BATTLE CRY
winterminch

CHAPTER ONE / JUDGEMENT DAY

[0600 HOURS. EST. GEORGIA, U.S.A.]

To keep her life organized, she kept many different kinds of lists.

There were her average, every day ones that she doubted would ever change. For example, her morning routine. Forcing herself to get up at the crack of dawn, putting on decent clothing, applying and fixing any cosmetics or toiletries that were needed for her current exhausted bodily functions to run smoothly, taking care of the dog, following up on the news, and then finally diving into that wonderful, wonderful thing known as breakfast.

There was a great amount of other genres of lists that ruled her existence. Not to say that she minded them; they gave her a clearer head to have an endgame - a goal. A sturdy ground to run along if any plans were eradicated.

Speaking of running -

"A'ck - mornin', Max." She yawned down to the very perky German Shepherd that danced around her feet. His tail wagged like a metronome; back and forth, back and forth, back, forth. It was almost as if he was saying, "Good morning - hello - hi there, my person - yes, hello - hi, hello - I missed you while you slept!"The female was quite clueless (or just ignoring) of this silent greeting. She paid him no mind, left eye twitching as she stretched one arm high above her head. The other hand was at her face, fingers picking at sleep in her eyes.

She shuffled like a zombie into the apartment kitchen. It was dawn; the sun had yet to rise, and she hadn't turned on any lights.

While her dog happily did circles around the island in the middle of the room, she grabbed a box of half-gone bland cereal, the entire milk carton from the fridge, and picked around for a plastic spoon from the little red box she'd bought from the local supermarket. When she leaned against the counter top, elbows landing on the wood, she winced when her right shoulder cracked under the layers of muscle, almost ceremonially. She couldn't remember a morning since her accident in Iraq that her shoulder didn't snag.

Still too tired to notice that Max the German Shepherd was sneakily leaning his head up against the counter in a half-cocked attempt to lick at the bowl, her fingers outstretched for the remote to the TV across the room. Clicking it on by pressing the little red rubber circle, a wave of static from the television sprung to life with a flicker. She began to blindingly eat, scanning the channels as she chewed.

". . . killed last week in a freak accident now labeled 'Mission City ' - 20 dollars? For that? You've gotta be kidding me - Dean Winchest - I am Iron Man -"

Just as Tony Stark unveiled his super-secret identity to the entire world in a press conference, the classic-looking 1990's phone, spiral chord and all, upon a cabinet next to the female rang off like a firecracker. Not expecting such an exclamation, it frightened the young woman so much that her tense elbow knocked the already close-to-the-edge bowl of cereal over the sidebar. It's murky contents spilled all over the wooden floor, spattering everywhere. Maxwell slid across the tile, licking his fur, paws and ground spotless. The bowl teetered around and around in circles, until it came to a still underneath a door.

Snagging the ringer from the wall with an angry hiss, she immediately started grabbing at wads of paper towels, rolling them up into a ball. Tucking the phone receiver under her ear, pressing it into her shoulder -

"Son of a bitch - ah, damn, sorry, this is Skylar Rosette speaking, how can I help you at 6 A.M.?" Said she, through her gritted teeth. She mopped up what she could upon the granite counter top, sliding down the mahogany doors. She shooed Max with her hand, who in response, tucked his ears back, but did as he was told. She grabbed the fallen spoon and hugged it and the empty bowl to her chest, as the person on the other end of the line finally spoke.

"A very good morning to you too, Private Rosette."

The utensils in her hands scattered into the metal sink, bowl breaking in half. God, she was clumsy sometimes, but God - was she embarrassed. Her breath caught just beneath her ribs, eyes like saucers. Her informality on the phone should have been enough to make her heart leap, but now it did back flips in her chest; she had spoken much too bluntly in front of her SSG.

" I will overlook your extremely amusing omit to inform you - before Boot gets his fingers on you, that is - that I just came from a meeting where you were topic of choice. You're being transferred."

Her stomach dropped to the floor, her pulse pounded in her wrists and neck. She could feel the instant fear and adrenaline coursing through her when his words sunk in to the thick skull on her shoulders.

"T-transferred?" The word was foreign on her tongue, and it didn't taste or feel right there either. She took a seat on the floor, palm pressed to forehead. Max scooted close to her. "I can't - I mean, to who? To what branch? When? Why?"

Staff Sargent Brian Martin (a very strong built, loyal Army officer who had an unconditional family-like soft spot for the young woman he spoke with) cleared his throat.

"Yes, transferred." He echoed, the baritone of his vocals striking her through the chest. How could this be? Had she done something wrong? Was she going to be released? It horrified her; this news was anything but good. Private (First Class) Rosette had opened her mouth to ask all these questions in a rush and jumble, but before she could get even a choke out, he had cut in: "Also, before you start bombing me with inquiries, it was extremely unclear in the debriefing just where you will be going. Wherever your behind is being shipped, it's highly classified."

Highly classified.

A small flame of hope bit away at her irrational thoughts, even if it was smaller than her sudden fear for her job. Classified meant she wasn't being released from the Army, at the very least. That would absolutely break her heart - she loved her job, she found her passion fighting for her country, for herself and freedom. Not to mention, working with the weaponry -

But she could be moving down. She winced.

She could be moving back to the battle-zone, back to her spot as Field Artillery. She could be moving halfway across the world. She could be going undercover. Solo missions. Suicide missions.

"How classified is classified?"

He wasn't quick to respond. Furthermore, when he decided to return to his call, his voice had been knocked down a few notches and was liquid with details. Skylar could hear some sort of ambiance in the background - a scream of metal grinding against a gear, and a couple of pointed gun shots. She took a guess that he was where he always was: training new recruits, like she used to be.

"Er, well, as in the entire page was one big redacted mess. That kind of classified."

Max took off when she was done with clearing his belly with a wet rag - something she had started to pass the time. Climbing up from the floor, breakfast completely pushed out of her mind, she made a small, prompting noise and waited for more information. As, there was no way she would let him hang up without it. Her topaz eyes shook nervously in the dark; she had faith that Brian wouldn't just give her that smidgen of data and leave her hanging, but the silence was killing her.

"It is," Finally, her mind relieved with a breath of air in her lungs,"under my belief that you will be sent out as soon as return to base. For some reason, you're needed somewhere else besides this branch."

There was an uncomfortable pause as she drunk that in. So . . . she was going to be given the honor of an immediate change of pace, but for what? What cause? Because she was wanted? A part of her that wasn't complete mush from such a mental battery kept calculating possible scenarios. Sure - she was exceedingly skilled at her primary job. One of the best in front lines, if she was going to be so proud. But she was only one girl of those many best - Hell, she hadn't even shown the military anything else she could do behind closed doors. This entire change was irritating and strange.

"Rosette? You still breathing?"

"Uh," She snapped out of it fast, pushing herself to flutter back to the present, "I mean - yes, sorry, it's just, I'm - I mean - this is shocking." She chuckled with no humor, tucking a hand under her arm self-consciously. Her bushy eyebrows pinched together on her forehead, air leaving her puckered lips in a sad poof. "I've been with this platoon for so long -"

"And it would be unwise to mope over it, and instead . . . embrace the new adventures you'll be enduring all on your own." He said hesitantly, cautiously. He knew, even over the phone, it was never extremely wise to get the woman worked up, and she was already a lit fuse from stress. Private Rosette turned around to face the clock on the stove, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. She shook her head once at how frustrating this entire situation was and began the short walk back to her bedroom. Switching phones to the chord-less, she hung up the older, and clicked the hand-held one ON.

"You're making this sound like it's going to be a picnic, Martain." She chastised, fingers trailing the blank wall of the hallway absentmindedly. Skylar didn't have pictures hanging up, no paintings or family heirlooms decorating shelves. Just a white wall, speckled in holes where she had taken such things down. In fact, the entire apartment held very little color, minus a reoccurring theme of black, white, a couple red flowers in a vase above the TV. Beyond those few things, not even trinkets cluttered the fireplace mantel. Just a wooden clock that ticked at the same beat as her heart, that, had slowed down entirely.

Now, it just pooled in her chest in a disgustingly sick way.

"However," She continued, "I am honored that, for some reason, I am needed somewhere other than my comfort zone." She lied, smoothly with sarcasm in her tone, entering her room and sliding to her dresser. Skylar began to paw for the proper clothing, as wide awake as she would ever be in the dimness of her home. In the end, she picked out something easy: a moving pair of tan camo pants, and a white v-neck t-shirt. Flinging them on as quickly as she possibly could, she struggled to find the correct words as she stripped and switched attire. "I've gotta be doing something right, haven't I?"

He only responded when she had grabbed her unlaced boots, and set them next to the bathroom door.

"Well, Rosette, it might have to do with the fact that you're the damn best --"

Whatever he had, praising as it sounded, to say was cut off by a string of orders on the other end, barking mad, like a dog. More gun shots rang out, and she waited her turn to speak beyond the veil of their connected phones. She was grateful he had gone as far as calling her now, in this time of secrecy, when it could cost him as much as an extremely serious write-up for leaking Intel before it was allowed to be released. Still, she was discomforted by the thought of moving away from the friends, her family that she had made with the Team. Just judging on the way she felt at that moment, Skylar knew she would become more homesick than anything else.

Quietly as possible, she roamed the comb through the tangles of hair, getting ready for her day. In the mirror, her murky brown eyes were sharp. They glared at her - questioning what she could have done to get this new title. Her eyelashes were hidden in the little freckles all over her face.

There was a gentle laugh on the other side. Her doe-eyes burned at the gentleness of it.

"Anyways, don't act so uptight about it, Skylar." She was briefly shocked, even, slightly taken aback and abashed, that Staff Sargent had used her real name. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time 'Skylar' passed his teeth. "In our time working side by side on the Team, you've become a great ally. You will be deeply missed, but I know I am proud of you, as are the rest of the those who has been informed of your leave."

There was a thoughtful pause, where her face had flooded with color.

"Finally, a quick reminder that they will not just immediately send you away without a decent goodbye, so the quicker you get to Base, the longer we can all pretend we haven't grown into one big happy family."

For the first time all morning, she gave a free, real laugh, thinking of how true it was. It wasn't forbidden to grow ties in her sector of the Army, nor like it was in any branch of the U.S. Armed Forces. But it would always be better to not grow so attached to someone that you could loose in the next day, for obvious reasons. But the thing was, she couldn't see herself not loving the men and women on her Team, and once more, her throat prickled and closed.

She wouldn't cry, however. She never cried. She hadn't cried in years.

"Understood, sir." Skylar nodded, reaching to hit the END button.

"Private Rosette?"

"Sir?" She responded back, hand stopping on the final curl her hair attempted to brush out.

"You didn't hear this from me. Any of this."

That was it.

Before she could get anything else out of her mouth, before she could get say, "Okay." or "Thank you.", or even "I'm going to miss you", he was gone from her ear, the dial tone buzzing in a pathetic way that hurt her head. Squinting her eyes together, she pressed the END button, shutting off the machine. She rolled her neck and hummed in annoyance and stress and worry and even a little bit of swollen-heart sadness. She was to be transferred to an unknown section of the government, where she would begin an unknown job waiting there for her, with unknown people and an unknown horizon. Her entire future was completely, 100% screwed.

Yet, she wouldn't refuse the deal. In fact, though she had such conflicting emotions on the subject, they all knew that in the end, she would never not take the offer. It would be improper to deny such a gesture, and rude. And wrong. So she would take a giant step, no, a giant leap into the unknown . . . everything. She would do it with pride, too, with a wounded soul, but with pride.

Throwing her dark hair up into a tight ponytail, brushing her teeth and fixing herself upright properly for her final day with her team, she ticked off the light and took a bony, awkward seat in the hallway outside. Pulling on one boot, then the other, she was so lost in her thoughts as she laced up the black leather, that she didn't even notice Maxwell shuffle forward on his belly, nuzzling his head into her side. When she was done with her feet, Skylar subconsciously began petting behind his ears, a no-words thank you for all his love. The big dog whimpered low, knowing what she was to say before she actually did.

It is alright, my person. He would have said if he could. I understand.

But he couldn't speak, and she had to say the words for him.

"Alright, Max, time to go see Grandma." He whimpered again, crawling further on her. It hurt her deeply to always leave him like that, never sure if she would return home or not from wherever she went, especially with the dog's past. But she knew she couldn't - and wouldn't - leave him alone to fend for himself. If something were to happen to her, she knew that Maxwell would be okay in the hands of her more than capable mother. So, ruffling his ears, she pressed a little loving kiss on his nose. "I know, I know, buddy, but something tells me I'm not going to come home tonight. Work stuff, you know? Now go - go get your leash."

Taking a stand when he lifted himself from the floor, following her orders, she made her way further down the hall. Passing her bedroom on the right, the bathroom and the spare on the left, she found herself at the dead end, staring at the small closet in the back. It was for hand towels and hidden board games for the friends she didn't have, but she wasn't looking for woolen linen or Monopoly.

Instead, she crouched down to the floor, hands reaching for something no one else could see besides her. And, ever so quietly and delicately, she lifted a patch of carpet by the corner.

Underneath, hidden by grey patching, was a black, industrial backpack with a lock and all. Filled with her own secret files no one was allowed to see, she quickly yanked it out, threw it on her back, and grabbed what lay underneath that: a pair of leather gloves, a hat with an optic glass hanging like sunglasses from the side, and, finally, split into two easily constructed pieces, was a M24 sniper rifle.

Max dropped the red leash by her feet.

Her name was Private Skylar Rosette, she worked for the U.S. Government and their entire weaponry department as one of their best snipers, and in 0200 hours, all of that would change.

Even if she really felt like punching this guy square in the nose, hugging him until he passed out, and crying on his feet, all at once mind you, she was also extremely good at perfectly, without a doubt, convincingly bullshitting. So she did so, keeping one of the most content and happiest faces she'd ever had to make plastered across her expression like it was glued there. Though it might seem a bit, well, wrong for lying about being happy for a promotion she didn't want, one good thing began - there, right where she stood, started another list. One, she could add, that she was determined to follow through with.

1. Get out of the meeting with as much information as she could about where she was going.

2. Pack up all her things from her locker and bunker space without leaving a trace.

3. Say goodbye to her teammates.

4. Try to look enchanted as she did it.

That being said, she opened her mouth with a cheesy, white-toothed smile as they all stood around the white, plastic table in the middle of the West Hanger and said:

"Thank you, Master Sargent, for this is an incredible honor, and I am always joyed to say I served on your Team."

Reaching out to shake hands with the beefy, bald man in front of her she had called her commander for a year and a half, he roughly yet somehow in his nature softly returned the gesture, clapping his free fingers across where they'd knotted their hands together righteously. He was taller than her by only a couple inches, men towering over them both every day, but there was an air to how he held himself that made those 6'5 men cower when they caught a glimpse of the razor edge inside him. MSG Boot was a force to be reckoned with, but for now, he was just gazing at her with those grey eyes like he was loosing a child.

"When is my leave?" She continued formally, letting him go and slinging her backpack over her shoulders. The contents inside rattled across her spine, sending a ray of goosebumps searing down her exposed skin. Seeing how they were deemed personally classified to her and her only, she had kept them without question. No one, besides perhaps Staff Sargent Brian really knew what could possibly be inside anyways, and no one asked. She had unfortunately lost her sniper in this process, but promised in her new line of work she would be fine and dandy with her weaponry choices.

"As soon as you possibly can." He said loudly. "Round up your stuff from your bunker, and we will have Staff Sargents Martin and Hill," two familiar faces, however spoken of like strangers, "take you to the drop point."

Though she knew she shouldn't ask, after a hold, the words spilled from her tongue before she could contain herself. The curiosity inside of her boiled like hot water on the stove, simmering over the edge until she was unable to stop herself from inquiry.

"May I ask where I am headed, Master Sargent?"

Of course, he shook his head. His beady eyes glittered.

"Classified, Rosette. I give you my word that you have been chosen for your marksmanship, weaponry knowledge and high standards at such an early stage of development in this force. You will not be disappointed."

She did not answer him, her mouth staying in a thin line. She might not be disappointed for where she was going in the future, but in the present, she had absolutely no idea what she was signing up for. She was leaving behind any sense of normal she had known for the last few years. He must have sensed that settlement in her, for he came around the side of the table like a caring parent, putting his hands on her shoulders delicately. Or, what she knew was his brand of delicate - to anyone else, it looked like he was shaking her senses out.

"Private Skylar Rosette, in your time here, you were a fine contribution to this team, a true soldier, and I thank you for your efforts and knowledge."

She nodded once, lips turning up in the corners softly. She felt a prick behind her lids, but again, she would not cry. No pain, internal, mental or external, had made her resort to waterworks in a very, very long time. It would take a true situation of desperation, frustration, exhaustion, hurt and loneliness to make her snap, and though she was slightly nerve-wracked, she was not all of the above. She sucked in air, and tucked her hands behind her back. Her heels clicked together.

"Thank you, sir." Her face was blank, but beneath her sunglasses and glass optic still connected to her hat, she was saying her farewell. Skylar would give him that at least.

"Final dismiss." He responded with a bob of his head. He had read her message.

"Thank you, sir." She repeated with a catch in her voice, but before she could try to fix it or say a proper goodbye, he had turned away to deal with something else - like the conversation had never happened. There was no final look back; she turned on the balls of her feet, the tips of her toes, and walked up to where Staff Sargent Brian Martin and Andrea Hill stood like a stone pairing. Soon, they walked in time, away from her old life.

Nothing was quite the same after that moment, as even the transport started a new side of her friends she had never seen before. They had never treated her like a common official rank they moved from to and fro, as she was below them and was more a subject to joking and friendliness. However now they addressed her entirely as if she was not an underclassmen, but a soldier going into a battle with a blindfold wrapped around her eyes. Her questions were all cut off, completely silenced, as they were sworn to secrecy, despite how she plead for some sort of short answer.

"And you don't know -"

"No." Andrea had shook her head, eyes forward, her dark skin practically glowing in the light of the sun.

"There's nothing you could te -"

"Classified." Brian had continued, ignoring her stare as he drove to the Airlift Hanger a couple dozen miles away.

Finally, giving up on it, Private Rosette began fixing her gloves with a scrunched face, as if she'd eaten something as sour as a ripe lemon. She pressed herself against the leather seats of the SUV, and grumbled under her breath one word that didn't go missed by her transporters, only ignored like she hadn't spoken at all.

"Great."

At 0900 hours, the sun growing like the great, big ball of energy in the sky that it was. The triad of soldiers reached their final destination: a secured location for the coming and going of leaving officials from their ground hangers. She had never been here, in all of her time working with her the Team, as she was never on transport duty, and never an official beyond this moment. But now, she wasn't so sure of her title. It would be stupid to get her hopes up, for they could easily be ripped out of her grasp, but perhaps she was getting an upgrade with her new stationing.

"Thank you, Private Rosette, for your work and efforts here." Brian had held his hand out to her in a serious manor as they had exited the vehicle, which she took to steady herself. Some 100 feet away sat a monster-sized fighter chopper, painted jet black, with a huge, white upside down triangle on the doors - that slid open, a pair of soldier spilling out. The center of the shape featured a cattle, the letters beneath spelling 'N.E.S.T.' - she had never heard of such a branch. The blades in the air picked up dirt and blended grass and sand together, whipping them on their exposed skin. Skylar swallowed down tightly as her focus changed onto one of her closest friends.

"And - and you, Staff Sargent." For taking her under wing, for being such a good person, a good friend.

Unprofessionally, he gave her a brief, one sided hug. But then he was gone, nothing but his ghost to remind her that he had been there, or ever was.

With her pride tucked away in her pocket, she readjusted her backpack and gloves, positioned her hat over her eyes, and made her way across the blacktop towards the chopper that almost beckoned her with all it's might and secrets. She was so far away from the two Sargents now, that she could hear their muttered conversations.

"You think she'll like it there? Wherever that is?"

"She'll love it."

It was Brian who curled his lips into a toothy grin, but only he and he alone could tell it wasn't exactly the nicest face he had ever made. In fact, if anyone had looked at him right then, they could have called him a bordering sadistic.

But no one gave him mind, and he fixed his composure, hands tucking behind his back.

"But don't worry. She'll be back. We wouldn't just give away a brain like hers . . ."

Andrea wondered what he might possibly know that he wasn't sharing, but she did not ask. Not yet.

The two men who had come out of the open door dropped to the surface below, muted thunks on the pavement. One grabbed Skylar's arm in a directive manor, the other holding out his hand so she could balance herself against the metal barring to get inside. When she was burrowed in, the men following, they slammed the door behind them without wasting time. The chopper blades were so loud they needed headphones to speak freely.

Sitting in front of her was a strongly built man, one she had never seen before in her time, and she had met a lot of different officers as they had reached Base. He was tan, brown hair on his head the shade of milk chocolate, yet he was completely shaved around the chin and ears. His pants were camo, like hers, big dirt boots caked with grime and mud, but his shirt was just a regular tank He had smudges of gunk - or was that oil? - on his face and neck. His eyes blinked into hers; he could be no older than 40.

When she had a headset strapped on, her body in a seat-buckle as well, she raised a fine eyebrow.

"Private Skylar Rosette?" He questioned of her, raising a hand for the pilot to take off. His voice was a yell in the speakers, for if not, she wouldn't have been able to hear him period. She never knew these things could be so deafening from the inside.

Though she should have been nicer, especially to someone who could have very well been her next commander, she couldn't help her witty remark that spewed out before she could catch it. Her filter was a small one, mouth always shooting out something new.

"Who's asking?" She snarked a bit, fingers suddenly clawing the leather underneath her butt. She didn't particularly like heights, so to be at this incline didn't do her stomach much good. She kept her eyes trained on the man in front of her instead of dwelling on the thoughts of what would happen if the engine failed and they took a swell dive to the Earth.

"Major William Lennox!" He introduced himself formally, putting a hand out for her to shake.

She did, then let go seconds later, only to catch his last sentence:

"What you're about to join, about to endure, the only thing I can tell you is - just - try to keep an open mind, alright?"