Prompt 045 - Last

Title: Those Left Behind
Author: Dysfunctional Muses
Fandom: Crow Universe
Characters: Alan Miller, Vega Tahann
Prompt: Table 5 - 045: Last
Wordcount: 1288
Rating: PG
Summary: Nothing left but revenge.
Disclaimer: There is nothing to disclaim. This is all mine.

Alan Miller stepped out of the building and squinted against the bright sunshine. At any other time the day would have been gorgeous, but the lingering stink of ash and death cast a pall over the small colony town. His gaze tracked to the west of the town, past the damaged buildings to a hill carved into terraces. Several figures moved along the terraces, either carrying wrapped objects or digging in the soil. Miller patted his pockets, idly searching for a cigarette.

Movement caught his eye and he looked to see one of his comrades approaching, her black body armor hanging over one shoulder. Katrina Taylor, the doctor of the small mercenary unit, looked wan and sunburnt. Miller finally found a cigarette and tucked it in the corner of his mouth as he began the search for a lighter.

“Those things will kill you, you know,” Taylor said as she reached him.

“There’s plenty of things that will kill me faster, Nine,” Miller replied. “Besides, I’d rather have this than the stench in my nose.”

“Here.” She pulled a lighter from a belt kit and handed it over.

“Get out of the sun for a while,” Miller ordered as his lit his vice. “We don’t need you collapsing on us.”

Taylor snorted but sat down on the sidewalk in the shade. “I know to avoid sunstroke. You weren’t the only one living in the South, Crowleader.”

Miller smiled faintly, bittersweet memories rising at her words. English words, at that, not Standard, the common language of the Confederacy. English, Earth, the United States, and other things that had changed or disappeared long ago. He exhaled noisily as he sent the memories back to the recesses of his mind. “How many more?”

“The last graves are dug. We just have to fill them,” Taylor said as she opened a bottle of water.

Miller scanned the figures on the hill. “How’s the kid holding up?”

A deep sigh answered him. “Despite the fact that he refuses to get any rest, he’s doing okay, physically. The antibiotics are fighting off the infection in his wound. Mentally, however....”

“He’s a wreck?”

Taylor nodded. “I can’t get him to talk to me, but you’ve seen the carnage around here. I don’t know if I can help him with that level of trauma.”

Miller grumbled a curse. “Where is he?”

“Up at the top.”

Miller nodded and started walking. He passed through the quiet town, though somewhere far off a bird (or the planet’s equivalent) was singing. He passed the ruins of five large trees in the central square, their amputated limbs tangled in a pile nearby. Miller did his best to ignore the dark stains that colored the trunks’ stumps and the dried puddles on the pavement beneath. A faint breeze stirred, kicking up dust and ash. Sweat was already gathering along his spine and Miller grumbled, eyeing the climb up the terraces.

He stamped out his cigarette and started up the path, nodding to his Crows as they worked their grisly task. Too many dead, he thought. What was it, over three hundred? Even the afternoon heat couldn’t melt the sick cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Eventually he reached the topmost terrace and the graves planted there. The boy - well, young man - kneeled in front of them, eyes pinned to the stone markers.

Miller crouched down by the boy and glanced at the markers. He blinked and took a better look at the middle one, the one the kid was facing. Two different sets of characters had been cut into the stone, the strange glyphs of Vkkuz and the swooping letters of Standard, both saying the same thing.

Vega Tahann.

“You plan on staying?” Miller asked, digging his pack of cigarettes out again.

“Everyone else has died. I may as well be dead also,” the dusky youth replied.

“Do you really believe that?” Miller balanced the cigarette pack on his knee and his hand dipped back to his belt.

“I have nothing left.” Vega’s voice was soft, hollow.

“Sure you do. But do you want to find out what it is, or just give up now?” He drew his pistol and held it out hilt-first.

Vega looked over, his dark eyes falling on the mercenary’s weapon before returning to Miller’s face. “What do you mean?”

“If you want to be dead, then you might as well take this and put another hole in your head.” Miller’s eyes burned coldly into Vega’s. “Or you can pick yourself up and keep going.”

“Going for what? I don’t have anything.”

“Revenge. You have revenge.” Miller nodded towards the rest of the terraces. “If you give up, then the Masadii win. But you’re still alive. You can do something with it. So what’ll it be?”

Vega stared at the gun for a long moment, but Miller saw a smoldering in the young man’s gaze. A faint spark burned there, needing only a bit of care before it would erupt into flame.

“How?” Vega asked softly.

“We’ll teach you. Me and my Crows. We’ll give you everything you need to take what was done to you and throw it back in the face of those bastards.” The kid didn’t seem inclined to take the gun, which Miller took as a good sign as he replaced it in its holster.

“Why?”

Miller studied Vega, turning the question over in his mind. Why did he want to help the kid? Finally he smirked. “I’m a sucker for the underdog.”

“Underdog?” Vega repeated the English word uncertainly.

“That’s what we are. The ones that are left behind, stepped on, and seen as no threat. Then we bite back, like a mad dog.”

The young man dropped his gaze to the ground, his brow furrowed as he considered Miller’s words. “Underdog,” he murmured. He looked over to the pack balanced on Miller’s knee. “Can I have one of those?”

“It’s not a good habit to start,” Miller cautioned as he pulled a cigarette out and handed it over to Vega.

Vega didn’t reply as he took it and let the older man light it. But instead of bringing it to his mouth, he carefully planted it in the ground butt-first before the gravestone, an unusual substitute for incense. Vega stood slowly, a grimace crossing his face as the wound on his back pulled. He began murmuring in the alien language of Vkkuz, the words susurrating in the hot air.

Miller watched him thoughtfully. It should be raining, the mercenary decided. At least that’s the way it was in the movies. The character would stand in the rain, gaze down at the grave or body or whatever, and make some oath as lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. He swept his gaze past Vega to the stark blue sky and the shimmering heat waves. The heat and the brightness almost made it worse, making Miller’s head ache and Vega’s words sound all the sharper.

He looked back at Vega and for a moment he saw what the young man would become. A dark expression of hatred masked Vega’s face and every muscle of his body was drawn taut with rage. There was no doubt that he was determined to be hell on earth for the Masadii. But as soon as it appeared, it vanished again, a fleeting moment under Vega’s exhaustion. He turned to the mercenary, looking lost and alone.

Miller stood and looked down at the younger man. “C’mon kid. There’s a lot of work to be done.”

“Yes,” Vega agreed quietly and walked to the path leading down the hill.

Miller glanced at the gravestone one last time, his lips pursing before he moved to follow Vega.