hauled him out of the barracks dead-ass drunk. Yeah. Boy had it coming. Boy been askin' for it. -"What have you done!?"- Barnes's mind briefly drifts, imaging you close by, your balled up fists beating against his chest in distress, your voice reflecting the voice of conscience, his soul if such a thing even existed, having taken human. -"Robert, what have you done!?"- You slam against him a second time, reprimandin', the reverie of your hands against his torso reflecting the thump of his heart pumping blood. Fact was, even just imaginin' you angry was a sort of quiet relish. If he visualized you spittin' into his face in rage and judgement he couldn't claim he wouldn't outright hum with contentment and it wasn't even seven in the morning. -"You sent him to die. It was as good as executing him in front of a firing squad! An innocent boy who didn't know any better!"- You shout and he imagines gripping you hard, stilling and steadying you, holding you in place against the chaos of your own wrath.

-"Shut up. Shut up!"-

He pictures it --- himself seething through gritted teeth.

Just about having had enough of your misguided righteousness.

Getting close enough to you to see himself reflected in your widening eyes.

You wanted to know what a free-fire zone was?

A place where anything went.

-"Ain' no innocent boys out here."-

He simmers, goddamn convinced he could practically feel the phantom softness of your forearms as he held you in the deep, hidden recesses of his mind, making busy by pressing an unlit cigarette into his mouth as a distraction while he tinkered with the safety of his Colt Model 653P on a stool on the front porch of the barracks, taking two magazines together with green duct tape for good measure, knowing that tobacco in his mouth and the lack of a zippo to smoke it with was almost like a wordless invitation for sumn' to come over and pay homage by lighting it for him --- not even the unborn in the womb were innocent in The 'Nam, and in fact, once the distant, thundering whirlwind of what he instantly recognized as a Huey in flight and metallic proper blades, he knew Captain Harris would rather make a transfer than risk bloodshed within his ranks because a Barnes was more useful to Bravo Company than some cherry fresh out of the world, watching the familial saunter of O'Neill's break the distance two clicks from here on the other end of the terrain, stopping near Caufield, interrupting the boy's meal, Red's voice loud and shrill enough for him to hear all the way here, almost certainly deliberately, the gloating in the Irishman's voice, he knew, meant as a sort of solidarity for Barnes's cause; O'Neill would ask for something in return for all of this, that too, Barnes knew; he'd deny to it him. Nobody out here could make demands tossed his way, no siree. Hell would sooner freeze over. He considered he'd much rather die than to concede to anyone in anything. -"Chop, chop, Caufield, your ride's here. 'Bout to take'ya to bananaland, yeah."- O'Neill mocks once the Huey lands, gusts of wind circulated within the spinning blades carrying clouds of dry, red soil into the air and Barnes watches Sam haul gear and throw his nearby backpack and sleeping roll over his back, leaving a half eaten snack behind, something in his expression glazed over, foggy - if he didn't know any better he'd imagine the boy was on the verge of tears expecting this day and stewing over the fact what he's signed up to the other day --- seemed like word travelled fast around base. Nobody does as much as dare to say goodbye to the sack of shit once he boards. Who would do this much for you, he thinks? Who would go this far to have you?

Answer was; no one.

Instinctively, he finds you standing on the entrance of the makeshift infirmary building adjacent to the hip of the camp, watching with your mouth parted, wiping your hands of sweat and moisture into an old washcloth, a shadow of what he only momentarily reads as confusion as you lift up your hand instead of a visor over your forehead inspecting the situation from afar, trying to blot out the sharpness of the early morning sun and keep the spinning dust out of your eyes, no doubt attempting to assess where your joker friend was goin' on such a short notice, especially without sayin' his goodbyes or givin' as much as an ounce of clarification; he imagines the iron maw of a trap snapping shut around the doe's legs, trapping her in place. You were his now and he hums faced with the idea even as Bunny wordlessly approaches him from inside the barracks, zippo in tow, lighting his cigarette for him, causing him to murmur a quick thanks as his attention hovers back to you and you observing take off like it's the damn moon landing televised live. Yeah. Look all you like. A dead man walkin' deserved that much, at least; for someone to look at him walk down the plank and get pushed into the piranha infested river to be devoured alive.

Yeah. They should all look. All look at what he was capable of.

-"You ain’ got nothin' better to do but lollygag, missy?"-

He calls out to you from his stool once about he's had enough of your attentions.

Yelling over the buzzing of the chopper lifting into the air.

You stand there for a second, called to attention, shimmering, copper dirt particles swirling around you like a powdery mist, the look you throw him from the shadow of the hooch one of suppressed disdain and something distant --- as dignified as cold, quiet pride --- causing the blood to shoot right into his cock as he inhaled the smoke of his cigarette, pressing down both of his lips around it, dragging a plume of smoke, letting it pollute and mangle his lungs, figuring he loved you so much even your hate was appealing in ways few things were; was almost amusing, actually. If there ever was a time where you'd break all protocol and slap him across the face because he pushed you one step too far he could almost imagine himself laughing at you and your feeble attempts to fight against things that ought to be. What was simply reality. He was reality. That and what he decided was rightfully his. Today it was poor boy Caufield. 'Wrong-place, wrong-time' Caufield. Meddlesome, ignorant Caufield. Sacrificial hen Caufield. Obstacle Caufield. Tomorrow, it could've been someone else choppered away. Did you really think he'd ever stop? He was of the opinion no man should ever stop at anything until he was dead and in the grave; until then, everything was game.

-"Sorry, sir."-

Is all you mouth with a swift turn of heel, retreating back into your building.

The Huey was high in the air overhead, goin' south-east.

In the army, there was a form for everything.

And for all Barnes was concerned, all was right in the world then and there.

The path to you was clear to him.

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