A Cry For HelpMature

{Still in flashback}


Swinging around, she let her arm move with the momentum, slicing the katana against the back of someone's neck. She heard their body thump to the ground, but she didn't look at it. 

She couldn't.

Someone got a cut to her jacket, but was stopped by the thin Kevlar inside, barely noticeable. But while she was distracted, she felt another person's blade get stuck in one of the thick black ropes wound around her torso. Nearly growling, she spun her leg up and twisted, knocking the opponent down with a roundhouse kick.

"M, I need help!" She cried desperately into the comm in her ear. 

M was short for Margaret Golth, their top psychiatrist at the agency. She was amazing in her field, and was one of Mocker's most trusted allies. But when she pleaded for some kind of assistance, any assistance, M remained quiet. The only words she would spare were "It's not my job."

But M held enough sway at the agency to do whatever the hell she wanted to do, including ordering backup for a squad that was falling fast.

Andrea let one single stray drop of salt-infused water slide down her cheek, the liquid cutting through the grime coating her face.

And then she let go.

Without any care for her safety or the assurance of the mission, she stabbed and sliced her way through the massacre, retrieving the members of her Special Ops team that weren't dead.

There weren't many.

Goldfinch, Blackbird, Sparrow, Cisticola, and Lark were the only ones left. 

The only ones left of the 12-person Avian Squad.

She shut her eyes for a single moment, a single second before clicking them open and quickly surveying the area, formulating a plan. Barking out orders, she moved efficiently over the bodies, determinately not glancing at the faces.

But then the heel of her boot slipped, just a little. It slipped on a patch of floor painted crimson. And Mocker's eyes slid across the floor to meet the glassy ones of  Sugarbird. 

Her hands were absolutely drenched with blood, her gloves long gone. A smear of scarlet ran across her cheek, below unseeing eyes. Her leg was twisted at a horrific angle, and a small shard of metallic shrapnel lay lodged in her throat, the wound showing implications that it had been bleeding sluggishly but steadily before her death.

It was obvious that she had tried to grapple with the piece of metal, tried to pull it out of her windpipe before she went down.  

The agent stood up and moved on, detaching her feelings yet again.

They reached the door successfully, still fending off weapons and making use of their own. Mocker cursed her team's reluctance to use firearms. 

The door was stuck fast, not budging no matter how much they pulled or pushed. Inside the warehouse was a small chopper. 

The squad continued forcing the door, and it finally came open with a gruesome snapping sound. They looked down at the bottom of the door, only now realizing that a hand lay wedged underneath it, the wrist showing a clean slice that had separated it from the body.

Oh god.

Cisticola risked a glance backwards, finding a figure slumped against the hull of another body, a stump of a wrist protruding from a coat.

A coat that had Waxbill's blood staining it, his head lying at an awkward angle to the side.

A shot rang out. Cisticola had retrieved a gun from a nearby corpse and was shooting wildly at the dead body of Waxbill. 

He had finally lost it. Cisticola had finally lost his sh*t.

Buckling over as the bullet tore through his flesh, the young man laughed manically, before convulsing as he vomited on the massacre-torn battlefield.

"Go." Lark said as the door was wrenched open but figures drew closer - enemies.

"We can't just leave you here! Come with us..." Mocker pleaded, crimson-soaked hands reaching for their leader.

But Lark stayed behind, fending off the opponents with as much strength she could muster. The second the sound of chopper blades faded into the air, however, she collapsed to her knees, twirling the tip of an arrow on the pad of her ring finger. Letting it fall into her palms, she raised it to her forehead as the enemies converged on her. 

"Too late, b*tches." She uttered, letting a small smile curve her lips before looking dead straight ahead and plunging the arrow in.

She was a corpse before her head hit the ground, joining her fallen comrades.

Her team was okay.

It was all right to die now.

They were okay.

The End

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