Eight weeks ago, somewhere in the rainforests of Mistral….
A soft wind sifted through the woods, its caress was like fingers grazing over the mountainside. Its secrets were scattered among the leaves as they fell slowly in that early autumn afternoon. Careful whispers echoed through the forests below, whispers of battle tactics and stratagems, talk of supply routes, patrols in the area, manpower. There was a small camp at the foot of the mountain with its two tents loaded with supplies and ammunition, and the fire burned bright near the cool shade of a large willow tree. And atop its sturdy branches sat Newt, a charming, delightful young woman with bright amber hair and dazzling emerald eyes.
She had a pale complexion paired with smooth brown scales covering her face and arms which was probably why most humans detested her. It wasn't uncommon for people to shower her with rocks and stones whenever she finds herself wandering around human territories like they were trying to scare off a wild animal. When she was young, she tried covering it all up with a brown jacket and heavy make-up. It didn't do much but it never did bother her much anyway. Besides, all of those were but a distant memory to her.
Her brother Tuko, a stern man with darker-brown hair and green eyes, took her under his wing. Since then, they have found refuge in the arms of the White Fang who have since protected them from vicious bigots and prejudices. Still, she found herself unhappy within the organization. As protected as they were, she never imagined the cost of her life would be countless others.
Now, she just sits upon the embracing branches of the willow tree as she wanders the deepest, most brilliant corners of her mind and dreaming of the clear blue skies above the clearer and bluer beaches of Menagerie, with its crystal sands and tropical forests as green as Mistral's. She never did have a taste of the land her father and mother grew up on, Tuko and her were born in Windpath and were shunned ever since. So she loses herself again in thoughts and tales. Somewhere she can call home.
"Newt!" a voice calls from below and startles her awake for a moment. She looks below and sees her brother already wearing his mask and holding the high-powered Atlesian assault rifle close to his chest as if it was his hugging pillow. "We're heading out, I'm leaving you with Bruno and Aries," he says swiftly, nothing more than a heads-up.
"Okay," she agrees weakly, knowing full well what they're about to do but that's the last image she'll want to pester her mind with. "Just be back, okay?" she reminds him, too.
But he doesn't even glance , his eyes stay forward, "Move out!" he roars with such ferocity that the eight-man squadron behind him jumps up from their posts, arms themselves with heavy assault rifles, and marches deep into the forest. Then he turns around, "Aries, Bruno, get over here!" he shouts out into the sky like the second roaring trumpet and two guys sitting by the campfire hear his call.
First stands a tall, grey-haired man with wide wolf ears peeking out of his head. He moves slow yet calm, he takes his rifle and steadily marches his way to Tuko's side. This was Aries, a large bulk of man and wolf, a hardened veteran of the White Fang that lived only to serve, never to be served. The other one gets up later than him and with a fresh cigarette butt still smoking between his lips. His name is Bruno, haggard looking man with coal black hair covering his eyes and makes him stumble over grassy ground, recovering only by breaking his fall with the butt of the assault rifle. He tries to rush in for duty and meet Tuko's heavy sigh but then he remembers the radio set by the campfire and again he fumbles around again to come back for it. Sadly, Tuko can only roll his eyes so far up his head before the nerves detach from his brain.
As the two stand before him, Tuko eyes the shivering Bruno whose rifle is jammed down the ground on his right while the radio set is shaking restlessly on his left. "Aye, sir?" they offer themselves with a chant in unison to the whims of the Pack leader.
"Right," he eyes him some more, "Listen, a Schnee company caravan will be arriving shortly by the main road. Taking the men and we'll be relieving them of the cargo as per the order of Adam Taurus," he says that with a rare light smile on his face. "Hold onto that set like it was the girl you were gunning down the entire night ever since you stepped inside the dance club." He gives the radio set a sharp point but saves a stiff face just for the klutz who gulps down a tongue full of saliva, not knowing whether to answer back or listen still. "If anybody happens to walk down this area, I don't care who they are, you call me. If this location is in anyway compromised, you call me," he points back to his chest firmly. "And if any, and this is important," he says with both eyebrows raised and it widens Bruno's already anxious eyes. "If anyone makes contact, Adam, Sienna, or anyone from Clan Jackal," his command turns to a whisper in front of the soldier's shaking gaze, "You. Call. Me."
"Aye sir," he replies softly, lost in translation. Tuko gives them a frowned nod and turns around once more, heading into the forest to catch up with his men.
"Bye, Tuko!" Newt waves giddily at him from her willow branch, bidding him another farewell. And again he shrugs it off his shoulders like dust blown off the mountainside. And she dives down a well of sorrow and dying memories. He's change, that brother of hers. He always was stern and headstrong when they were young but now he's grown distant and cold.
She stares below once again into the endless green horizon, disheartened. There isn't much else she can do except stare. A gaping hole opens up on her chest where her brother was before. It was as if her older brother has passed away and was replaced by this mechanical, blank killing machine after he was made and marked by Clan Jackal, a haunting name in the cesspits of her memory. And just like the weeping willow she had chosen to perch on, a tear began to roll down her scaled cheek and her gaze started to blur. She was alone in this camp, no one understood her, no one dared understand her. "The Pack stays together, from the cub's first tooth to the wolf's last fang, the Pack stays together" the men feared those words. It was an old Jackal saying, an oath taken by those who were made. Even she has heard of that proverb but she never did know what it was about. But more importantly, she never knew why it made her feel so alone. No one by her side, no one to talk to, no one seeing the loud creeping silence.
No one except the man hidden atop the mountain cliffs, observing them through the lenses of his binoculars and the scope of his rifle.
It had been weeks since Devin Jackal begun tracking the outpost in the middle of the country's heavy forests. Countless hours spent wandering around the diseased, festering belly of Mistral's underworld, calling in favors, knocking out whoever's teeth needed knocking just to get here. And then came days of hovering around the area, mapping out patrol routes, guard patterns, knowing everything there is to know. Just how he likes it.
His black long coat is starting to pick dust as the wind grows bolder, scattering leaves into the red autumn sky. His white shirt beneath is already blackened from the dirt. His black beanie cap sways loosely with the tempting air. He takes his eye off the scope for a moment and looks through the binoculars. His lips fiddling with the cigarette between them, switching it from one side to the other. Then he holds onto it as he inhales that long whiff of smoke, clarity in the nicotine. Two people stand beneath the willow tree, one towering over the other. They hold their rifles firm, below the chest and ready to aim and fire. Devin furls his brows, thinking, and then he looks back down the scope of his rifle to get a closer view. One, two, he mouths to himself before he exhales the grey cloud from his lungs.
But with clarity comes doubt of the picture before him. He saw a party leave a few moments ago, trudging through the thicker part of the forest. It puts his mind to unrest, uncertain whether to pull the trigger or not. He takes his eyes off the lenses and gazes at the distance. He takes one last breath of his stick and then singes out its ember on the cold ground. The breath of fresh air was a change, savoring the cool taste of oxygen down his coal black throat. His eyes close, his mind calms, and he takes off his cap and lets his sharp jackal ears at play.
He listens, a gentle breeze flows like a melody picking up the beat. Behind him, he hears the rustling of leaves. A lone squirrel pops out of the bushes with its paws full of fallen nuts, it sniffs the air for scents it doesn't know and scents it fears. Its tiny head twitches left and right, wary of the unforgiving land; and then it runs off into the trees. He hears its claws scratching off bark as it scurries to the safe branches above. In the farther distance, he hears the faint sound of footsteps. Heavy ones, armored feet carrying armored men marching into position. He tilts his head softly to the west, cautious and searching. A unit trekked on soil, like the critter, they tread carefully. But then the footsteps grow louder yet lighter. No longer upon untouched earth, now they have found unfinished asphalt and carved ground.
He snaps back into his rifle, eyes down the scope and locked on the two guards. His finger slowly reaches for the trigger, the wind brushes by his ears and he feels it grow stronger. Back to the crosshairs, the towering man is still headstrong but his partner has grown careless, his rifle is resting on the side, the muzzle kissing the ground. He has found his target. He tilts the rifle slightly upwards, opens his other eye to see the horizon once again, his ears twitch once more to feel the strength of the wind's sway.
Then he pulled the trigger, the blast echoed across the forest, and Aries' head snapped backwards for a moment before he fell dead by the willow tree.
"Oh my god, oh my god!" stutters Bruno, losing words by the minute. His hands slither to cover his mouth, his cheeks are drenched in brain matter. Bone fragments scatter below his shivering knees as he loses his grip on the rifle.
Newt watches from the top, she too is trembling in fear. The shot is still resonating in her ears like wind chimes in a storm. Her hands grip hard on the sturdy bark, nails digging hard into the wood. Her pupils dilate rapidly as she stares at the dead man below her and at her shivering teammate fumbling around with the radio set, trying so desperately to put the phone on his ear and call for back up. The telephone felt like it was about to jump away from Bruno's hands as he struggled to put it close to his temple. The piece finally touching his ear and he looks at her for a moment. His finger taps his pursed lips and shushes her from below. She nods nervously and he begins to dial.
But then another shot was fired from the distance and the caliber blew a hole through Bruno's head and the telephone burst to pieces.
Newt whimpers in despair as Bruno staggers for a moment before falling to his knees and then lying lifeless on the cold ground. Her grasp on the branch tightens, fingers grip the willow tree stiff. She raises her perched legs up and holds them close to her chest, hoping that weeping leaves are enough to hide her from sight.
At first it was silence. Dreadful, deafening silence encompassing the forest. The kind you hear before monsters come out of the shadows. Calm lingers before the storm. So she closes her eyes and covers her ears, wishing the nightmare away. Something rustles in the bushes, light footsteps yet running amok on the green grass. Twigs snapping and branches being shoved away, and out of it all comes Devin Jackal, rifle at the ready, and eyes down the scope.
Devin scours the area, looking for more, expecting no less. He treads carefully towards the two bodies, two clean shots and two clean kills. It doesn't settle down the ever wary jackal, though. Acting against time is an exercise in futility and he can't act without certainty. He snaps his aim to the camp, light feet on hard ground. Closer to the willow tree he goes, listening to the deafening whispers of the wind. Trying to peek inside from afar, only empty tents and stacks of boxes reveal themselves. His grip tightens as a feeling of shooting someone begins gnawing at the back of his head. His finger slides to the trigger, the butt presses hard against his shoulder. He turns and she opens her eyes.
And she found herself on the other end of his rifle.
"Ma'am, come down from there," forward in his thoughts, not a second to lose. But she remains frozen stiff in her branch, kissed by winter's dead lips. Her head shakes slowly, mustering whatever courage she has left to decline death in his black coat. But he notices her long brown jacket and her absent White Fang overalls, no mask, no shroud. And he tries again, calmer this time, "It's okay, you won't be hurt."
"How do I know that?" she suddenly snaps, a tick of adrenaline, long enough to bargain, "How do I know you won't kill me once I come down?"
"Ma'am, I'm a horrible fortune-teller but I'm a pretty good marksman and I think I can shoot you as easily from up there as I can down here," she flinches and he wins. He notices it in an instant, "Now, come down here."
She wants to relent but there's nothing to fall back on. Legs and arms crawl on the sturdy wood, shivering from anxiety. Fingers dig deep on the bark, descending as slowly as she can. Making it last an eternity but when you already feel the bullet enter your jaw and pass through you head, eternity's but a moment. And before she knows it, her feet touch the ground and she faces the barrel.
"Lie down on your stomach and put your hands behind your back," he orders her like an officer would, pointing with the rifle. She complies and kneels down as calmly and quickly as she can. Her face slowly kisses the grass.
"Now," he begins strapping his rifle back, "I'm gonna level with you, once I'm done here, I'll take you to the next village and they'll turn you in for minor demeanor and civil disobedience." The idea sparks interest but sounds too good for her. "Should just get you a warning and be on your way, if not don't worry I'll stay long enough to make sure." She nods and turns her head only to see him moving into her side
"What are you doing?" she manages to utter in her situation.
"I just need to check if you're marked," he says as he opens his jacket and unclips the pistol strap.
"Wait, what was that?" she exclaims and starts to hyperventilate. But she starts to stand up in her panic but is immediately forced down by his hand on the back of her head. "Please don't," she worries already feeling the bullet at her the back of her head.
"I'm not, don't worry," his voice cool and certain, every word is meant and every action is intended.
She slows down her breathing, settling down her chaotic mind, cleaning it from thrashing thoughts. She closes her eyes, a faint whisper tells her to trust him and trust him she does as one hand pulls down the collar of her jacket and his other hand clicks a switch on his pistol and transforms it into a dagger. She hears the blade flip to a point and awaits the smooth steel. But there was none, nothing grazes her skin but she does hear flesh being cut as Devin slides the tip across his forearm, blood begins to seep from the wound and when there was enough, he drives the dagger on the ground and clasps his hand onto the bleeding wound. His fingers sift through her hair, a soft touch running across her scalp and into her neck, then soaking in the red like a sponge. And then his caress slides down the back of her head, nails dig lightly into her skin and wrap around her neck like moss creeping on the walls, and then he paints it a deep crimson.
"What the hell?" she squirms as her neck is now covered in blood.
"Hang on," he presses her back down, just looking at her neck.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Checking if you're marked."
"I told you I'm not 'Marked'," she rebuts but stays still with great frustration.
"We'll see," he jeers as he gently pushes her down to the ground. She tries to relent even further, her patience is thrown out the window but he's still there, observing, waiting.
And then backs up, he opens his coat and puts his pistol back into holster and straps it tight. She hears the snap of the clip and her storms calm down. Unknown on what is to come next but already feeling the gun at the back of her head, her neck smeared with gunpowder and drenched in blood. But Devin had a different idea. He pulls her back up from the collar and she is lifted suddenly in the air and stares up at his eyes.
Because he found no mark, nothing familiar, just pale skin mixing with the thick crimson. "Welp, seems you're clear," he assures her in a flash and pulls her up by the collar. "Name's Devin by the way," a tired smile on his face.
"Newt," an uncertain one on hers as she stands up by his hand. The confusion could not be matched and she was left speechless by that. She could only gaze at him as she completed the puzzle. But raised eyebrows cannot give her an answer, and Devin just stands there glancing over the horizon, calm and unburdened. "What do you mean? What just happened" she breaks the ice.
"Means, I'm proceeding as planned, I'll take you to the next village after I get something from one of those tents right there," he points by the campfire, "a manifest containing patrol routes and supply run schedules."
But her brother crosses her mind and her eyes look away, "Can't you just let me stay here? I promise I won't tell."
He smiles at her sadly, unable to let her go, "I can't, the squadron comes and they find out you're the only one left alive? Those're gonna raise some questions."
"My brother will protect me," she says proudly.
"Doubt your brother can protect you from the higher ups," his sad smile, a waning crescent under the red sky.
And she backs down, knowing who those are. Cruel people, bad people that impale heads on pikes and puts children to the axe. People her brother can't contest, "Taking you to the village, you have to distant yourself from these people," his hand rests on her shoulders, solemn and sympathizing.
She knows he's right but still she remains reluctant. Yet, his touch was warmer than her brother's and she looks him back in the eye and gives a hesitant nod. "Okay."
"I know some people there, I'll make sure you're taken care of," words as sweet as berries and she smiles at him again. Her hand find his and it feels warmer to know someone is trying to look out for you.
"Right," he starts, "Climb back up the tree, I won't take long then I'll come fetch you and we can reach the village by nightfall." She accepts and he gives her a boost, light as a feather.
Once she was perched up again, she pondered and reflected. Though she had felt protected and secured, she never could stomach the cost of her safety. A life of her brother butchering and robbing innocents was a life she could not stand. Even the imagining her brother out there right now, ambushing that unsuspecting caravan was a strain on her soul. Perhaps, it was time to let go of him.
Devin Jackal walks inside the tent, a cool breeze sneaks through the covers. Inside he finds a small desk with cardboard boxes full of paperwork below. Beside it is a worn out hammock with combat boots underneath. He rests his rifle by the desk then takes one box and throws it into the hammock, searching through the its folders, only vague names of low rank White Fang members are in it, too few and irrelevant to continue further.
Discarded, he grabs another one and flings the lid off without a care, revealing the large stack of folders. They still had names but all of them were unfamiliar to him. None native to Menagerie, they were closer to those of Mistral. "Humans," he mutters under his breath as he sifts through each one as if convincing himself. Yet, the longer his fingers fiddled through the documents, the more he began to notice the attention to detail each file contained. Home addresses, spouses, children, siblings, academy graduated, semblance, rank, "Huntsmen Dossiers." His tiny epiphany is followed by a grim conclusion and he puts a couple dossiers to the side as he doesn't stop there.
He digs through the next one and almost cries for joy. "Here we go," he exclaims as Faunus names are written before him in time tables. Letters detailing patrol routes, men counts, supply runs, all stacked in the same box. Puts a smile to his face, like reading a good book and he begins folding them and pocketing them inside his coat.
Outside, Newt contemplates leaving. Her brother is her world but her world is turning to hell. The thought of parting with him is too heavy to bear yet the thought of turning into him is too repulsive to stomach. Up on the tree, she buries her face in her palms, hiding away the tears. But footsteps began approaching from afar and before she could turn and look, two men were already aiming their rifles at her.
She stutters and backs up as they stand there menacingly. But Tuko and the rest of the squadron marches from behind, her brother presses a finger on his lips, "Stay here and wait," the order is given yet before it can be questioned, the men line up in position by the campfire. Guns aim down the tent, fingers reach for the triggers, Tuko walks to the end of the line. His mercy's gone with wind, he extends his hand and starts the count.
One
"Tuko, wait!" Newt jumps down from her branch and runs to her estranged brother.
Two
"Tuko!" her feet only gets her so far.
Three
A storm of bullets rain on the single tent, tearing through fabric and wood. Steel beams break as they're chipped off bit by bit every time the hammer on those rifles strike down. The ground behind erupt from stray lead, chairs fall down as the squadron goes wild. Laughing in the wind, making love with the trigger. And Newt crumbles down inside. Watching the brother she never wanted to see. Shattering behind him, knees weaken down.
She hides in her arms, burying her ears to drown out the noise. She can almost hear flesh tearing with every caliber, Devin drowning in his own blood. If only her scream was louder than the gunfire. But in cowering, the shooting ends. The squadron is smiling, taking ease. The muzzles of their rifles smoking from the heat, fresh from the kill. The rush is starting to die down, they look at each other satisfied with their handiwork. Some feel dizzy, some want to laugh but Tuko just gives the hole-ridden tent his coldest glare.
It doesn't feel right. "Too easy," he says under his breath. Green eyes narrow down on the gunned down tent. A fire started to spread, rations and supplies began to burn. But beneath the burning wood and singed fabric, he cannot find a body. And on their side, a cloth unfolded, a single step emerges onto the grassy ground. They all look to the left as Devin Jackal exits the other tent, biting the end of the pen as holds it in one hand and reads a clipboard manifest on the other, lowly humming to a pop country song stuck in his head. But he stops in his tracks and finds the squadron staring back at him, frozen in place.
Heavy breathing, the wind grows, Devin bites down hard on the pen, wide eyes meeting wider ones armed with rifles. And then he strikes fast, throwing the pen like a dagger and claiming an eye from one soldier. They all turn at him fast but he was faster, a quick draw to his pistol on the side and he immediately fires two shots on men at the middle, both bullets find their heads and they fall down like flies.
The next man finds him in his sights but the little jackal pushes his grip with his forearm and shoves the rifle away from his face. He drives his shoulder right into the man's solar plexus and pushes him backwards, into the squad. The others opened fire on him but he hid behind the faunus' staggering body and caliber after caliber plunged down bloody holes on him.
Devin evades gunfire before he pushes the corpse onto the next soldier, pinning him down with its weight. The others hesitate, the light-footed jackal shifts his pistol into a dagger and jumps high as he drives it into another soldier's eye. He then grasps him by the shoulders and tumbles down and flips the dead man over, launching him to the rest of the squad. A moment to shield him from their sights, a second to shift his dagger again and fire two more shots on the frantic men. One bursts a skull like a balloon and another finds a lung but Devin gives them no time and fires a few more rounds at him, no inch to breathe, one instant double tap. Then he sits back up and executes the last one that was pinned down.
He rolls to the side without another thought, keeping the blood flowing, adrenaline rushing as shots are fired in his direction. None finding their mark. Tuko misses and runs to hide behind a nearby tree, unrelenting but thinking. Devin finds only bushes and lies down as low as he can. He crawls through the prickly grass and settles behind a sturdy tree. His jackal ears free in the wind, listening, searching.
Tuko reloads his rifle, he treads lightly, as quiet as possible. He saw Devin slip behind the tree on the other side earlier but hasn't seen him come out yet. Hearts begin to race, thumping like a beating drum in his chest. He keeps his hands steady, ready to pull the trigger.
Devin holds his pistol close to his chest, he heard him sneak into the tree during the fray. Managing to slither out of the chaos. But he knows just as Tuko does that they're both just waiting and waiting. For someone to snap up and fire, to trip and fall, to throw away their shot. Waiting.
Tuko breathes deeply, reminding himself This is why you were Made.
Devin presses his forehead against the metal, its cold embrace he has felt many times before.
Tuko cocks the rifle one last time.
Devin pulls the hammer down.
And then the wind carries the whispers in the forest, silent secrets.
Tuko stands and keeps himself low, running to the campfire and aiming down the rifle. Devin holds his gun high above his chest, eyes locked on the fore sight, shoulders firm and ready for the recoil. Both men rush down the middle, both men had each other in his sights—
Both men fired their shots and both men fell.
Three clacks came out of Tuko's rifle, each bullet found their way to Devin's chest, taking him out. He staggered with each hit, each lead heavier than the last as he fell to the ground unconscious. Tuko took two in his abdomen, they ripped through light cloth and leather armor. Flesh bore holes and he felt the bullet ran amok inside him, probably tore through enough organs to keep him down.
Gasping for air, he crawls backwards. Blood's gushing down the wound, he presses hard but doesn't have the energy to. From the distance, he sees Newt shaking as she shatters before him. "TUKO!" she screams before running towards her brother, concerned to the brim. Tiny steps clattering closer, she kneels down and holds him on her arms. The warmest embrace of his life.
"Newt?" he begins.
"I'm here, Tuko," she replies in tears, remembering what matters most.
"Newt," he repeats, the life beginning to fade.
"Don't talk too much, I'll get help. We're gonna get you fixed up and running and—"
"Newt," a deep call, "Is he dead?"
Newt stutters, losing her train of thought. She looks at Devin and finds a lifeless body in the field. But she remembers her contemplating, her reflection, her chance to be free and the cost. And before she even tries to answer, a breath of life enters Devin and he takes one deep gasp of air before he snaps back up breathing heavily.
He unbuttons his shirt and reveals a bullet-proof vest with three bullets lodged in the Kevlar. He gasps for more air, pulling out the armor and giving more space for his chest to expand as he breathes. He recognizes Newt and the man he exchanged gunshots with. "Frigg," he mutters breathlessly.
He struggles to stand up, his chest bruised from the shots. Slowly loosening the vest before he takes it off completely and drag himself across the field. Newt stares at him, begging for help but Tuko keeps dead eyes locked onto his soul. "Devin, tell him," Newt pleads with tears in her eyes, "tell him we can still help him." Devin looks at her injured brother and he can already tell that Tuko made up his mind.
"Fuck you," Tuko grunts at him.
"Tuko, please control yourself," Newt begins shaking him desperately to his senses. Devin shies his face away, he picks up his pistol and hides it in his coat pocket.
"Fuck you," the words bear hate. Like daggers through the throat.
"Tuko, just please calm down. We can still help him, right? I-it's just a gutshot, that would take days before he dies, right? Right, Devin?" her eyes clawing for the jackal's. But he blankly walks to them, feet dragged through bodies and skull fragments.
Devin finds no joy in looking at her, "Yeah, he'll be begging for death first before it comes and gets him," he forces a smile to crack, small enough just to see her face glimmer with hope.
But Tuko suddenly grabbed her arm was like a hawk's talon that found prey, "Don't you know who he is?!" he questioned in anger, Newt tried to pull back from fear. "What he's trying to do? He's Devin Jackal, the traitor. The deserter, the jackal the other jackals drove off," his words were like fire and brimstone. His hand bruises her and yet she was frozen still. And Devin watches him burn ablaze in fury and rage. Blinded by blood lust and duty, kicking harder and screaming louder the closer the little jackal came. But he soon comes to realize that he can't fake the smile any longer.
"Bend him over," he tells Newt who holds her brother up in her arms.
"What?" her voice shaking and it quakes even harder as she sees Devin kneel down and drip his hand in a pool of blood.
"Bend him over and pull down the collar behind his neck," hand clenches into a fist, blood dries in his palms.
"No. No, he's not-!" her voices breaks, words elude her as she quickly realizes that she's wrong. "Wait, please!" she begs but no one is listening, not anymore.
Devin walks up undaunted. He lifts his hand to preserve the sanguine puddle on his palm. On the other, he opens his cloak to reach for the pistol. "I'm sorry," he begs, "I have to check," he repeats.
I am a Jackal, Tuko begins to chant and it stirs up Devin and Newt's faces. and this is my pack
There are many like it but this one is mine.
Newt despairs, Devin proceeds.
The pack is my family, it is my life, Tuko continues, undaunted, ready for the next life and its greener meadows. To serve the pack, I must live free
And I shall serve it as I serve my life
And I stand behind it in victory
And fall beside it in defeat
Never to be bound in chains
Never to be trapped in a cage
I live free or die
To serve my pack, the blood paints it red. My blade must be swifter
Than my enemies before me, dripping down to his chest.
My shield stronger than their blows
Heart be fierce and mind be sharp
I shall hunt as a jackal
I shall fight as a jackal
I shall live as a jackal, bite mark shapes from the blood, two rows of teeth, six fangs each embedded on his neck.
Newt breaks, Devin looks away from her, Tuko feels the hot barrel kissing his temple.
Or I shall die as a jackal.
Two rows of wolf fangs appear on the side of his neck. Devin recognizes them, the Mark is hard to forget. Tuko's finding it harder to breath with a shot out lung. The wind grows softer, the sky bleeds out a sunset into the fading autumn afternoon. Newt has no more words to plea, no more excuses to make, nothing to say, not even a whimper. Only her brother's name, "Tuko—"
But then the shot resonates around the forests, scattering birds from nests and echoing throughout the mountains. The wind cannot match its howl, the bullet ricochets for a few moments on the ground before it embeds on the hard bosom of earth. Smoke comes out of Devin's pistol, the bullet went through in a flash. Tuko falls dead to the side, brain matter pour out his temple. And Newt finds herself gasping for breath. Disbelief sucking out the air from her lungs, no one had to die that day.
Devin cracks out a sad smile as he straps back his pistol, "The Creed," he scoffs slyly, a distant memory peeks back at him. "I haven't heard the Creed in a long time," the last light of the sun glints on his eye. A red sky looms over the horizon as frigid winds pick up their pace, "A Jackal to the end, he was," he says softly. But as he laments the fallen Jackal, Newt find no rest in her cries.
It was hard to face her, much less talk to her but he had to try, "I'm sorry, it had to be done," she heard him, or at least he thought she did. Empty eyes stare at emptier hands, the touch of her brother slipping away from her fingers.
"He was marked, can't take him to the authorities," he told the hollow girl that had no more tears to shed. "They'll hold him captive and the clan don't take kindly to their own in captivity." Words passed from one ear to the other but he prayed and hoped that she'd listen, she had to.
"They'll raid the village, search every crack and crevice for him, then they'll kill him anyway, along with you and everyone else in the village." But Newt kept her eyes on the open space before her, broken and beyond repair.
Devin takes his eyes off her and gazes at the willow tree, "That's what it means to be Marked, you live by the Creed. You live free or die." For a moment, her breathing slows down. Her hands stop shaking but she still stares at nothing. Yet, he doesn't let the sudden silence slide past his ear. But when he turns to face her—
He saw her reaching for Tuko's rifle.
The scent of grief is heavy in the air. The end game is nigh. Night approaches from the horizon, another twilight in autumn passes, the unforgiving winter getting closer. She crawls to the rifle, he subtly unstraps his pistol. In mourning, she pulls it closer. With caution, his thumb presses down the hammer. Her fingers lock around the trigger, his hands wrap firm around the gun. Newt's rifle was heavy, Devin's draw was quick.
And then she points the barrel under her chin before her hands begin shaking violently.
Tears pour out her eyes, she begins to silently sob beneath the red autumn sunset. Winds carry her cries along the forest to the whispering trees. Devin eases up his grip. A somber look of surrender is plastered on his face. There is nothing else he can do, loss is something he has felt many times in his past. Friends, lovers—brothers, something he has long accepted as a part of his life, something he cannot change. It hits everyone differently, he understood that long ago. There is no comfort for a grieving sister, none he can give.
He turns around and starts walking back from whence he came. What he needed were in his pockets, nothing else to stay for. He walked past her and into the tent to pick up his rifle and then he came back out to her still weeping for her brother. Again, he walked past her. At the back of his head, he hoped she would change her mind.
She didn't.
He'll never forget the rifle's clatter going off that day. The way the bullet passed through jaw and bone. The way it drowned out the body's heavy thud. Then again, maybe he will. It's hard to remember when you're walking away.