Duxwing
I've Overcome Existential Despair
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Written by: Duxwing and Felan
"Noah and Sloan" is a pilot story about two of a group of five disillusioned thirty-year olds who embark on a quest to discover what had happened to their kidnapped high school classmates fifteen years ago in a story called School of Combat. In School of Combat: The Second Team, Noah Foster and Marcella Sloan form the stealth component of this gun-toting, mafia-hunting vigilante group, and their characterization has been, as one might expect of creatures born to a boy who studies MBTI as a hobby, influenced by the archetypes as they have appeared in theory and in my life. As mentioned earlier, this particular event is but one in a series that I hope to create for either oral telling or the written word. For the critically inclined, I have included several themes as well. I would love any feedback that you can give me, especially concerning issues of psychological realism: I want my characters' psyches to be entirely believable.
Just some background:
Noah and Sloan have been training for this kind of mission for years. They've played paintball and read military science; they've studied martial arts and run marathons; they've even taken up shooting as a hobby just to be prepared. And they've done other reconnaissance missions before. Long treks through tough Rocky Mountain scrub to listen in on phone conversations, weeks of baking in the deserts of New Mexico, just watching cars go by, and midnight climbs up the sides of New York, New York's skyscrapers to use a telescope to observe corrupt officials taking mafia bribes.
But they've never had to get close. In fact, they were never supposed to be close. All they were supposed to do was get in, watch, and get out before anyone noticed. Now, they're going to have to infiltrate a strip-mall owned by a local mob boss named Figaro and recover a briefcase full of important documents, guards or no guards. They're about to go from greenhorn amateurs to full-fledged agents of silent infiltration, but that means having to fight, and both of them took the position in order to avoid just that. Sloan is quite sensitive to others pain, and the thought of strangling someone until they pass out is abhorrent to her. Noah, less in-tune with others, is simply terrified of losing the fight and having his face re-arranged. Nevertheless, they will try.
So, without further ado, "Noah and Sloan".
Lying prone in the grass of an overgrown field and looking through the EOTECH holographic sight mounted on his suppressed Mk. 11 Mod 0 rifle, Noah, age 31, is frustrated by the chain link fence between him and the strip mall he is observing. He counts and remembers each of the guards, getting a feel for the rhythm of the area surrounding his objective. The legs and sleeves of his fatigues and coat, colored in woodland MARPAT, reach down to his hard, brown, leather hiking boots, and tough, black, nylon marksman’s gloves. His backpack lies beside him, filled with ninety additional rounds of ammunition contained in nine ten round magazines along with a full trauma kit.
Laying next to Noah, Sloan, a woman of 35 years, whispers, “We've scoured the neighborhood and observed them for a couple of hours now. Ready to get this party started?". She wears black sneakers with soft soles made for sneaking past guards and carries a UMP 45 submachine gun with a foregrip, suppressor, EOTECH holographic sight, and a bottom-mounted flashlight. Her other belongings include a bag of zip-ties, several blister-packs of fast-acting sleeping pills, and a roll of duct-tape. She and Noah both wear head-mounted satellite- radio headsets that allow them to communicate to anyone anywhere else in the world hands-free-- ideal for the mission upon which they are to embark. On her chest, she wears a front ceramic plate covered with MOLLE straps that bear ten twenty-five round magazines for her weapon, a knife, and a hand-grenade for "sticky situations, stubborn problems, and unopened cans".
Yawning, Noah replies, “Nah. We’d be far better off attacking a few hours after dusk.”
“And a few hours after dusk you’ll say that we’d be better off going in at dawn,” she groans quietly, putting her cheek in one hand and her elbow on the ground, “Let’s stop theorizing strike while the iron is hot-- we don’t know when Figaro--”
“--who’s Figaro?” Noah interrupts.
“See, this is my point.” Sloan answers, rolling her eyes, “If you didn’t spend all your time pontificating on the significance of paddles to post-partum pinball you’d actually have a clue about how the world works: Figaro is the mob boss that runs this strip mall.”
“Hey! I never think about stupid stuff like that; if you’d stop what you were doing and think from time to time you’d actually have a clue about how philosophy works!” Noah whispers hoarsely, “If you’d just consider for a moment that, for example, your claim that God exists subjectively to each person-- if he even exists at all, and I’m not going to get into that with you unless you agree to keep all metaphors about atheists and foxholes purely abstract-- is in conflict with the monist philosophy that you usually put forward on questions of mor--
“--And so you go again, off in your universe of logic” sighs Sloan.
“Can you let me finish?” Noah retorts, frustrated.
Sloan turns her head away and motions for him to talk-to-the-hand: “No. And I’m not going to be the victim of another one of your rants on how being tired of arguing is no excuse for stopping a debate. It’s like you don’t even care about how we feel, just about how you can spread your latest bit of knowledge and talk about what interests you.” A bit worn out by the fighting, she puts her head in her hands and speaks, “Tell me what you want to do, and I’ll do it.”
Noah looks down, befuddled by Sloan’s reply. Sighing at the softly swaying blades of grass that grow beneath his chin, he offers a tentative response. “D-did my argument cause you emotional pain?” Sloan turns back to face Noah and glares daggers at the hapless marksman. Utterly baffled but determined to understand her difficulty, he continues, “Facial expressions are not a valid form of--”Pow! Sloan’s slap rings out like a rifle shot on Noah’s cheek.
She grabs him by the collar and growls, “Get with the program, OK? I don’t care about your stupid logic, and I never will. We have a mission to do, so focus on it!”
Blinking into the furious eyes that are now mere inches from his own pale blues, Noah gulps, “O-OK, whatever you say.”
Grunting, Sloan answers: “Good. Now tell me your plan. Oh, and do remember, it’s gotta have something that we can do now. "I’m tired of waiting.”
“I-I'll cover while you move in, but I can't cover you from here.” Noah begins, still a bit frazzled, “S-See any b-better spots for me?”
Sloan groans in tired frustration but slowly turn-crawls a circle and whispers “There’s a pick-up truck a bit north of the objective on this side of the street, and it hasn't moved since we got here. If we aren’t senile by the time that you think of what to do next, then it’ll be a perfect hiding spot.”
Noah winces at the jab, but Sloan just follows up with a sassy smirk. Acknowledging her point with a sigh, he continues, “Sounds good. I'll pop the four streetlights closest to the objective.”
“Nice.” Sloan responds, “Those goons probably won't check streetlights until it’s too late. Start on your left; I'll radio you when the guards aren't looking, but you’ll have to tell me when you’re ready on each light”
Sloan rises up into a crouch and silently descends the hill. At the bottom, she hides behind a large, jagged boulder and peers across the empty four-lane street between her and the strip mall.
Noah shuffles a bit and sights in on the first light, “Ready.”
For over a minute, Sloan observes the parking lot, mumbling some choice insults for the guards unwittingly conspiring against them. “Go!” Noah whispers over the radio.
He steadies his breath and squeezes the trigger. The light pops and the tinkling of glass is inaudible over the sounds on the edge of the city. Noah isn't thrilled to fire his weapon in the direction of an urban area-- the hill on which he lies faces the city-- but, by the sheer force of his steadfastness in demanding a minimum of risk to innocent bystanders, Noah had convinced Sloan to scout the mall’s surroundings before they posted up on the hill: collateral damage would be limited to an odd squirrel or tree branch. However, when Sloan started sarcastically searched trashcans for “innocent homeless”, Noah did compromise to a more cursory search.
After Noah pops the the next three lights in quick succession, Sloan looks around, and, upon realizing how little time had passed since she’d argued with Noah, says, “Man, three hours of waiting? Come on, Noah, let’s go at dusk instead.”
“No chance, kemosabe.”
Sloan moans, “I hate the lone ranger,”. Noah just smirks, secure in knowing that Sloan always put the mission first: she wouldn’t come back up that hill just to give him a piece of her mind. Albeit, he wondered, would she?
Sloan, on the other hand, looks around with an expression of unending boredom, “I'm going to take a nap.” she snaps.
Three hours later Noah stretches his body. His muscles protest and a crick forms in Noah's neck, but he ends up massaging it out. He’d forgotten to turn his mic off, though and his grunting wakes Sloan from her slumber.
“Ah man!” She complains, “In my dream I was just about receive the secrets to the universe: the solution to making the world full of brotherly love. Noah, you certainly take your sweet time when it doesn't matter and hurry when it does.”
Noah chuckles, “Oh, I'm in no hurry, finish your dream.”
Sloan lays there for another five minutes, “I can't sleep.” come her annoyed words.
Laughing Noah says, “Well the moving truck is still, make your way there and I'll cover.”
Sloan checks his weapon's operation and wordlessly crawls away from the strip mall to get around the fence and then short of the truck.
Sloan radios, “No cover for fifty feet, am I clear?”
Noah checks the guards, the dark and the fence messing with his view.
Sloan asks, “Noah you there?”
Noah responds, “Sorry yeah, not clear yet.”
Sloan fidgets, feeling a mix of vulnerability over being so close to the sidewalk and nervous tension before the action. Catching the tension, she takes several deep breaths and mentally goes to her place of calm.
Noah's voice breaks the silence, “Clear.”
Sloan checks both directions of the sidewalk and pops ups to a crouch and crosses to the truck. The truck is parked close to the curb and its a tight fit but she is able to get underneath.
Sloan whispers into her microphone, “In position, move up.”
With Sloan covering his advance, Noah descends the hill, crawls through the parking lot, and slips under the truck.
Now lying next to his friend, Noah says, “I'm surprised you could get your steroid amped body between the curb and the truck.”
“It was easy peasy after I lifted this hunk of junk.” Sloan replies, both of them grinning.
Sloan crawls backward, whispering, “Let me know when I can cross.”
After fifteen minutes of waiting for Noah’s call, Sloan thinks about crossing the sidewalk just to relieve the boredom. A tick passes on her watch, Come on, you delightfully when Noah whispers the signal. Sloan checks for traffic and scoots out. She pops up to a crouch and crosses the street in three silent bounds, quietly skidding to a stop behind a old rusted oldsmobile. She leans on the car, facing the trunk
Noah radios, “Move south to the truck ahead of your grandma's car, and wait there. One of the guards likes to puff his cigarette just out of your reach there. Let's see if you can get him while the others aren't watching.”
Sloan grins in anticipation, Noah is like molasses but he does have a knack for creating some truly enjoyable situations. Sloan checks for traffic and moves in the street along the oldsmobile and settles in near the sidewalk behind a new model Toyota pick up. She can hear the footsteps approach and stop-- just out of reach. Sloan catches a whiff of cigarette smoke and bemusedly thinks to herself, Smoking kills.
Noah says, “I bet you’re thinking up some cliche right now. Hold on.” A few tense seconds pass, nervous sweat beading on Sloan’s brow, then the call comes out over the radio “Get him.”
Sloan slips out from behind truck, but her gun clangs on the door. The guard snaps his head over to look at Sloan, but only to meet a swift uppercut: he drops like a stone. Silently, Sloan catches the unconscious man and pulls him down behind the truck. Sloan peers out from behind vehicle, then hops out to where the man had stood and does a quick dance before leaping back behind it.
Noah says, “What the heck was that? Did you just do a touchdown dance?”
Sloan whispers back, “Sorry, I was just putting out his cigarette.”
Noah shakes his head, not sure what to think. Deciding to think of Sloan’s dance another day, he shifts his focus to the remaining guards. “Alright just three left, Charlie is 30 meters from you, Tango and Zulu about 60 meters.” he whispers.
A few minutes later, after zip-tying, gagging, and giving a sleeping pill to his smoker friend, Sloan hears one of the more distant guards speak. She tenses and takes the safety off her weapon.
Also ready to shoot, Noah whispers, “Looks like Tango and Zulu are going to take a gander at something in the alley on their side. Charlie is probably going to wonder where his friend is very soon.”
Sloan does some mental figuring. First, she lifts the guard’s leg and moves it about a foot further from the tailgate of the pickup and then checks the street.
Noah radios, “Charlie is standing up and looking around.”
Sloan hears Charlie say, “Marl, where are you?”
Noah says, “Charlie is moving north. He's just past the hood of the pickup.”
Sloan checks for traffic again and then crouch-walks into the street that runs alongside the pickup. Sloan peeks and sees Charlie warily looking and moving toward the tailgate.
Noah says, “You, my friend, are smooth. Tango and Zulu are still missing the party.”
Kneeling low, Sloan looks underneath the body of the pickup and then silently inches her way to the side of the grill closest to the sidewalk. She peeks out and sees Charlie cover his mouth in shock as he sees his friend’s unconscious body. In a flash, Sloan leaps out and chops Charlie’ neck! His eyelids flicker and he slumps; wanting to avoid the loud crash of gun against pavement, Sloan grabs him by the armpits and lowers him down slowly. She grabs Charlie by the back of his collar and drags him behind the tailgate, covering her retreat with her weapon.
With Charlie done up like his friend, Sloan once again peeks out over the tailgate. Streetlights flicker, a couple of shopping bags drift over the parking lot, and when all seems clear, she sees a taser lying where Charlie had stood! If he'd pulled that taser, then I'd have never seen it coming. I didn't even notice that he had it! Thoughts of being discovered, shocked with a million volts, and dragged off to the mob boss’s headquarters to be interrogated and then... used... race through her mind like ten thousand race-horses turned loose from the track. Sloan’s knees buckle and her stomach starts to heave.
Noah whispers over the net, “Sloan! What in blue blazes is wrong with you?! Get up!” but he’s only answered with the soft pitter-patter of vomit on concrete. “Sloan," he nervously continues, holding the microphone closer to his mouth, "Are you hit? Did he hurt you? Answer me, Sloan!”
“N-no, but if he’d gotten me with that taser, he would have. Forever.”
Noah's fingers release the microphone as his ears begin to ring, the pulse of his blood a loud thumping sound overlaying everything else. His stomach sinks into deathly cold and his breath comes slow, rattling, and shallow.
Sloan. Could. Have. Died. Rang the knell of thought upon his mind. They would have been too close for me to take a shot, and that would have been the end of her: the end of the warm and crazy nut who never blinked at danger, who thought big like me, who could make the frosty, barren night come alive with bright and vivid stories. And I'd be alone.
While Noah trembled, Sloan closed her eyes and thought of her ideals to steady herself. Love, Faith, Brotherhood, immediately, she could almost hear Noah's retort: Truth, Knowledge, Discovery! She smiled, I can always count on him for comic relief, even if he isn't quite operational. And speaking of not operational...
“Noah, you'll never be alone,” come Sloan’s quiet words as she wipes the puke from her lips with the back of Charlie's hand. Clenching the forearm of her weapon with one hand, she pushes herself up and kneels behind the car.
Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Noah answers, "Thanks for reading my mind."
“Yeah, well... whenever you're with me, you always talk about how alone you are in this 'vast and vicious void' this 'cruel and capricious cosmos' so when I saw you lose it after I’d told how I could have died, I guess I kinda felt like you’d be thinking about something like that.” A warm, reminiscent tone enters her voice, “Heh, yeah, that’s just like you, always thinking.”
“And... so... you stepped in to stop me before I hurt myself or called the mission off?” comes Noah’s soft, astounded reply.
Sloan replies, “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Another silence, one unlike the one upon the hill, fills the air. Noah’s cheeks glow a soft auburn, warmed by Sloan’s insight, and Sloan gazes up at the stars as she wonders if her God would reward her for her deeds. Their gazes harden as each remembers the mission at hand. Both exhale the tension of the moment and prepare themselves for the last stretch of their efforts.
With his first and middle finger outstretched, Noah points toward the alley. Sloan nods and moves out, her soft-soled sneakers whispering over the asphalt. Upon reaching the right side of alley's entrance and seeing that the building forming the left has eaves, she’s struck with inspiration: Slowly panning her head, she checks to see if anyone is watching and then crawls over to the other side.
Somewhat out of the loop, Noah asks, “What are doing? Tango and Zulu could come back any moment now.” Sloan ignores him and grabs the eave facing away from the entry point to the alley, testing its strength.
Covering his face with his palm, Noah moans, “You can't be serious.”
Chuckling, Sloan gives Noah a thumbs up and hoists herself up onto the roof. Unless the guards were to look up, the canopy and darkness would keep her hidden. Worrying that Sloan's gambit could end in a gunfight, Noah limbers up to run and steels himself to take two lives. “Alright, Sloan,” he begins, “Tango and Zulu are back. Tango's wearing a hat and they're chit-chatting over something, listen to their chatter before you jump, it could be important.”
Tense, Sloan waits until she can hear the murmur of the two unsuspecting guards. I wonder if Noah gets a kick out of telling me things that I already know!
"Unbelievable, Tango and Zulu must be the dumbest guys I've ever seen.” Noah whispers “They’re just casually strolling toward you.” Indeed, Captain Obvious, Sloan chuckles nervously, But I suppose that he created this ritual for a reason, "Fear not the guard you see," or something like that.
Sloan hears Tango and Zulu talking. She crouches down and puts her hand to her ear: Tango grunts, “They must be on break. Morons should have waited for us to get back.”
Noah whispers another tidbit, “Tango and Zulu are 20 meters from your position.” No duh, thinks Sloan, rolling her eyes.
Upon seeing Tango and Zulu's heads pass inches beneath her feet, Sloan tenses and a flutter of doubt runs through her mind: Can I really do this? What if one of them has a... a... NO! I am NOT bungling this job. Focus. Focus. Focus. The two guards turn. At least I won’t have to worry about being seen. She raises the taser, lining Zulu up in its simple sights, and fires it into his neck. Tango turns, but too late! In a flash, Sloan leaps down from the eave and plants her feet solidly in his shoulders. Although he flies into the street, his pistol clattering on the ground, Sloan botches her landing and falls flat on her back.
Squinting her eyes in pain, Sloan is halfway to her feet when she finds a pistol levelled at her. Her terrified gaze travels up a bare, hairy arm and into a pair of furious eyes: Tango is not amused.
"IMMA--"
--A loud PFFT! echoes from underneath the truck and the slide of Tango's gun explodes into fragments. The surprised goon's jaw drops just before Sloan grits her teeth, rises fully, leans back, and then breaks it like a dry twig with a haymaker of a right hook.
Sloan, trembles, teeth bared, fist covered in the blood of Tango's gums. Noah checks for other guards and then sprints over, hiking boots thudding and squeaking on the pavement, but by the time he's arrived, Sloan hasn't budged.
"Sloan, let's go!" he whispers, grabbing her by the arm. She's stiff as a board. "Sloan, please, he's gone now, we can't risk the mission." Another motionless beat passes. "Sloan, listen, I, I'm sorry that it ended this way, but sometimes people die in war. That's how things go."
Tango, more disturbed than either of them by the proceedings, duly protests, "Actahlly, ahm nah deh yeh."
Noah stifles a laugh, and Sloan lets out an "Eep!". She pulls her leg back to stomp Tango's head.
"Nooo! Ahll gah quiehly!" moans the beaten guard, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his head.
"Right, probably should have asked first." Sloan answers, somewhat embarrased by her own brutality. She kneels down and produces a tiny pink tablet, "Here, taking this sleeping pill." Grudgingly, Tango swallows it and falls asleep.
With Sloan brought back from the edge of a meltdown, Tango bandaged, and all the goons zip-tied, gagged, given sleeping pills, and tossed in the back of the pick-up truck, Noah and Sloan silently make their way to the single-story office building containing the briefcase.
Upon reaching the back door, Noah fumbles with the handle, "Shoot, it's locked".
"Don't worry," Sloan answers, reaching into her pony-tail to produce a hair clip, "I've got it."
Kneeling down, Sloan picks the lock while Noah checks each nearby corner and periodically looks to see if any of the goons had woken up.
"Booyeah!" Sloan whispers. The door opens with a soft "Clunk!" as the tumblers fall into place.
With Sloan on point, the two stack up beside the door. She raises her weapon to a low ready position and enters the dark entry hall of the building, scanning left, right, up, and down for threats. Noah covers her advance, staying a few paces behind his partner and checking each nook and cranny that Sloan might not have noticed.
Pale halogen light and a dry conversation bubbles out from a open doorway into the hallway. Sloan raises her right hand with all fingers extended and drops to one knee. Noah kneels down behind her. "Alright, chief, what's our next move?" he asks.
"Looks like they're just counting this week's revenue. I count two armed and three civilians." Sloan replies as she flips her weapon off safe and begins silently rising to her feet, "Those dirtbags won't know what hit 'em."
Noah's hand upon her shoulder stops her short, "Don't you think enough people have suffered today? We beat, taze, and tackle people every day, but the only thing that keeps us from being murderers-- people like them-- is that we know when to stop. Them? They'll kill your whole family without a second thought."
Sloan gulps, "You're right. You're right. I'm a--"
"—you're not evil, you're just sensitive. Heck, if I let my feelings out all the time, then I'd be itching to deal out some gunishment, too. And, if I never let my feelings out, well, then let's just say that a few people that you know wouldn't look like they do now. Wrath and mercy are just two sides of the same coin; our judgement is the only thing that makes them different."
Sloan sighs and crouches down again, putting her weapon back on safe. She thinks for a moment, calculating whether they'd be seen passing through. "It'll be risky, but we can just barely slide past when they turn to put the money in the briefcase by the table."
"OK. You go first and I'll cover you," Noah whispers, gesturing down the hall with the muzzle of his gun.
"Just like always, dude, just like always." Sloan replies as she moves to the far side of the hallway and drops to her hands and knees. Nervously, Noah peeks between the door and the wall, scanning for targets. Just like Sloan said, two men stood on the far side of the room, armed with shotguns, while three old men in dark suits sat at the table. When the three geezers turn to the briefcase, he waves down the hall. Pad, pad, pad go Sloan's footsteps, almost too quiet to hear. Bracing himself, he quietly imagines pulling the trigger on each one in quick succession, trying to desensitize himself to the blood that he'd spill if Sloan's gambit didn't pay off. Squeeze, squeeze, don't think, just squeeze.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash! Noah wheels about and flips the safety off, lining up his shot, but it's Sloan's grin in the darkness. He returns the safety and exhales, putting his face in his palm and lowering his weapon. Sloan snickers. Alright, I guess it's my turn now, Noah thinks, I just hope that Sloan didn't try one of her "new ideas" this time. Trying to stay quiet, Noah leans down and trundles over to the far side of the hallway, one boot almost squeaking on the linoleum floor. Dropping into a low crouch and facing the door, he crab walks across the hall, covering his own advance with his rifle.
With the room bypassed, the two interlopers continue to a file room where their research had indicated the suitcase is. Noah drops to one knee and cover their rear while Sloan switches her foregrip mounted flashlight on, turns the door knob, and silently enters the room. Swinging her cone of light from table to desk to chair, Sloan finds a suitcase that fits the specifications found in their intelligence report.
"Noah, I think you should see this." she whispers. Noah turns around and goes into the room. With Noah looking over her shoulder Sloan carefully reaches for the briefcase handle-- but Noah smacks her hand away! Sloan recoils, and Noah squats, checks it over carefully, and then steps back.
Sloan whispers, waving her muzzle at the parcel, “Is it trapped or something?”
Noah looks at her and shrugs, “Don't think so.”
Emboldened, Sloan shakes her head and reaches for the suitcase, but Noah takes several steps back. Unnerved by his retreat, she shoots him a sharp look, but Noah just grins and disappears into the hallway. Heart pounding, Sloan squats by the case and looks it over, checking each edge and crevice for a detonator wire or homing beacon, carefully examining the handle in hopes of finding a secret button, looking up and down the stool on which it sits for evidence of tampering, but she can't see anything suspicious. Finally, in boredom and frustration, Sloan grabs the briefcase by the handle and heaves it to her side. Nothing happens. That jerk! He knew I trust people!
Sloan leaves the room and delivers a solid whack to Noah's butt with her newfound implement of revenge. "Sloan!" he whispers, "You jer-- well, I was kinda being one, too. Sorry." Sloan smiles and tilts her head a bit, satisfied that justice had been done. The two quickly and quietly exfiltrate the site in the small sedan that they'd parked just a mile away. They pull up in the parking lot of a park. Noah sits in the passenger seat with the case in lap, ready to pop it open.
Noah reaches down to reveal the contents but Sloan's hand stops him, "Does it have to be all business, all the time? Can't we at least, for a moment, enjoy what God--"
"—don't start with that, I'll debate you back into the stone age and feed your ideas to the dinosaurs."
"There weren't any dinosaurs back in the stone age."
"Aha! That was a trick answer: Don't you believe that the earth is only six-thousand years old?"
"Your mortal logic cannot possibly comprehend the mind of--"
"—God, I know. You always say this. You always say this, and I'll never believe it. I HATE it!" Sloan recoils a bit at her friend's anger. Noah, now on a roll, explodes into a fit of fury: "This is why we can't have nice things! This is why the world is so messed up all the time: people like you just won't listen to logic and reason!" with a crash, Noah slams his fist on the dash, then glares at Sloan, "You all you loonies, it's like talking to a brick wall!" A long beat passes and Sloan's face recedes into a blankness as empty and expressionless as the thousand-mile deserts of Arabia. She opens the car door and walks toward a grove of trees nearby, still covered in tactical gear from the raid. As her form melds into the night, Noah buries his face in his palms and cries into his conscience: Great Scott! What have I done?
-Duxwing
"Noah and Sloan" is a pilot story about two of a group of five disillusioned thirty-year olds who embark on a quest to discover what had happened to their kidnapped high school classmates fifteen years ago in a story called School of Combat. In School of Combat: The Second Team, Noah Foster and Marcella Sloan form the stealth component of this gun-toting, mafia-hunting vigilante group, and their characterization has been, as one might expect of creatures born to a boy who studies MBTI as a hobby, influenced by the archetypes as they have appeared in theory and in my life. As mentioned earlier, this particular event is but one in a series that I hope to create for either oral telling or the written word. For the critically inclined, I have included several themes as well. I would love any feedback that you can give me, especially concerning issues of psychological realism: I want my characters' psyches to be entirely believable.
Just some background:
Noah and Sloan have been training for this kind of mission for years. They've played paintball and read military science; they've studied martial arts and run marathons; they've even taken up shooting as a hobby just to be prepared. And they've done other reconnaissance missions before. Long treks through tough Rocky Mountain scrub to listen in on phone conversations, weeks of baking in the deserts of New Mexico, just watching cars go by, and midnight climbs up the sides of New York, New York's skyscrapers to use a telescope to observe corrupt officials taking mafia bribes.
But they've never had to get close. In fact, they were never supposed to be close. All they were supposed to do was get in, watch, and get out before anyone noticed. Now, they're going to have to infiltrate a strip-mall owned by a local mob boss named Figaro and recover a briefcase full of important documents, guards or no guards. They're about to go from greenhorn amateurs to full-fledged agents of silent infiltration, but that means having to fight, and both of them took the position in order to avoid just that. Sloan is quite sensitive to others pain, and the thought of strangling someone until they pass out is abhorrent to her. Noah, less in-tune with others, is simply terrified of losing the fight and having his face re-arranged. Nevertheless, they will try.
So, without further ado, "Noah and Sloan".
Lying prone in the grass of an overgrown field and looking through the EOTECH holographic sight mounted on his suppressed Mk. 11 Mod 0 rifle, Noah, age 31, is frustrated by the chain link fence between him and the strip mall he is observing. He counts and remembers each of the guards, getting a feel for the rhythm of the area surrounding his objective. The legs and sleeves of his fatigues and coat, colored in woodland MARPAT, reach down to his hard, brown, leather hiking boots, and tough, black, nylon marksman’s gloves. His backpack lies beside him, filled with ninety additional rounds of ammunition contained in nine ten round magazines along with a full trauma kit.
Laying next to Noah, Sloan, a woman of 35 years, whispers, “We've scoured the neighborhood and observed them for a couple of hours now. Ready to get this party started?". She wears black sneakers with soft soles made for sneaking past guards and carries a UMP 45 submachine gun with a foregrip, suppressor, EOTECH holographic sight, and a bottom-mounted flashlight. Her other belongings include a bag of zip-ties, several blister-packs of fast-acting sleeping pills, and a roll of duct-tape. She and Noah both wear head-mounted satellite- radio headsets that allow them to communicate to anyone anywhere else in the world hands-free-- ideal for the mission upon which they are to embark. On her chest, she wears a front ceramic plate covered with MOLLE straps that bear ten twenty-five round magazines for her weapon, a knife, and a hand-grenade for "sticky situations, stubborn problems, and unopened cans".
Yawning, Noah replies, “Nah. We’d be far better off attacking a few hours after dusk.”
“And a few hours after dusk you’ll say that we’d be better off going in at dawn,” she groans quietly, putting her cheek in one hand and her elbow on the ground, “Let’s stop theorizing strike while the iron is hot-- we don’t know when Figaro--”
“--who’s Figaro?” Noah interrupts.
“See, this is my point.” Sloan answers, rolling her eyes, “If you didn’t spend all your time pontificating on the significance of paddles to post-partum pinball you’d actually have a clue about how the world works: Figaro is the mob boss that runs this strip mall.”
“Hey! I never think about stupid stuff like that; if you’d stop what you were doing and think from time to time you’d actually have a clue about how philosophy works!” Noah whispers hoarsely, “If you’d just consider for a moment that, for example, your claim that God exists subjectively to each person-- if he even exists at all, and I’m not going to get into that with you unless you agree to keep all metaphors about atheists and foxholes purely abstract-- is in conflict with the monist philosophy that you usually put forward on questions of mor--
“--And so you go again, off in your universe of logic” sighs Sloan.
“Can you let me finish?” Noah retorts, frustrated.
Sloan turns her head away and motions for him to talk-to-the-hand: “No. And I’m not going to be the victim of another one of your rants on how being tired of arguing is no excuse for stopping a debate. It’s like you don’t even care about how we feel, just about how you can spread your latest bit of knowledge and talk about what interests you.” A bit worn out by the fighting, she puts her head in her hands and speaks, “Tell me what you want to do, and I’ll do it.”
Noah looks down, befuddled by Sloan’s reply. Sighing at the softly swaying blades of grass that grow beneath his chin, he offers a tentative response. “D-did my argument cause you emotional pain?” Sloan turns back to face Noah and glares daggers at the hapless marksman. Utterly baffled but determined to understand her difficulty, he continues, “Facial expressions are not a valid form of--”Pow! Sloan’s slap rings out like a rifle shot on Noah’s cheek.
She grabs him by the collar and growls, “Get with the program, OK? I don’t care about your stupid logic, and I never will. We have a mission to do, so focus on it!”
Blinking into the furious eyes that are now mere inches from his own pale blues, Noah gulps, “O-OK, whatever you say.”
Grunting, Sloan answers: “Good. Now tell me your plan. Oh, and do remember, it’s gotta have something that we can do now. "I’m tired of waiting.”
“I-I'll cover while you move in, but I can't cover you from here.” Noah begins, still a bit frazzled, “S-See any b-better spots for me?”
Sloan groans in tired frustration but slowly turn-crawls a circle and whispers “There’s a pick-up truck a bit north of the objective on this side of the street, and it hasn't moved since we got here. If we aren’t senile by the time that you think of what to do next, then it’ll be a perfect hiding spot.”
Noah winces at the jab, but Sloan just follows up with a sassy smirk. Acknowledging her point with a sigh, he continues, “Sounds good. I'll pop the four streetlights closest to the objective.”
“Nice.” Sloan responds, “Those goons probably won't check streetlights until it’s too late. Start on your left; I'll radio you when the guards aren't looking, but you’ll have to tell me when you’re ready on each light”
Sloan rises up into a crouch and silently descends the hill. At the bottom, she hides behind a large, jagged boulder and peers across the empty four-lane street between her and the strip mall.
Noah shuffles a bit and sights in on the first light, “Ready.”
For over a minute, Sloan observes the parking lot, mumbling some choice insults for the guards unwittingly conspiring against them. “Go!” Noah whispers over the radio.
He steadies his breath and squeezes the trigger. The light pops and the tinkling of glass is inaudible over the sounds on the edge of the city. Noah isn't thrilled to fire his weapon in the direction of an urban area-- the hill on which he lies faces the city-- but, by the sheer force of his steadfastness in demanding a minimum of risk to innocent bystanders, Noah had convinced Sloan to scout the mall’s surroundings before they posted up on the hill: collateral damage would be limited to an odd squirrel or tree branch. However, when Sloan started sarcastically searched trashcans for “innocent homeless”, Noah did compromise to a more cursory search.
After Noah pops the the next three lights in quick succession, Sloan looks around, and, upon realizing how little time had passed since she’d argued with Noah, says, “Man, three hours of waiting? Come on, Noah, let’s go at dusk instead.”
“No chance, kemosabe.”
Sloan moans, “I hate the lone ranger,”. Noah just smirks, secure in knowing that Sloan always put the mission first: she wouldn’t come back up that hill just to give him a piece of her mind. Albeit, he wondered, would she?
Sloan, on the other hand, looks around with an expression of unending boredom, “I'm going to take a nap.” she snaps.
Three hours later Noah stretches his body. His muscles protest and a crick forms in Noah's neck, but he ends up massaging it out. He’d forgotten to turn his mic off, though and his grunting wakes Sloan from her slumber.
“Ah man!” She complains, “In my dream I was just about receive the secrets to the universe: the solution to making the world full of brotherly love. Noah, you certainly take your sweet time when it doesn't matter and hurry when it does.”
Noah chuckles, “Oh, I'm in no hurry, finish your dream.”
Sloan lays there for another five minutes, “I can't sleep.” come her annoyed words.
Laughing Noah says, “Well the moving truck is still, make your way there and I'll cover.”
Sloan checks his weapon's operation and wordlessly crawls away from the strip mall to get around the fence and then short of the truck.
Sloan radios, “No cover for fifty feet, am I clear?”
Noah checks the guards, the dark and the fence messing with his view.
Sloan asks, “Noah you there?”
Noah responds, “Sorry yeah, not clear yet.”
Sloan fidgets, feeling a mix of vulnerability over being so close to the sidewalk and nervous tension before the action. Catching the tension, she takes several deep breaths and mentally goes to her place of calm.
Noah's voice breaks the silence, “Clear.”
Sloan checks both directions of the sidewalk and pops ups to a crouch and crosses to the truck. The truck is parked close to the curb and its a tight fit but she is able to get underneath.
Sloan whispers into her microphone, “In position, move up.”
With Sloan covering his advance, Noah descends the hill, crawls through the parking lot, and slips under the truck.
Now lying next to his friend, Noah says, “I'm surprised you could get your steroid amped body between the curb and the truck.”
“It was easy peasy after I lifted this hunk of junk.” Sloan replies, both of them grinning.
Sloan crawls backward, whispering, “Let me know when I can cross.”
After fifteen minutes of waiting for Noah’s call, Sloan thinks about crossing the sidewalk just to relieve the boredom. A tick passes on her watch, Come on, you delightfully when Noah whispers the signal. Sloan checks for traffic and scoots out. She pops up to a crouch and crosses the street in three silent bounds, quietly skidding to a stop behind a old rusted oldsmobile. She leans on the car, facing the trunk
Noah radios, “Move south to the truck ahead of your grandma's car, and wait there. One of the guards likes to puff his cigarette just out of your reach there. Let's see if you can get him while the others aren't watching.”
Sloan grins in anticipation, Noah is like molasses but he does have a knack for creating some truly enjoyable situations. Sloan checks for traffic and moves in the street along the oldsmobile and settles in near the sidewalk behind a new model Toyota pick up. She can hear the footsteps approach and stop-- just out of reach. Sloan catches a whiff of cigarette smoke and bemusedly thinks to herself, Smoking kills.
Noah says, “I bet you’re thinking up some cliche right now. Hold on.” A few tense seconds pass, nervous sweat beading on Sloan’s brow, then the call comes out over the radio “Get him.”
Sloan slips out from behind truck, but her gun clangs on the door. The guard snaps his head over to look at Sloan, but only to meet a swift uppercut: he drops like a stone. Silently, Sloan catches the unconscious man and pulls him down behind the truck. Sloan peers out from behind vehicle, then hops out to where the man had stood and does a quick dance before leaping back behind it.
Noah says, “What the heck was that? Did you just do a touchdown dance?”
Sloan whispers back, “Sorry, I was just putting out his cigarette.”
Noah shakes his head, not sure what to think. Deciding to think of Sloan’s dance another day, he shifts his focus to the remaining guards. “Alright just three left, Charlie is 30 meters from you, Tango and Zulu about 60 meters.” he whispers.
A few minutes later, after zip-tying, gagging, and giving a sleeping pill to his smoker friend, Sloan hears one of the more distant guards speak. She tenses and takes the safety off her weapon.
Also ready to shoot, Noah whispers, “Looks like Tango and Zulu are going to take a gander at something in the alley on their side. Charlie is probably going to wonder where his friend is very soon.”
Sloan does some mental figuring. First, she lifts the guard’s leg and moves it about a foot further from the tailgate of the pickup and then checks the street.
Noah radios, “Charlie is standing up and looking around.”
Sloan hears Charlie say, “Marl, where are you?”
Noah says, “Charlie is moving north. He's just past the hood of the pickup.”
Sloan checks for traffic again and then crouch-walks into the street that runs alongside the pickup. Sloan peeks and sees Charlie warily looking and moving toward the tailgate.
Noah says, “You, my friend, are smooth. Tango and Zulu are still missing the party.”
Kneeling low, Sloan looks underneath the body of the pickup and then silently inches her way to the side of the grill closest to the sidewalk. She peeks out and sees Charlie cover his mouth in shock as he sees his friend’s unconscious body. In a flash, Sloan leaps out and chops Charlie’ neck! His eyelids flicker and he slumps; wanting to avoid the loud crash of gun against pavement, Sloan grabs him by the armpits and lowers him down slowly. She grabs Charlie by the back of his collar and drags him behind the tailgate, covering her retreat with her weapon.
With Charlie done up like his friend, Sloan once again peeks out over the tailgate. Streetlights flicker, a couple of shopping bags drift over the parking lot, and when all seems clear, she sees a taser lying where Charlie had stood! If he'd pulled that taser, then I'd have never seen it coming. I didn't even notice that he had it! Thoughts of being discovered, shocked with a million volts, and dragged off to the mob boss’s headquarters to be interrogated and then... used... race through her mind like ten thousand race-horses turned loose from the track. Sloan’s knees buckle and her stomach starts to heave.
Noah whispers over the net, “Sloan! What in blue blazes is wrong with you?! Get up!” but he’s only answered with the soft pitter-patter of vomit on concrete. “Sloan," he nervously continues, holding the microphone closer to his mouth, "Are you hit? Did he hurt you? Answer me, Sloan!”
“N-no, but if he’d gotten me with that taser, he would have. Forever.”
Noah's fingers release the microphone as his ears begin to ring, the pulse of his blood a loud thumping sound overlaying everything else. His stomach sinks into deathly cold and his breath comes slow, rattling, and shallow.
Sloan. Could. Have. Died. Rang the knell of thought upon his mind. They would have been too close for me to take a shot, and that would have been the end of her: the end of the warm and crazy nut who never blinked at danger, who thought big like me, who could make the frosty, barren night come alive with bright and vivid stories. And I'd be alone.
While Noah trembled, Sloan closed her eyes and thought of her ideals to steady herself. Love, Faith, Brotherhood, immediately, she could almost hear Noah's retort: Truth, Knowledge, Discovery! She smiled, I can always count on him for comic relief, even if he isn't quite operational. And speaking of not operational...
“Noah, you'll never be alone,” come Sloan’s quiet words as she wipes the puke from her lips with the back of Charlie's hand. Clenching the forearm of her weapon with one hand, she pushes herself up and kneels behind the car.
Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Noah answers, "Thanks for reading my mind."
“Yeah, well... whenever you're with me, you always talk about how alone you are in this 'vast and vicious void' this 'cruel and capricious cosmos' so when I saw you lose it after I’d told how I could have died, I guess I kinda felt like you’d be thinking about something like that.” A warm, reminiscent tone enters her voice, “Heh, yeah, that’s just like you, always thinking.”
“And... so... you stepped in to stop me before I hurt myself or called the mission off?” comes Noah’s soft, astounded reply.
Sloan replies, “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Another silence, one unlike the one upon the hill, fills the air. Noah’s cheeks glow a soft auburn, warmed by Sloan’s insight, and Sloan gazes up at the stars as she wonders if her God would reward her for her deeds. Their gazes harden as each remembers the mission at hand. Both exhale the tension of the moment and prepare themselves for the last stretch of their efforts.
With his first and middle finger outstretched, Noah points toward the alley. Sloan nods and moves out, her soft-soled sneakers whispering over the asphalt. Upon reaching the right side of alley's entrance and seeing that the building forming the left has eaves, she’s struck with inspiration: Slowly panning her head, she checks to see if anyone is watching and then crawls over to the other side.
Somewhat out of the loop, Noah asks, “What are doing? Tango and Zulu could come back any moment now.” Sloan ignores him and grabs the eave facing away from the entry point to the alley, testing its strength.
Covering his face with his palm, Noah moans, “You can't be serious.”
Chuckling, Sloan gives Noah a thumbs up and hoists herself up onto the roof. Unless the guards were to look up, the canopy and darkness would keep her hidden. Worrying that Sloan's gambit could end in a gunfight, Noah limbers up to run and steels himself to take two lives. “Alright, Sloan,” he begins, “Tango and Zulu are back. Tango's wearing a hat and they're chit-chatting over something, listen to their chatter before you jump, it could be important.”
Tense, Sloan waits until she can hear the murmur of the two unsuspecting guards. I wonder if Noah gets a kick out of telling me things that I already know!
"Unbelievable, Tango and Zulu must be the dumbest guys I've ever seen.” Noah whispers “They’re just casually strolling toward you.” Indeed, Captain Obvious, Sloan chuckles nervously, But I suppose that he created this ritual for a reason, "Fear not the guard you see," or something like that.
Sloan hears Tango and Zulu talking. She crouches down and puts her hand to her ear: Tango grunts, “They must be on break. Morons should have waited for us to get back.”
Noah whispers another tidbit, “Tango and Zulu are 20 meters from your position.” No duh, thinks Sloan, rolling her eyes.
Upon seeing Tango and Zulu's heads pass inches beneath her feet, Sloan tenses and a flutter of doubt runs through her mind: Can I really do this? What if one of them has a... a... NO! I am NOT bungling this job. Focus. Focus. Focus. The two guards turn. At least I won’t have to worry about being seen. She raises the taser, lining Zulu up in its simple sights, and fires it into his neck. Tango turns, but too late! In a flash, Sloan leaps down from the eave and plants her feet solidly in his shoulders. Although he flies into the street, his pistol clattering on the ground, Sloan botches her landing and falls flat on her back.
Squinting her eyes in pain, Sloan is halfway to her feet when she finds a pistol levelled at her. Her terrified gaze travels up a bare, hairy arm and into a pair of furious eyes: Tango is not amused.
"IMMA--"
--A loud PFFT! echoes from underneath the truck and the slide of Tango's gun explodes into fragments. The surprised goon's jaw drops just before Sloan grits her teeth, rises fully, leans back, and then breaks it like a dry twig with a haymaker of a right hook.
Sloan, trembles, teeth bared, fist covered in the blood of Tango's gums. Noah checks for other guards and then sprints over, hiking boots thudding and squeaking on the pavement, but by the time he's arrived, Sloan hasn't budged.
"Sloan, let's go!" he whispers, grabbing her by the arm. She's stiff as a board. "Sloan, please, he's gone now, we can't risk the mission." Another motionless beat passes. "Sloan, listen, I, I'm sorry that it ended this way, but sometimes people die in war. That's how things go."
Tango, more disturbed than either of them by the proceedings, duly protests, "Actahlly, ahm nah deh yeh."
Noah stifles a laugh, and Sloan lets out an "Eep!". She pulls her leg back to stomp Tango's head.
"Nooo! Ahll gah quiehly!" moans the beaten guard, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his head.
"Right, probably should have asked first." Sloan answers, somewhat embarrased by her own brutality. She kneels down and produces a tiny pink tablet, "Here, taking this sleeping pill." Grudgingly, Tango swallows it and falls asleep.
With Sloan brought back from the edge of a meltdown, Tango bandaged, and all the goons zip-tied, gagged, given sleeping pills, and tossed in the back of the pick-up truck, Noah and Sloan silently make their way to the single-story office building containing the briefcase.
Upon reaching the back door, Noah fumbles with the handle, "Shoot, it's locked".
"Don't worry," Sloan answers, reaching into her pony-tail to produce a hair clip, "I've got it."
Kneeling down, Sloan picks the lock while Noah checks each nearby corner and periodically looks to see if any of the goons had woken up.
"Booyeah!" Sloan whispers. The door opens with a soft "Clunk!" as the tumblers fall into place.
With Sloan on point, the two stack up beside the door. She raises her weapon to a low ready position and enters the dark entry hall of the building, scanning left, right, up, and down for threats. Noah covers her advance, staying a few paces behind his partner and checking each nook and cranny that Sloan might not have noticed.
Pale halogen light and a dry conversation bubbles out from a open doorway into the hallway. Sloan raises her right hand with all fingers extended and drops to one knee. Noah kneels down behind her. "Alright, chief, what's our next move?" he asks.
"Looks like they're just counting this week's revenue. I count two armed and three civilians." Sloan replies as she flips her weapon off safe and begins silently rising to her feet, "Those dirtbags won't know what hit 'em."
Noah's hand upon her shoulder stops her short, "Don't you think enough people have suffered today? We beat, taze, and tackle people every day, but the only thing that keeps us from being murderers-- people like them-- is that we know when to stop. Them? They'll kill your whole family without a second thought."
Sloan gulps, "You're right. You're right. I'm a--"
"—you're not evil, you're just sensitive. Heck, if I let my feelings out all the time, then I'd be itching to deal out some gunishment, too. And, if I never let my feelings out, well, then let's just say that a few people that you know wouldn't look like they do now. Wrath and mercy are just two sides of the same coin; our judgement is the only thing that makes them different."
Sloan sighs and crouches down again, putting her weapon back on safe. She thinks for a moment, calculating whether they'd be seen passing through. "It'll be risky, but we can just barely slide past when they turn to put the money in the briefcase by the table."
"OK. You go first and I'll cover you," Noah whispers, gesturing down the hall with the muzzle of his gun.
"Just like always, dude, just like always." Sloan replies as she moves to the far side of the hallway and drops to her hands and knees. Nervously, Noah peeks between the door and the wall, scanning for targets. Just like Sloan said, two men stood on the far side of the room, armed with shotguns, while three old men in dark suits sat at the table. When the three geezers turn to the briefcase, he waves down the hall. Pad, pad, pad go Sloan's footsteps, almost too quiet to hear. Bracing himself, he quietly imagines pulling the trigger on each one in quick succession, trying to desensitize himself to the blood that he'd spill if Sloan's gambit didn't pay off. Squeeze, squeeze, don't think, just squeeze.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash! Noah wheels about and flips the safety off, lining up his shot, but it's Sloan's grin in the darkness. He returns the safety and exhales, putting his face in his palm and lowering his weapon. Sloan snickers. Alright, I guess it's my turn now, Noah thinks, I just hope that Sloan didn't try one of her "new ideas" this time. Trying to stay quiet, Noah leans down and trundles over to the far side of the hallway, one boot almost squeaking on the linoleum floor. Dropping into a low crouch and facing the door, he crab walks across the hall, covering his own advance with his rifle.
With the room bypassed, the two interlopers continue to a file room where their research had indicated the suitcase is. Noah drops to one knee and cover their rear while Sloan switches her foregrip mounted flashlight on, turns the door knob, and silently enters the room. Swinging her cone of light from table to desk to chair, Sloan finds a suitcase that fits the specifications found in their intelligence report.
"Noah, I think you should see this." she whispers. Noah turns around and goes into the room. With Noah looking over her shoulder Sloan carefully reaches for the briefcase handle-- but Noah smacks her hand away! Sloan recoils, and Noah squats, checks it over carefully, and then steps back.
Sloan whispers, waving her muzzle at the parcel, “Is it trapped or something?”
Noah looks at her and shrugs, “Don't think so.”
Emboldened, Sloan shakes her head and reaches for the suitcase, but Noah takes several steps back. Unnerved by his retreat, she shoots him a sharp look, but Noah just grins and disappears into the hallway. Heart pounding, Sloan squats by the case and looks it over, checking each edge and crevice for a detonator wire or homing beacon, carefully examining the handle in hopes of finding a secret button, looking up and down the stool on which it sits for evidence of tampering, but she can't see anything suspicious. Finally, in boredom and frustration, Sloan grabs the briefcase by the handle and heaves it to her side. Nothing happens. That jerk! He knew I trust people!
Sloan leaves the room and delivers a solid whack to Noah's butt with her newfound implement of revenge. "Sloan!" he whispers, "You jer-- well, I was kinda being one, too. Sorry." Sloan smiles and tilts her head a bit, satisfied that justice had been done. The two quickly and quietly exfiltrate the site in the small sedan that they'd parked just a mile away. They pull up in the parking lot of a park. Noah sits in the passenger seat with the case in lap, ready to pop it open.
Noah reaches down to reveal the contents but Sloan's hand stops him, "Does it have to be all business, all the time? Can't we at least, for a moment, enjoy what God--"
"—don't start with that, I'll debate you back into the stone age and feed your ideas to the dinosaurs."
"There weren't any dinosaurs back in the stone age."
"Aha! That was a trick answer: Don't you believe that the earth is only six-thousand years old?"
"Your mortal logic cannot possibly comprehend the mind of--"
"—God, I know. You always say this. You always say this, and I'll never believe it. I HATE it!" Sloan recoils a bit at her friend's anger. Noah, now on a roll, explodes into a fit of fury: "This is why we can't have nice things! This is why the world is so messed up all the time: people like you just won't listen to logic and reason!" with a crash, Noah slams his fist on the dash, then glares at Sloan, "You all you loonies, it's like talking to a brick wall!" A long beat passes and Sloan's face recedes into a blankness as empty and expressionless as the thousand-mile deserts of Arabia. She opens the car door and walks toward a grove of trees nearby, still covered in tactical gear from the raid. As her form melds into the night, Noah buries his face in his palms and cries into his conscience: Great Scott! What have I done?
-Duxwing
