Description: Emerging from her encounter with Diesel, Hunter manages to find her way back to the world. Bleeding profusely, but not quite dead, she falls into the arms of a woman not known for her kindness and compassion. Whip and the Ikari are just where she needs them to be, though. Now that she's being airlifted to safety, far (she believes) from the grasp of the maddened woman sent to murder her... perhaps Hunter can find some rest.
The aftermath of war isn't all scorched corpses and debris-soaked battlefields...
Some, even most of it, is so much more human.
The Ikari unit despatched to Chinese soil has fanned out in the wake of their meeting with the grievous Thai huntress, Whip's empathetic request and subsequent order from Faolan Sheehan causing them to mobilize in search of a hero. They're scouring field and farmhouse, jungle low and mountain high, but they do so with the trudging and laboured step of soldiers who know their work is in vain. A symbol, much like Sagat was to Hunter's people, a gesture made to deliver hope and kindle the fires in saddened souls. Ironically, their heart is not in it.
For the former NESTS assassin, at least, it means almost as much as it does to Hunter. Though outwardly upbeat for the bulk of her waking existence, Whip is ever shameful and guilt-ridden when it comes to her past. Her actions of the past few days seek to bring some tiny amount of closure, as every good action she performs. There's no over-emotional languishing, however; she genuinely and selflessly believes that through aiding those who deserve it, even those on occasion who both deserve AND pay for it, she makes the world slightly better. It's the least she can do, given what she would have been. It's what the girl she never was would have wanted.
"<You're sure? No tall man?>" Currently she's leaning close to a pair of wizened Chinese women, knelt upon the coarse grasses outside their humble homestead on the jungle's edge. Smoke rises up over the horizon, testament to how close this ancient duo came to being enveloped in the fires of war. They seem cheery in spite of it, gibbering between themselves in their native tongue - one Whip knows, at best, with a passing familiarity - before the younger (marked by a few strands of black still visible in her odangos) looks up and shakes her head, before beckoning toward the house behind her. Wherefrom wafts the thick, heady scent of cooking rice.
"<No. Thank you. I am... very busy. Please, be well.>" Haltingly, Whip brings palm to fist and executes what she thinks is the acceptable bow, returning by the laughing pair a moment later as she steps away and begins to head toward the waiting jeep. It's parked a quarter mile out, up a long and muddy track that winds further beyond into the jungle depths. Breathing a heartfelt sigh, she reaches for the canteen at her waist; trying to negotiate in a tongue she doesn't understand is taxing in more than one way. A sip is taken as she lingers at the edge of the paddy field, gaze flickering toward the thick-forested expanse.
There's that feeling again... she's been having it all day. Like she's missing something.
Hunter has been running for days, it feels like. Though in truth it can only be twenty perhaps thirty hours since her encounter with the Shadaloo assassin. The wound in her gut, though, has really started to ache. She hasn't had time to apply more than rudimentary first aid. She's tough, but, she's not immortal. She's bleeding pretty heavily, in fact, and the truth that it had been inflicted on her by her own blade just makes it all the more embarrassing.
When she sees the Ikari soldiers, it is not Whip who catches her eye; life, alas, is not that convenient. Instead, stumbling from the nearby forest, Hunter's filth-smeared, bloody and battered form comes lunging out at one of the larger men. She knows that uniform. The people wearing it had not tried to kill her before.
It isn't hope, exactly, which fuels Hunter's frantic flight. It is a desperate desire not to die. Not because she has anything worth living for, but because continuing to take one breath after the other has become an addictive habit; the idea of stopping, terrifying.
"Ikariiiiiii."
The girl's words are a dark rasp on her lips, as she collapses, and rolls to a stop. The girl's clothes are soaked through with blood and muck. Her skin ghostly pale.
"... help ..."
It's unfortunate in the extreme that one of the outlying patrols haven't found her sooner; another failure in a war full of them. But is it every any different? A soldier's attitudes and emotional resiliencies evolves in response to the conclusion that it's not, and so with the appearance of Hunter comes minimal sympathetic fanfare from the men clustered, smoking and cracking terrible puns, around the beat-up jeep.
"Wo-oah, little lady!" Laughs the musclebound corporal whom she intercepts, his eyes wide but manner immediately boisterous when he makes out the dimunitive woman as precisely that. Big arms seek to entangle her, but she comes in too fast, and he ends up taking a stumbling half-step back as she crashes down. Pausing to watch her with dawning realization, the only sound for a moment - beside her own - is the dissonantly gentle slosh-slosh of heady liquor stored in the beaten metal flask he's still holding. "Uh..."
"If you make a crack about it bein' our lucky day, man," booms a shorter, but equally robust dark-skinned soldier, leant nonchalantly against the vehicle's hood, "I'm'a keep punchin' you in that lumpy head until we get somethin' real soft n' sticky for our dinner." It doesn't have to make sense. It's like a Rambo movie.
"W-Whatever, man, she's hurt bad. Think she needs a kick of something..." The strappingest of the Ikari is making his way to Hunter's side as he replies, reaching up with the free hand to itch beneath his Jones-trademark bandanna. At her side a moment later, he eases her up over one huge thigh and starts to tip her head back in preparation for a dose of the best hooch this side of the Brazilian rainforest...
When there's the sudden pattering of approaching feet.
"Uh?"
The toe of a steel-capped boot neatly catches the flask and flips it heavenward, a gloved hand lashing out to catch it before upending the vile concoction to one side. High-proof alcohol sizzles as it comes into contact with the fertile soil of the Chinese motherland, leaving behind a scent that's better left undescribed. "Jenkins," murmurs Whip, her hand sliding to her own brow, pushing a sweep of heat-frizzed brunette behind her ear as she leans down next to him, supporting Hunter's other side with rather more delicacy, "You're an idiot." There's no time for a better dressing-down than that-- the older woman is a mess.
"Stop gawking and get me morphine, antiseptic wipes, bandages..."
She rattles off ingredients as though in a daze, which she's in very much the opposite of; focused, movements deft as she seeks out broken bones and examines visible cuts for signs of oncoming gangrene. She may have been trained to /kill/, but saving lives amounts to the same skills applied in reverse - it's impossible to know sixteen hundred ways to kill a man without understanding why he dies. At least if you're going to be any good.
"Don't close your eyes, and keep looking at me."
Fortunately Whip is very, very good. But it's the girl she never was; it's Seirah, who adds:
"You're safe now. You're going to be okay."
"Assassin."
For one horrible moment, it might be that Whip thinks she is being accused. The *hate* in Hunter's voice is intense. The pain in her eyes is undeniable. If she's even aware that the other men are around, after Whip has come to her, it doesn't show. The wound across her stomach isn't deep, but... Hunter had never inherited her mother's healing hands. That was Butterfly. Both of them would have been amused by the way she'd attempted to bandage herself, if the circumstances weren't quite so dire. And if they weren't dead.
Hunter has a lot of experience clinging to the edge, though. Tenacious until the day she dies, her teeth grit and she forces her eyes to focus, with effort, on Whip's face. There's a snarl there; a feral will to survive that has driven her on to this despite the sheer amount of blood loss more than twenty hours in a stinking, fetid chinese swamp can bring out of you.
"Huge. Black. Assassin."
And that, at least, should put paid to the idea that Hunter somehow *knows*. "Took my knife. *BROKE* my knife." She chokes a little more. "After me. Can't stay. Needle. Thread. Run."
Despite those soothing words, there's just... fear, in Hunter's eyes. She doesn't want to die, and she's convinced that the assassin will be right on her tail.
Yes. That hurts. A knot of pain closes quickly, clear strands of memory conspiring to entangle and tighten about a heart fortunately long steeled to such an assault. Rather than recoil, Whip simply shuts it out; the softness in her eyes fades in that moment, swamped by the hard and cold eyes of a professional. Her mouth draws to a broad, unyielding line, cheeks sallow as she reaches for the first tool of her trade.
It seems callous of her, to turn to abruptly inward - but she can afford to judge this woman even less than she can afford the idle banter of bored soldiers. The Ikari are a fighting unit; they kill when they have to, they blow things up as a rule, and the others are ill-inclined to spend time medicating one not their own. It's nothing personal, it's just orders. Fortunately Whip has the rank here, and that keeps Hunter alive. Meeting that bestial stare with distance in her own gaze, she bobs her head, hair flicking sharply.
This isn't personal either, it's business. Doesn't make it void of compassion.
Briskly, with the deceptively gentle hands of one who knows when gentility /matters/, Whip sets about her task as Hunter continues speaking. That initial burst of resentment and doubt, deep in her soul, pulses still; it always will, but it's no longer dominant. Gradually her expression resoftens, though it maintains the air it so clung to by the same necessity. Poorly applied bandages are removed, and swabs swiftly applied, as she listens.
"We've got plenty of knives," she assures first, disregarding the apparent possibility of an enemy incursion. Or so it seems; likely the Thai will miss the lightning-quick gesture that sends the other man, a tall and lithe Ikari scout, off into the edges of the jungle. The others have banded together not only to bring supplies, but start to prepare the vehicle to leave. "And I agree, you need to run. We all do."
There's more in that than practicality. Whip's never stopped running. She understands.
Suddenly, as her hands continue to work she smiles, glancing down into fear-stricken eyes.
In her own, there's absolutely none. She still runs-- she's just not scared any more.
"You'll run a lot faster on four wheels."
Hunter lets herself be swabbed. She'd largely escaped with bruises and minor cuts; but that one gut wound has slowed her down considerably. She'd be fine, if she got some more blood in her. As a fighter, she'd probably be fine if she didn't, given a few days rest. But she doesn't really think of herself in that way, and the fact of her pale skin and trembling form is in the here and now.
Hunter has hated soldiers ever since she realized who it was who burned her village. Even the Thai soldiers were suspect; people who take orders from others, violent ones, are scum in her mind. What sets the Ikari apart from the murderous thugs of Shadaloo, other than that they are being wielded by a more benevolent hand? Becoming a tool, selling your services to murder other people... it is something she did not think she could make peace with.
Perhaps she will still be incapable of doing so. But the fact is, she has received nothing but help and compassion from Whip. Now that she has convinced her rebel mind that Whip is not, in fact, her mother swept down from heaven to save her, she is starting to understand that.
"One lone woman." She continues. Information, that's what will help, now. "Seven feet, maybe. Big. Broad. Shot her, cut her, blew her up, hit her with a tree, hit her with a snake. Wouldn't stop. Managed to poison her... maybe she slowed down a bit, but, don't think it'll buy me more than, couple of hours head start. Slow, but, steady."
Now that she's calmer, her voice is less pained and frantic, more cold and recollecting. She isn't exaggerating; she'd done all that and more to the damned assassin, but nothing seemed to give her more than momentary pause. She adds, after a moment, one other, horrifying, detail.
"They want to take me alive."
What separates them? Nothing. Whip herself would claim to be nothing more than another hired killer; an individual willing to aid in atoning for the horrors of her own origin does not redeem an entire unit of armed men and women. it doesn't even redeem her. She's not a hero, she's not even really a 'good person' - if such people exist. All she could ever promise Hunter is what she does now, through the ministrations of her touch. That she'll do what she believes is right, and that right now that's helping this woman who asked for it.
She almost begins to hush the archer as she continues speaking, but she'll not do so - the information IS helpful. It saves her asking later, and it keeps the Thai huntress distracted from the niggles of medical care. They have a small supply of morphine, but most of the work is done without anaesthetic. It has to be. Though speaking of distractions... it's hard not to laugh at the summary of her battle. Trees, snakes?
"You fought well," she murmurs, unable to keep her mouth from twisting up into one cheek, causing a jarringly cute dimple to appear on that side. Whip becomes aware of it herself and blushes slightly, though a quick shake of her head dispels the worst of it as she continues working. "Poison was a good move," she adds afterward, breathing out slowly, focusing as she comes to a particuarly brutal wound. She has to clean carefully before stitching - one slip, one failure here, and infection could spread before they can reach safety. "You seem like a smart woman. I'm sure she's been slowed enough. We need about fifteen minutes, here, and we can get you out."
But then there's the final detail. It sparks a deep, concerned frown. The first that Whip has shown.
Alive. They took her alive, too. Hunter's cunning, quick, stealthy and tactical...
She's more of an ideal assassin than Seirah could ever have been. She was just a /child/. But children can't understand, trauma conceals the pain, and it grows away through adolescence and adulthood - if not for the grace of circumstance, a person taken so young can remain happy in their role. In some ways, if it happened to the Thai woman now... no. In all ways, it would be more cruel. No psyche could withstand that.
"Stewart," Whip raises her voice but turns away, keeping it from alarming Hunter as best she can, "We're leaving in five minutes. Radio back to base, tell them we're bypassing command and moving straight to--..." Where should they go? It strikes her like a thunderbolt. The Ikari have been involved in this war, she's not entirely safe in their midst; en masse, they're a target. "We'll make for the airstrip at Sung Zhai. I want a full medical evac prepared. Find a friendly hospital, and have a private room readied. Be /discreet/."
Turning back to Hunter, she breathes out slowly, and reaches for a short, thick length of stick.
"I'm going to start stitching. You'll need to bite this. Can you stay with me..."
She hesitates, tipping her head to one side, expression instantly soft and caring again.
"I'm sorry, I-- never asked your name? I'm Whip. It's... all I've ever been called."
Hunter sees some understanding in Whip's eyes. She has no idea what Vega would do to her if she was taken back alive. She just knows that it would not be as merciful as a quick death. A long, slow, lingering death would be awful. Torture... perhaps even brainwashing? She does not think she could withstand it. She hates Shadaloo, yes. Her hate is strong... but her will to survive is stronger. That is what had betrayed her at last in the battle with the assassin. If she'd hated Diesel as much as she wanted to live, maybe she could have taken the Doll with her. She tells herself, in her more noble moments, that she has nothing to live for and would throw it away to strike Shadaloo down...
But it is a lie. In the end, like all animals, Hunter only wants to survive.
Taking the stick, the blonde grips it tightly.
Should she give her a real name? No. Sasithorn Shinawatra is dead. Sasi, the loving hardass who provided for her village... burned with that village.
"Call me Hunter. I don't need another name right now."
And with that, her teeth close down around the stick, and she bites tight. She will even scream into it when the stitching starts, because of all her many flaws, an excess of pride is not one.
That's all anybody wants; the greatest folly of man is believing him or herself any greater than an animal, because that's precisely what they are. Wild beasts, subject to the same laws as any other. To trust otherwise is to delude one's mind, to lose sight of what's important - to deny survival is to deny the purpose behind everything. Even friendship. Even love. Animals form bonds that they might better live.
Every other trapping of 'human nature' is just that. Frivolity.
"Pleased to meet you, Hunter," replies the pretty teenager hovering with needle and thread, eyes lidding for an instant as she dips her head in greeting. When her gaze meets the other again, her warmth has not dimmed, visible even once she turns away and begins to work. It's frivolous to name, to express pleasure, to be anything more than blobs of helpful organic matter to one another; but it's not unnatural. As much a part of their bleak lives as any other, bringing a touch of sunshine where gloom would otherwise consume them.
Each stitch through damaged flesh tears in the ostensible name of healing; but every subsequent touch of a fingertip, easing the wound closed, ensuring the work is done to exactitude, is done with a love of life. With compassion, and empathy that they both need to survive. No act is entirely selfless-- in doing this, Whip gives herself a reason to continue, that when their roles are reversed, and she is shattered, she'll hold on too. She'll bite down, suppress her pains and her fears and use resolve to persist. She'll do it because it matters.
She'll do it, because everything has a name and a place. Everything is worthwhile when it does.
When the agonizing process is over, she shivers and sits back, carefully setting aside the bloodied needle. It's taken mere minutes, but seems to have taken a lifetime. Some things are more worth doing than others. Slowly she cleans her hands, leaving them faintly reeking of antiseptic, and then she reaches to take the stick from between Hunter's lips, and run the back of her hand across her brow. Wiping sweat and grime.
"It's a good name," she concludes quietly, apropos of nothing and everything, "You'll hunt again."
And at the end of that hunt, she'll find out if she needs anything more. Whip understands that, too.
Log created on 07:38:08 03/14/2012 by Hunter, and last modified on 13:56:42 03/14/2012.