| Subject: Chapter 267 - Part 2 (16 and above) (end of chapter 267) |
Author:
KatherineG.
|
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: Monday, November 27, 06:51:24am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (258>?) continued" on Monday, October 23, 07:10:30am
It took the actor only a few seconds to grab hold of his attacker's arm, soon whipping around behind the man to push it far up his back. The response was so unconventional--by Ackerman's standards--that he didn't know how to respond, was stunned enough that Michael found it easy to knee him in the back, pushing him forward hard into the doorjamb; Bill nearly felt one of his teeth come loose from the jarring impact--his rage the only thing he knew anymore. But then they were interrupted--Simmons' voice preceding him into the room. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" And the tussling pair froze for long enough to discover their commander's intentions.
The original aggressor still found himself pushed up hard against the wall, the doorjamb nearly cutting into his jaw--Michael not letting up at all. Now that he had gotten used to the position, he was certain that he could have thrown his enemy off, could have finished this--but, even in his rage, he had enough sense to yield to authority somewhat. "He attacked me!" he screamed, hoping--if he couldn't finish this--to at least see the man punished. But hopes, as usual, weren't enough by themselves.
This wasn't the first time that the younger man had discovered this--just the fact that the entire unit hadn't rallied against Samuelle once they learned he was French-Canadian enough to dispirit him deeply. Still, he was hoping for something more than Simmons' furious look--their commander growling in front of them. But his words did nothing to help himself at all.
Even had there not been witnesses, the colonel would never have been stupid enough to believe the idiot man's claims--his attacks on Samuelle always quite blatant, if often, like today, badly planned out. His sigh was furious, sick to his soul of this squabbling--his glare at the frozen pair intense. "You're supposed to be parts of a unit--both of you." The glare only moved deeper, as it took in the older, and saner, man. "If you can't work together, everyone in that plane could die." He was nearly shaking, as he glared at them. "I will *not* let that happen here."
The pair before him had no idea of exactly where this moment might go--they and the rest of the unit barely daring to breathe, as they waited for their colonel's determination. Finally, it came. "Michael, let Bill go." His gaze turned to the pinned man. "Ackerman, if you retaliate right now, I'll have you dishonorably discharged--if I don't just decide to charge you with treason." He waited, as the opponents disentangled slowly, Michael wise enough to take several steps back--even if he didn't seem to be retreating at all. He waited for the pair to regain a little of their composure, before pronouncing his sentence. "You've been together for a month and a half. You should damn well know better." Neither looked particularly chastened. "If you haven't, let me give you a lesson." His gaze probed the room. "Everyone, get outside. Michael, leave your coat." His glare returned to them. "This ends *today*."
Neither of the dueling pair knew particularly where this was going but followed, nonetheless--responding to the man's inherent command. When they got outside, their colonel pointed to an area where the snow was piled deep, just off from where the newsreel crew had had the path to the barracks cut so perfectly. "Over there," he ordered. Both men went, eyeing each other cautiously--still wondering where this would go, as they turned back to Simmons, who was holding up his watch. "You have 15 minutes to work this out. There are no rules, during that time." The pair gazed at each other cautiously again, sorting these orders out. "If one of you isn't either dead or unconscious before that time, it stops then. One punch after I call time, and you're in the brig for good--*before* I get you charged with treason." His glare was intense. "What happens after that, I'll tell you later." The pair looked a little stunned but ready, as he held the watch up. "Begin."
The fight began then--the one which had been brewing for so very long. Especially with all their comrades around them, cheering one or both on, it wasn't exactly quiet. But all-out struggles very rarely were.
The men's furious tussle had only been going on for about a minute and a half, when Van Vactor arrived--looking like some vengeful demon. He watched the ongoing battle for half a second, before he turned, his fury aimed entirely at Simmons--eyes quite dark. "What the hell is going on here?"
These were fairly familiar words by this point in the evening, but Simmons' smile was grim. "They're working out their problems, sir."
This decision only infuriated the man, his gaze growing all the more enraged--especially since his subordinate was watching the fight, paying him little attention. "And who gave you permission to do that?" He bristled for half a second before starting toward the men, clearly intending to break it up.
Simmons, to what everyone took to be his credit, had always been a very faithful follower of his orders--but that didn't last for long today. "Commander!" he ground out, stopping the man, drawing Van Vactor's hateful eyes. "With all due respect, it's my job to handle this."
This response made the man's eyebrows rise. "You call this 'handling it'?"
Simmons only smiled. "Yes, sir." Their look met for one more moment, his commander frozen in shock. "Wait and see, please."
Van Vactor did, if only because he was too appalled to move, turning to watch the battle--and it was quite a one to watch. No one who saw it would forget it for quite sometime to come.
What happened between the competing men for those 15 minutes was brutal and exhausting, even to the bystanders. Sometimes standing, sometimes rolling in the icy snow, the pair each did their best to inflict as much damage to their opponent as possible. Even Michael was no longer simply defending himself, giving into the rare opportunity to vent his rage and frustration about his current position--locked away from the world, forced to only hear distant reports of the woman he loved, at the time when she, for so many reasons, most needed him by her side. It seemed to him, as he let the bloody rage cloud his vision for those long moments, that he had been insulted and harmed almost too much to bear; the young, angry teenager in him had emerged. He simply wasn't capable of calmly addressing the issue anymore.
The battle was brutal, then--and not as easily predicted as some might have thought. Ackerman might have had the advantage in sheer muscle, but Michael was more experienced and cunning--that long ago history of bar fighting, and the, far more lovely, physical fitness his young wife had helped him keep up, coming to his aid. It was quite something to see. There were punches; there were kicks. There was even some hair-pulling--and a lot of, only a few muffled, growls and shouts. By the point when Simmons finally cried out, "Time!" they were both far more than the worse for wear. But, even out of breath--bruised, bloody, and half-frostbitten--they still managed to only glare at each other, once the order had been given.
Such restraint was for the best, prevented far worse action. As it was, their colonel was glowering. "Now that that's out of your system, you're going to listen." The pair's eyes turned to him reluctantly, both of them still sitting in ungainly manners in the cold snow. "This is the *end* of this. I see either of you even looking like it might happen again, you're out on your ass. Get that straight right now."
There was a moment, but both men nodded at last, Van Vactor glaring at Simmons--waiting for the rest, which certainly came, his fierce look only deepening his warning to the men. "You've been asking for this. You're both on punishment for a month. You'll start with a week of KP, before I switch you over to the latrines; I might switch you back after that, if I can't think of something worse. You'll have to do them around your usual duties. Since you'll be working them all together, you'll have some time to get to know each other." His glare became more intense, before he started to turn away. "You damn well better use it."
The situation had, for the most part, been handled with this--and, as little as they might like it, both competitors knew it. To Michael, of course, it was something of a relief. Despite his recent show of ferocity, he wasn't the aggressor here. He might have to keep a look out still, but he did understand his enemy. Ackerman might hate him--but he would never endanger himself for long; the actor nearly smiled. This *was*, finally, over.
The sentence they had been given was light, and they both knew it; Van Vactor's gaze probed them rudely for a moment, before nodding his head toward another part of the camp. "Get over to the infirmary." He turned his back on them. "Not that you really deserve the help." Then, both of their leaders left the pair. All that could be done had been.
The pair in question saw this--even if Ackerman, especially, hated it. Still, when Willie came by to help him up--Sikes and Elkins hurrying to his opponent--he looked his enemy over with something like a smile, forced to admit the truth. For an old man, he did pack one hell of a punch. That alone, he supposed, was something to admire him for.
This ended most of the more physical part of the combatants' little war--Michael resigning himself to a more relaxed sort of watchfulness, as he hobbled over to the infirmary with only a little of Sikes' help, Elkins trailing behind them. His only real regret was that the extra work would make writing back to Nikita even more difficult; his sigh went deep. But he could only wish that his beloved's own problems could be settled so relatively easily now.
[End of Part 267]
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| |
Feedback: 
