Ain't War Hell?
By: Maximillian von Fischgeist
Chapter Eleven
Kindred Spirits
"Another one, miss?" the wiry bartender asked Wildcat, removing the latest empty glass. She
languidly swept her gaze toward him and nodded. He hesitated a moment. "Maybe you've had
enough, huh?"
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Continued in Part Twelve!
"I'm fine," she said. She was not accustomed to heavy drinking, and she had undoubtedly hit her
limit, but there was nowhere else to go for the moment. So what if she passed out at the bar? So
what if she made of stumbling fool of herself among this dwindling crew of motley strangers?
"Go ahead, Paul," said a smooth voice from behind her. A small man (he was about her height, but
she was 5' 9", and she tended to think of a man her size as small) leaned against the bar beside
her. He was bright-eyed and not bad looking, but the leer smeared over his face gave him a
predatory look. "I'll treat the lady to whatever she wants."
She tossed him an icy glance. "No thanks."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself, lady. You want to turn down free drinks and some friendly company,
fine with me. Let me know if you change your mind."
The man retreated as the bartender produced another scotch and soda. She tapped her fingernails
on the glass, thinking of nothing in particular. She had achieved exactly what she'd set out to
achieve this night: Her mind was now rendered incapable of forming a truly complete thought.
The door opened and a man entered, dressed in dark clothes. He was about six feet tall, obviously
well-built; his coat and loose-fitting pants couldn't hide that. Sandy blond waves rolled
motionlessly atop his head. He sat at the end of the bar opposite Wildcat, who watched him
closely. She recognized the man. Her breath came short in a moment of panic. Was this absurd
coincidence or something more sinister? He hadn't acknowledged her, or anyone else but the
bartender. He ordered quietly, and the bartender supplied him with bourbon over rocks, which he
sucked down quickly, motioning for another. While the bartender refilled his glass, he lit a
cigarette, pulling an ashtray closer to him.
Wildcat took her drink in hand and stood up. She made her way to where the man was sitting and
set her drink and herself down. He didn't look at her, more concerned with the new bourbon
brought to him. Wildcat leaned closer to him and spoke quietly, conspiratorially: "I know who you
are."
He didn't reply. He downed the bourbon and requested another. She found herself staring at his
downcast eyes, those eyes that had inspired so much curiosity in her. They were pale blue, almost
grey. Beyond that, there was nothing at all striking about them. They might as well have been glass.
There was no life in them.
As a new drink was set on the bar before him, he finally looked at her. "And who am I?" he asked
disinterestedly.
She sipped at her drink and smiled. His dead eyes flicked downward, taking in her body and then
moving back up to fix on her eyes. If he liked what he saw, he made no admission. "Cooper,
MacBride, or Lowlight, which do you prefer?" she asked coolly.
He shrugged, and took down some of his drink. "Whatever you prefer." He slid his pack of
cigarettes toward her. "Smoke?"
She shook her head, allowing none of the disdain she felt for cigarettes show. She shifted her voice
into a register of sweet sarcasm. "You've already tried to kill me, and more boldly than with
cigarettes."
He drained the bourbon from the ice in the glass and smashed his cigarette into death in the
ashtray. "Surely I wouldn't want to kill a pretty girl like you without good reason." Wildcat couldn't
be sure if the statement was supposed to be humorous, as he'd said it with no hint of humor. "If it
was so important to me to kill you, what's to keep me from finishing the job now?" Humor? Again,
she couldn't tell.
"I'm sure we could find a better way to pass the time than killing each other." She finished her
drink and set it down closer to him than to herself, flashing him a flirty glance. He sighed and gave
a small shrug. He looked to the bartender and held up her glass, silently conveying the message
that he would buy her next one. Both drinks were refreshed and Lowlight started on another
cigarette.
"How many of those you had tonight?" Lowlight asked, nodding at her glass.
She blinked, counting in her head. "Six or seven. This will make either seven or eight."
"You're not going to feel good in the morning," he observed. "You're not a drinker."
Was her drunkenness so obvious? Well, she supposed it was. He had downed four drinks in five
minutes. "And how many are you planning on having?"
"Many as it takes," he said.
"How much does it usually take," she pressed.
"A lot."
An alcoholic on top of everything else. Not really surprising. How did he function, though? He was
the most respected night sniper in her awareness, belonging to the most prestigious unit of the
armed forces. How was he able to retain his position with the spectre of alcoholism looming over
him? She pushed her drink away, suddenly losing desire to finish it. She would not move down the
dark road he traveled. The smoke from his cigarette wisped her way, and she turned from him.
When he was no longer in her field of view, she felt a surge of disgust for him. He was not a man.
He was nothing. He was a lifeless thing, walking among the living, feeling none of their passions.
He killed arbitrarily, and washed away the guilt by destroying himself slowly with liquor and
isolation. He was a coward, a hider in the shadows of the night.
Saying nothing more, Wildcat stood and started toward the restroom. There was a disconcerting
churning in her stomach. Her mouth began to fill with saliva. She stumbled across the floor, hoping
she could keep the sickness down long enough to make it to a toilet. She pushed the door open,
rushed to a stall, and lurched to the floor. She gagged and heaved as the liquid contents of her
stomach splashed into the porcelain bowl. After a couple more bouts with her own physiology, the
onslaught ended, and she sat back, pressing her eyes closed as tightly as she could. It didn't
prevent tears from trickling down her face. She wasn't sure if they were borne of the physical
stress of retching or from the knowledge that her assessment of Lowlight had really been an
assessment of herself.
Lowlight had watched her make it to the restroom. He wondered who she was exactly. He hadn't
recognized her. Yet, she said he'd tried to kill her. That surely put her in the ranks of Cobra. She
was younger than him, perhaps twenty-four. And easy on the eyes. What circumstances had
pressed her into such an entity as Cobra were beyond his speculation.
The bartender brought him another drink, and Lowlight said: "This is my last. I'll get her bill too."
He sucked down the bourbon and paid the bartender. Giving life to another cigarette, he made his
way out of the bar.
He stopped on the sidewalk and took in the varied sounds of New York City. He leaned against
the brick wall of the bar, wishing the night had gone differently. He had aimed tonight for solitude.
Instead, he had come across an enemy agent who knew his identity. She had been trying to drink
away some ill, and he recognized in her some hint of himself at a younger age. He had discovered
liquor as an escape at the age of twenty-one (the irony of a murderer waiting for the legal age to
drink was almost amusing). At first, it had worked. The thrill of tipsiness had wiped away the day's
anxieties. He vaguely remembered the tingling of his cheeks and the pleasant numbing of his lips
when he'd first began using alcohol. Now, when he drank, he felt no change until he blacked out.
There was no pleasurable sensation, no thrill. Only an all-too-serious pressure to keep drinking
until the world finally shrank in defeat to slumber.
He tossed the finished cigarette into the gutter, and would've turned to make his way back home,
except the girl emerged from the bar's door. Her eyes found him. She drew near. Her eyes were
red and shimmering from recently released tears.
She reached into her coat and he was mildly surprised to see her remove a pistol. She urgently
jammed the barrel into his stomach, her questioning eyes all the while contrasting with the harsh
action. "I'm not afraid to do it," she breathed over the sound of the gun cocking.
His heart quickened, but not with fear. He pitied this poor girl. Understood her. "You would do
me a favor by pulling that trigger," he whispered. He meant it. He was almost elated at the idea of
dying here and now, dispatched by this unexpected kindred spirit. The only thing that tainted it was
that this girl would be further pushed into whatever doom had a hold of her now.
"You would have killed me a few nights ago. But I'm not afraid of you..." Her quavering voice
trailed off. Her eyes sparkled with new tears.
He knew then that it had been she who followed him and Scarlett. She had been the shadow that
did not finish the job. He realized also why she hadn't. Her objective had been to see them safely
get away, so they would report the death of Remick Odem. What better way to hide a prisoner
than to have him officially killed? He had killed a decoy that night. It all made sense now. Remick
Odem was not dead. More important, he was probably nearby. This woman had been connected
with the operation and probably still was. If she was in New York, Odem was in New York. So
close to G.I. JoeÕs own hidden base on Staten Island!
Lowlight slowly brought his hand up and curled his fingers over the gun. He gently pushed it aside.
She relented and her shoulders slumped. "Get away from this while you can," he said quietly and
with a tender compassion that surprised him. "Whatever it is you've done, it's not too late to start
over."
She shook her head gently, and forcefully blinked the tears into submission. Her lips parted, but
whatever she was going to say never came. She turned and walked away from. Her pace
quickened and he watched after her until she turned a corner and disappeared.
Isn't it too late, though, for people like us to start over?
he thought. And so I add hypocrisy
to my list of crimes.
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