# Chapter 1: Operation Catharsis

Author: MicoConejito
Tags: Action, Adventure, Alternate Society, Bunny, Death, Drama, Fighting, Fox, Gay Relationships, Golden Retriever, Military, Rabbit, Story Progression, Timber Wolf, Violence (not In Yiff), War, Wolf, suspense

Springfield on Fire
Chapter 1: Operation Catharsis
Day one was to divide up their
forces; half of the base remained there to mend the damage following the
morning's mortar fire. The other half would fan out into the hills on a
search-and-destroy mission for the mortar teams themselves. Bishop would be in
the hills, where the freezing wind was better at cutting your nose than the
onslaught of pine needles. 
His fireteam consisted of six men: Fireteam
Leader, Corporal Liam Taylor, a clean-cut blond golden retriever. He looked the
part: dashing and confident, a hefty build that looked solid in the uniform.
Behind him was the radio operator, a white mouse who barely looked capable of
carrying the equipment, Specialist Charlie, "Boxer" Fairbanks. After
those two came the gunners, those who were not qualified for any specialized
position: Pvt. Gabriel Vicks, a vocal pit bull; his squadmates were all
convinced he was more qualified for gunner than any of the others were for
their positions. Standing at almost seven feet, he was just larger than Barnes,
but, unlike Barnes, Vicks was all muscle. He volunteered for rear-guard to
bring up our six, and it was both terrifying and comforting for the rest of the
fireteam to know he was behind them. The second gunner was Smith; there was no
surprise there; he made up the vanguard, using his scrawny and agile self to
help scout just ahead of the fireteam. Next was the friendly pack-mule, Barnes,
into whose hands they had placed a machine gun. 
With Bishop trailing just behind Spc.
Boxer, their fireteam made a single-file line up the winding paths into the
hills. There was smoke rising from the side of one hill over a little valley;
this was more than likely where the mortars had been fired from an hour ago,
but any team worth their salt would have packed up and cleared out by now in
anticipation of Cpl. Taylor's fireteam. 
"Bishop," Taylor called
out behind him. "How much training have you had with that rifle?" He
gestured towards the M1A1 Carbine in Bishop's hands.
"Nothing formal, sir. I was to
begin today."
"Are you any good with
it?"
"I prefer it to the
Thompson." Bishop shivered as the wind caught him under the collar.
"B-better scores and more comfortable, yes."
"I think we're going to be
relying on you out here," Taylor continued, pointing down the path as it
opened up from forest to cliff-side. "They're either going to be in
perches waiting to snipe us out or holed up waiting for an ambush
close-quarters."
Those last two words were heavy on
everyone's ears. Vicks growled over the shoulder of Barnes, "I'll put them
down myself if they do."
"Just stay alert,"
continued the Corporal. "I will not tolerate casualties on my first
operation. Boxer--"
"Y-yes, sir!" The mouse
jumped at his name, saluting. 
"I need you to relax for me,
alright?"
"Yes, sir." His hand
lowered by his side, the other holding onto the shoulder strap that helped to harness
the large radio unit on his back.
"Hand me your
binoculars." Taylor held out his hand, and Boxer quickly deposited the
equipment. "Bishop, I need you to get eyes on that hill."
The white rabbit slung his rifle
over his shoulder and took the binoculars, pushing past the meek Boxer. The
fireteam stopped where the trees had begun to thin out such that, were they to
continue, they could easily be seen. At the edge of the path, there was a steep
drop. How the trees managed to grow on the side of the hill, none of them knew.
Bishop dropped to his stomach and crawled to the edge of the cliff, his ears
pressed back by his cap, held tighter still by habit of keeping them down. He
put the binoculars up to his eyes and looked for the source of the smoke. They
had a slight advantage in altitude at the moment, and Bishop found that he
could see quite a lot.
"I have..." Bishop scanned
again to confirm himself. "Three targets in the mortar pit."
"Can you identify them?"
Taylor moved closer to Bishop.
"All male, clearly combatants;
each one has some kind of rifle or sidearm on him. They're not wearing our
uniforms."
"Identify those weapons if you
can."
"One of them has a long rifle;
I'm not familiar with it, sir. Another has a Luger, and the last looks to have
a Thompson fitted with a drum magazine."
"The one with the Luger--are
they marked?"
"I can't see any officer marks
him. He's not in his jacket--none of them are."
"Alright. It's a safe bet, I
think. What are they doing?" 
"Looks like they're collecting
ammunition."
"Packing up. We need to
move." 
"No, no." Bishop was
surprised as he realized what he was watching. "They're unpacking the shells
and moving them over to the mortars."
"Another strike? Greedy
motherfuckers," Taylor snarled. "Boxer, I need you on that radio ten
minutes ago. Tell them to expect another strike within--Bishop, how ready do
they look?"
"Hard to say."
"Give me something,
Bishop!" Taylor's bark was sharp.
"The Luger is moving to a
radio; I thi--"
"Bishop!" Sharper still
was this one. 
"Five minutes at most."
"You've wasted as many. Get
your shit together, Bishop. Boxer: relay that."
The mouse hurriedly continued
turning the handle on the little turbine inside the radio box to power it. When
it reached peak, he grabbed the receiver and began calling, "Nest Egg,
this is Bravo-2. Come in, Nest Egg; this is Bravo-2"
"This is Nest Egg. Go ahead,
Bravo-2."
Boxer's normally-shaken voice was
clear, smooth, and perfect. His eyes were closed, and he was focused as he
relayed the information perfectly. For all his ineptitudes, Boxer was the best
thing in the fireteam when it came to doing his job. Bishop felt that sink in
as the Corporal's disappointment in him turned to praise for Boxer. Bishop
returned to the fireteam and handed the binoculars back, reequipping his rifle
under his arm.
"Sorry, sir," squeaked
Bishop. 
"Don't hesitate. Don't waste
time. Every second you spend not getting the job done is one second our enemy
is getting ahead, killing your comrades." Taylor turned and looked Bishop
in his eyes, and Bishop's knees were shaky. "I need you on-point. Do you
understand that?" 
Swallowing his pride, Bishop
nodded. "Clear as day, sir."
"Smith," Taylor called
over his shoulder. "How long is the march down to that pit?"
"Ten minutes if we haul ass,
but they'll see us coming a mile away."
"Any other routes?"
"We could go the long way and
get up on the path that goes over their pit," and he pointed at the
feature he was describing as if anyone could see it from there. "...get the drop
on 'em."
"How long on that path?"
"Twenty, twenty-five minutes.
It's the trail we trained on a few months back."
"I remember now. Good. Did it
look clear?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"Yes or no, Private."
"Yes."
"Okay," said Taylor as he
turned to the rest of the fireteam. "We take the long road and end this
for good. No risk of them getting and setting up again tomorrow. As of now, you
are on stealth. No noises; do not fire unless instructed. Hand signals from
here on out. Understood?"
The fireteam nodded together. Taylor
gave the hand sign for "forward, low," and they began maneuvering
behind Smith's lead, cutting into the trees and avoiding the open cliffs
altogether. As the fireteam mounted the trail a few minutes later, the sound of
mortar fire came echoing gently through the trees. Bishop's estimation was
right at least: five minutes. He thought about how many would be killed in the
new wave, if it would be anyone he knew. Maybe it would be someone he didn't
like. He didn't want anyone dead, but, if it had to be someone, it might as
well be a win-win. He shook the thought from his head.
"Don't be an asshole," he
thought to himself. "Good thoughts... good thoughts." Bishop wasn't
religious, but he felt a kind of solace in thinking happy thoughts for other
people, a king of prayer without the strings attached. It gave him comfort at
the very least, which, ultimately, is what he wanted. A prayer wasn't going to
divert the mortar fire away from his friends' tents. 
Bishop realized how much he was
spacing out, staring at the back of Taylor's head with no attention being paid
to the area around them. When Taylor stopped and dropped to a knee, Bishop
nearly tripped over him. Snapping back into reality, he, too, took a knee,
drawing his rifle to his shoulder just in case, the barrel pointed down the
path. He began to scan the tree line with his rifle lagging, pointing where he
had already looked in order to throw off any enemy observers who might try to
read his posture and avoid being seen when his gaze pointed at them. A feral
deer stood munching on some leaves in the path, still unaware of the fireteam's
arrival. This was a bigger problem than it originally seemed. A spooked deer
would tip off everything in the next hundred yards that they were there, and
none of their guns were fitted for silent kills. 
"What do we do?"
whispered Boxer to Taylor. 
Taylor didn't respond, watching to
see if the deer would move on its own. "Boxer, do that 'bird-call' thing you
do."
"Which one?"
"Wha- I don't know. Just make
a sound to get it moving without making it run."
"I'll try." Boxer brought
his hands up over his snout, one of the only people who could fully cup around
his mouth with his hands. He made an enclosing, using his fingers to create a
kind of instrument to whistle as he blew into his hand; it was a lot like the
wind in an old house. After a bit of practice, it started to sound like an owl.
The deer wasn't convinced by the noise, but it was certainly aware of their
presence and began walking down the path. It was in the way for sure, but not a
direct threat anymore. 
Taylor pointed at Bishop, Barnes,
and Vicks, designating them as a squad to go along the right side of the path
that had the cliff going down. Taylor, Boxer, and Smith remained on the left,
hugging the wall as they moved forward. This continued for about fifteen
minutes. It felt like walking through a mine field, each step being a twig to
snap or a rock to trip over. Bishop was in the front, and he was unnerved by
the impatient Vicks behind him, who pushed each time he slowed down to survey
the next leg of the hike. 
The squads were approaching a bend towards
the right in the path when a loud crack snapped through the trees; it landed
with a sickening THUNK and squelch from behind Bishop, who turned on a dime to
see Vicks staring at him with a blank expression and a large, red hole plugged
into his forehead. The hulking body timbered forward, and Bishop was unable to
get out of the way in time, tripping over his feet. Pinned by Vicks, Bishop
panicked, trying to lift the body off his legs. He couldn't get leverage, and,
instead of moving Vicks, managed only to roll him enough for his face to turn,
the wound spilling into Bishop's lap. He couldn't hear Taylor as he called out
to the fireteam. He couldn't hear Barnes as he yelled for Bishop to get down.
All he heard was a second shot. With
his back to the source of the fire, he could feel a pinch in his neck and a
ringing in his ears. Dazed, he just looked at Barnes, who was dragging Vicks
off to the side. Barnes returned to Bishop and pulled his head to the ground.
What little cover they had was effective, as a third and fourth shot crackled,
blowing chips out of the tree they were behind.
Bishop could see Barnes talking,
but he couldn't hear him. He looked at Vicks laying there and reached for him.
"Help Vicks," Bishop
muttered. "I'm fine."
Bunnies didn't belong in the army. 
Another bullet ricocheted off the
trunk of their cover; Bishop flinched, and, upon opening his eyes, felt a wave
of senses return to him. He heard the return fire and the yelling between
Taylor to Barnes.
"Report, Barnes!"
"Vicks is KIA! Bishop is hit!"

"I need suppressing fire down
range--now!"
"Bishop, buddy, hold on."
Barnes stood and checked his MG. Bishop patted around for his rifle, and,
unable to find it, looked at Vicks, whose Thompson laid still under his hand,
finger on the trigger. The M1A1 was under him as well. Barnes turned from the
trunk and began laying down bursts of fire into the woods. Barnes could see the
sniper repositioning after his fire and called out his location between bursts.
"Smith," called Taylor.
"Take left flank. Go!" 
Bishop reached for his rifle with
his left arm, but was met with a shooting pain in his shoulder as his arm
lifted. He fell over onto his side, then rolled to his stomach and crawled over
to Vicks, using the body as cover, and began working the rifle out from under
him. The enemy didn't seem to be firing back thanks to Barnes' suppression, but
it was impossible to tell since everyone was firing together. Bishop could have
been dancing between shots down in the dirt for all he knew. There was a kind
of freedom in this risk, where he just had to let fate take its course for
better or worse. 
With the rifle dislodged, Bishop
moved across the open to anther tree, seemingly unconcerned with the
possibility of being shot again. He stayed prone at the base of the tree, his
rifle propped against a root and his shoulder, finger on the trigger. He
watched the tree line as bullets fired into the distance.
Barnes shouted,
"Reloading!" The silence was uncomfortable as the fireteam ceased its
fire.
Bishop took a deep breath, but was cut
off by the pain in his shoulder and exhaled again. He adjusted his breathing to
his new capacity and leaned into his iron sights. His senses weren't dulled any
longer. He could hear every movement in the trees, smell every bit of spent
gunpowder, blood, and turned dirt all matted into his fur. He could feel the
drain in his shoulder running down his back, and a kind of frailty that
followed in his legs. The sights on his rifle were perfectly aligned.
Beautiful.
From the silence came another crack
just as before, and he spotted a small flash from a darkened burrow. Through
sheer mechanical instinct, his aim moved to it, and calmly delivered three
rounds down range. They were met with a yelp from afar and Taylor's voice,
"Solid hit!"
Bishop could hear a burst of a
Thompson in the distance and Smith yelling, "Target neutralized!"
As Barnes came behind Bishop, the
marksman lifted his head from the rifle and cringed, "How is it?"
"Not bad," Barnes
responded. "You're bleeding like a pig. I'm going to get a compress on
there. You think you can make it?"
"Yeah, let's keep going. How's
Vicks?"
"Uh, Bishop," Barnes was
somewhere between confused an annoyed. "Vicks is dead." Of course he
was; still, Bishop needed to hear it. "Sit up; I'm going to get under your
jacket."
Taylor and the other squad returned
to Barnes and Bishop after a series of shouts, "all clear!"
"How are you, Bishop?"
"A little shaken, but
good." He winced as Barnes worked Bishop's jacket up over his shoulder. 
Smith came and sat next to Bishop.
"Took a bullet... Still breathing. I call that good."
There was a silence as they
collectively shifted their attention to Vicks lying there in the dirt, eyes
still looking for the man who killed him.
"We can't carry him
back," said Taylor. "Best we can do is lay him out honorably and send
in a recovery team for his body when we return. We need to stay on-objective.
How long on that wound, Barnes?"
"About finished. Let's get his
arm in a sling so he can maneuver better. He's still a good shot; doesn't need
a left arm for that."
"While you're doing
that," Taylor said before looking to Boxer. "Let's radio in and let
them know our situation. We should be able to take the mortar team within
fifteen minutes. Does that sound right, Smith?"
"Yes, sir."
"Alright. Fifteen minutes,
Boxer."
The sounds of mortar fire were
still evident, but less for their landing and more for the low SHUNK that came
bellowing lowly through the trees when they fired. They waited for Boxer to
radio home and relay while Barnes finished patching Bishop up, who did little
to resist the wolf when he pressed, held, and moved him. It was because of a
mixture of weakness from bleeding and a willingness to just get it over with
that made him look limp. Needless to say, this was not convincing Taylor that
he was fit to fight.
"Are you going to make it,
private?"
"Yeah. I know better than to
fight a medic." Bishop's hands were palm-up in his lap, shaking. He could
see a still image of the person he'd just killed. He didn't feel bad for it,
didn't question it. It bothered him how little it really bothered him. The
pressure--as it wasn't really a pain--in his shoulder was, in an odd way,
reassuring. He was a live to feel the pain. Vicks was painless. The sniper was
painless. "I like the way it hurts," he muttered.
"Fuckin' sicko," retched
Smith. "Now he's gonna' go out and get shot again."
"He just dropped, Smith."
Bishop looked over his shoulder to his friend. "Dropped like a bag of
sand. No noise, no yelling, no dying words. Just... fuckin' gone."
"Don't dwell on it," said
Barnes. Bishop realized what Barnes must have seen from behind and nodded; this
wasn't dismissive advice. Barnes didn't want to think about it, either. None of
them did.
Taylor grunted when he turned Vicks
over, laying the pit bull's hands on his gun, which was laid over his chest.
The corporal placed the soldier's helmet over his face to cover the wound,
taking a moment to close his eyes with the solemnity of ritual, as if, somehow,
Vicks wasn't really dead until that moment. 
"Sir," spoke Boxer.
"Captain Tanner says we are to keep moving forward until the mission is
complete; casualties..." He hesitated, clearing his throat and looking at
Vicks. "Are not a concern in the completion of the objective."
"Fuckin' expendable, he
means." Smith spat to the side in protest, grinding his teeth a little.
"We got careless,"
retorted Taylor with a sigh. "Don't get wrapped up in the politics. We
have a job to do. I'll deal with it when we get home."
Taylor stood and dusted himself
off. Boxer and Smith joined him. "And we are going home, gentlemen. Bishop,"
said Taylor in an official tone. "Are you good to go?"
"Yes, sir." Bishop spoke
meekly and, with extensive help from Barnes, stood for the first time since the
firefight began. He spilled his guts next to the tree, the nerves finally
coming to turn his stomach all over the grass. His entire body looked to be
shaking, and, as Barnes could tell, it was. 
"Barnes, help him along until
he gets it together and can walk on his own." Taylor motioned for Smith to
go ahead, and Smith darted off immediately to continue his scouting.
"Bishop, if you fall behind, we can't afford to carry you. If you can't
keep up, go home."
Bishop wiped his mouth on his
sleeve and spat out one last time. "Understood."
Barnes lifted him a little and
handed him his rifle. "Good thing you weigh next to nothin'." They
began walking together weakly. "I'd hate to have to haul anyone else with
all this crap on my back." Bishop sighed into a chuckle. Barnes was good
for morale in camp and out there. 
As they passed the body of the
sniper, Bishop took note: a mouse not unlike Boxer. He looked to be the same
complexion and pattern, same pink ears, same teeth. He had a pistol in his
hand, not the rifle he used against Bishop and the fireteam. He was riddled
with holes. Smith must have had to execute the poor bastard after Bishop's
shots proved nonvital. Had he been ready to shoot at Smith with that pistol?
Some grand last stand against the enemy for honor and valor? Whatever it was
then, all that remained was a mound of flesh and bones worth no more than
dinner to the feral coyotes that would come to take him away that evening when
it got warmer. There was no valor in death, only the loosing of bowels and
one's dignity.
"Why didn't he just run?"
Bishop said to Barnes quietly. "He moved when you started shooting, but he
stopped to shoot back."
"Who knows," he dismissed
"Probably thought he could take us."
"He could have survived."
Bishop was getting into the habit of checking hindsight on his foes and
friends, criticizing what they could and should have done in his mind.
"And you could have
died." Barnes' words cut at Bishop, a tone which clearly indicated he
didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Can you walk on your own now?"
Barnes let Bishop's arm go, and
Bishop held firm. "Yeah, I'm good."
Barnes handed him his rifle and
grabbed hold of his own. "Let's get a move on then. We're falling
behind."
They caught up with a brisk pace to
the Corporal and Boxer. With Smith ahead of them, they made good time and ran
into no more trouble until they reached their target, an overhang that looked
down into the mortar pit. It was as if they had come from the enemy's own base;
this extreme flank was costly, indeed, but, in the end, it had paid off.
Approaching the edge, Smith peered over without the need for binoculars to
confirm that the enemies were stocked and primed to continue firing for some
time. They were no more than thirty yards from their targets with a significant
height advantage. The sun was coming up behind them such that the enemy looking
up at them would be blinded. Tactical advantages like this were enough to give
any commanding officer an erection at full-mast.
Taylor brought everyone into a
huddle and took a deep breath before delivering orders. "Barnes and Smith,
you will each take positions on the ridge to fire into the pit. The goal is to
pin them down while Bishop," and he turned to look at the rabbit.
"Lays down lethal shots onto the targets if they do not surrender. Do you
think you can do that?"
"Absolutely, sir."
"Boxer, I want you standing by
to radio in as soon as we're finished. I will stand by Bishop to direct his
fire. Everyone, get into positions. On my signal, raise and suppressing
fire."
Each man assumed their positions. Smith
and Barnes crawled to the edge of the cliff, where they could stand up and cast
their shadows into the pit. Bishop and Taylor sat together on the edge of the
overhang some space apart from the others. Bishop struggled to create a stable
platform for himself from which to aim, the edge of the cliff itself making an
uneven and unreliable mark. Taylor laid down in front of Bishop on his side,
back towards the rabbit. 
"I'll be your spotter,"
Taylor spoke softly. "Use my hip like a bench."
Bishop positioned his rifle onto
his fireteam leader's hip and trained his sights on the mortar pit. He could
easily switch aim to every position in the pit and felt his hold was steady
enough to be relied upon. He could down all three targets confidently within
five seconds, he thought. This was good.
"This will work," Bishop
said to Taylor, who, looking to Barnes and Smith, gave the gesture for
"open fire."
It sounded like an industrial fan
and a chainsaw battling to see who could be more terrifying. Bishop watched the
panicked soldiers jump, looking for where the bullets would come from. Because
of Bishop's position, the enemies taking cover from Smith and Barnes were still
exposed to him. 
"If they surrender," Taylor
said over the gunfire. "Let them. If they fight back, put them down!"
This seemed loud enough that the enemies might have heard him, but they didn't
seem to react in any clear way.
The man with the Luger, a tiger
with bright orange eyes, stuck an arm over his cover to fire his pistol up at
the cliff. Bishop sucked in a breath and held it, swinging the barrel of his
gun over to point at the tiger. With sights trained on the man, Bishop fired
once. Solid hit. The tiger dropped his gun and braced the wound, the impact
having nailed him right in the bicep of his shooting arm. He curled into the
wound and looked to make the most of his cover; apparently he didn't realize
where the shot had come from. Neither did the other two, one of which was
cowering behind the mortar itself, his Thompson lonely and unsupervised in the
middle of the pit. 
The third soldier was in a tricky
spot, with only his head partially visible to Bishop. He was readying his
rifle, which Bishop noticed was fitted with a scope. He didn't wait for the
soldier to fire; the M1A1 swiveled again and took a snap shot on the soldier,
plugging him in the skull right where his long mule ear came out. He flopped
once, something like a fish, and fell limp over his rifle, then down to the
ground behind his cover and out of view. 
Barnes and Smith ceased fire. Taylor
got up, leaving Bishop to keep aim without the stability his corporal's body
provided. It was difficult, but he managed.
"You have two options,"
Taylor yelled over the cliff. "Option one: you surrender and become our
prisoners of war. Your lives will be spared in return for your cooperation, and
we will release you safely to your families when the war is over." He
cleared his throat and licked his chops. "Option two: you die alone down
there. I think you should be careful how you answer. Our snipers have already
shown you their effectiveness." A clever bluff to multiply his forces in
the mind of the enemy.
This made Bishop smile. He wanted
to put a round down into the pit for emphasis, but resisted the temptation. He
was having fun being the predator, especially to one such as a tiger, who sat
crumpled, cowardly and bleeding, probably crying for his mother to rescue him.
What a wicked smile this was on Bishop's face. He rolled his shoulder a little
to release another wave of pain down his ribs. He enjoyed it. It was a rush, a
high. "I am alive," he heard himself say. "You tried your best,
but I am alive."
The enemy soldier caught hiding
behind the mortar cried out, his voice cracking, "I surrender! I want
out!" His hands were over the mortar and empty. The tiger was taking his
time. Bishop could see the contemplation in his demeanor, the heavy breathing
that made his leather pants shine in waves as they moved with the rest of him.
Oh, this tiger was walking a fine line, and Bishop was lightly caressing the
trigger as he might a lover, waiting for any good reason to give it one gentle
squeeze and feel the release of the rifle against his shoulder along with the
bruises it might bring in the morning. 
"And you, tiger?" Taylor
sounded triumphant. "We can make the decision easier on you."
"No," he said, although
Bishop couldn't hear him. He had a very, very thick foreign accent. "Zhet vhel
nout be nesuseury."He stood, hands near his downed ears. He stood proudly
even in defeat. "Cap'cheur me if you like," he said, this time audible
to Bishop. "But es'pect nou'sing from me. I vhel nout betray my
alli-."
"Oh, that's highly negotiable,"
interrupted Taylor. "As you'll soon find out." He motioned for Barnes
and Smith to descend the slope leading to the pit, and they went sliding down
the face like they were surfing. It really was something out of Hollywood. 
The soldier behind the mortar was
standing upright at that point. Bishop had to rub his eyes in disbelief as he
eyed two long, white ears on the man's head: another rabbit? Bishop made doubly
sure it wasn't one of his older brothers, and, to his relief, let out a great
sigh upon noticing a pattern of black and brown speckles in his neck, a pattern
not reflected in his family of snow-white fur.
Barnes arrested the tiger with
little resistance while Smith collected the fallen weapons. Barnes directed the
Tiger to begin marching, following him with the tiger's own luger trained on
his back. Smith had some fun intimidating and scaring the rabbit, who began to
march without needing orders. Smith would snip at his neck with a hand if the
rabbit didn't move fast enough, and Bishop had to laugh. In the wild, this was
an everyday thing. Foxes hunted rabbits. It was a kind of beautiful circle to
behold. 
"We never really escape our
place, do we?" though Bishop. "He's going to love being a POW with
our welcoming group. I almost feel bad for him." Bishop struggled to his
feet and looked to Boxer, who was busy talking with base. Taylor came walking
over.
"You held your own," he
started, placing a hand gently on the wounded shoulder, probably without
realizing or remembering which was wounded. Bishop avoided flinching. By now,
he's convinced himself he was just a masochist. Whatever pain he felt just
echoed, "I am alive, I am alive..." in his head, and he smiled to have
some redemption shine in Taylor's eyes. 
"I'm happy you're with us,
Bishop."
Bishop blinked and saw Vicks
standing in the darkness behind his eyelids just in that moment. He shivered,
his fur standing up at the neck. "T-thanks" The word squirmed out of
his mouth. Taylor moved to the cliff edge. 
"Think you can scale
this?"
"I'll need you to hold my
rifle, but I should be able to manage."
"Follow them back to
camp," Taylor said while handing his M1903 Colt over to Bishop in exchange
for rifle. "If the POWs run, wound them. If they can't keep up or try to
run a second time... Well, you know what to do." 
Bishop's coy smiled returned.
"You can count on me, sir."
"I know. We'll catch up
soon." Taylor turned to Boxer and waved his hand over a shoulder at
Bishop. "Go on ahead."
Bishop's surf down the side of the
hill was not nearly as Hollywood as the others', but he made it with no
additional wounds. Once down, he hurried to catch up to Barnes and Smith. The
tiger was, now, totally bound by his wrists and being led by the scruff of his
neck. Bishop could tell he'd been roughed up a bit more, likely having tried to
escape. Bishop thought about who it was who did the roughing, as it seemed
unlike Barnes to hit a prisoner, but not something Smith was physically strong
enough to do. A swelling eye, a bleeding lip. The tiger was having a rough day
for sure. 
As Bishop caught up, he cocked the
hammer on the colt to make its presence known. They passed another deer, who
cared little for the display the soldiers made at it. Bishop made eye contact
with the animal, feeling as though he'd conquered it somehow, a predator of the
prey. As they made their way back to camp, it was quiet. They arrived to find
that the majority of the shells had been carried by the wind and missed the
majority of vital targets, having leveled the showers and laundry, but nothing
else. 
Taylor and Boxer caught up about
the same time the others arrived back, practically falling into the reception
of those who remained in the base. Bishop, relieved of his need to carry
himself, passed out onto another soldier and was rushed to the infirmary.
There, the bullet was removed and the wound sewed up. Thankfully, he was out
cold for the procedure. Bishop would wake later that evening weak, but
recovering. 
He could feel the delight of
morphine in his system and relaxed into the pillow behind him. He sat propped
up in a cot that had him positioned more like it was a chair or hammock, hands
turned up in his lap. Sitting there, he began running through a reel of the
images he's captured that morning. Vicks three-eyed stare came to surface. Vicks
was a decent guy. He was older than most other recruits, and he didn't
participate in the bullshit they threw at Bishop. A decent, work-minded guy, he
was. ...Was.
Bishop looked around to see who
else was in the ward. A couple others were laying in cots, both either sleeping
or dead. As to which it might have been, Bishop never really found out. Taylor
entered the tent with a plate in his hands before Bishop had time to
investigate.
"Knock knock," he said,
actually looking for something to knock on. "This place really is a tent,
isn't it? Huh." Taylor came and pulled a chair next to Bishop's cot,
setting the plate on Bishop's lap. "I always thought they were
exaggerating when they talked about it. You'd think the cold was bad for
wounded people, but, hey..." Taylor laughed and put a fork on the plate. "I'm
no doctor."
"You're talking like I'm dying
or something." Bishop smiled weakly, a metallic taste on his tongue, the decay
of vomit lingering on his pallet many hours later.
"Don't say that," he
snapped quietly. "No more death and dying. We did a good job today,"
Taylor sighed out with labor. "Brought you some slop. Figure you're
starving."
"N-" Bishop's denial was
instantly shut down by his grumbling stomach; they both eyed his midsection
like they'd uncovered a spy.
"Poker face doesn't work on a
stomach, Bishop." Taylor crossed his arms and leaned into the back of his
chair. "Go on, eat."
"Really, I can wai-"
"That's an order,
Connor."
"S-sure." Bishop reached
for the plate, noticing his left arm propped up in a sling over the other
shoulder. "This seems a little overkill. I feel fine."
"Morphine and adrenaline do a
lot to make it seem that way."
Bishop started eating. Clean peas.
Clean carrots. Sweet potatoes. A roll salted and buttered, lying precariously
next to a small pool of white pepper-gravy made from flour and milk, probably
the only gravy the rabbit could eat. It reminded him of home, and, taking a bit
onto his fork, he choked up. The fork fell into his lap, and his free hand
covered his mouth. The tears filled his eyes almost instantly. As Taylor stood
and reached across Bishop to hold him, the flood overcame the rabbit, and his
petit whimpering could be heard throughout the tent.
This morning, he was being harassed
by his officers and comrades. An hour later, he'd been shot and pinned under
the dead weight of the strongest soldier he'd ever seen. A kind of labor came
into Bishop's breathing, trying hard not to hyperventilate and make a fool of
himself. Still, something about Taylor was comforting, and he finally sensed
that he was free to feel like a person again. He was home again for a moment.
The tears he shed expunged his fears, his insecurity, his loneliness. He cried
as much for his losses as his gains, his friends, who were still alive. He let
it all out.
It took a minute or two, but Bishop
had finally decompressed what was built up over six months, now soaked into
Taylor's fur like a dirty yellow towel. He smiled at Bishop, pulling back and
taking a deep breath. "You don't talk much, do you?"
Bishop began wiping his eyes,
sniffling a little. The question was right on point. He couldn't speak over the
lump that remained in his throat, instead shaking his head and rubbing his
neck. 
"I talked to Barnes and Smith
about you; I hope you don't mind."
Bishop looked at Taylor, both of them
fully aware of how absolutely pitiful he looked with saturated, red eyes and
wet cheeks, his nose drippy and ears folded back. "They're my only friends."
"That's what they said,"
Taylor said while grabbing a cloth from a nearby stand. He handed it over to
Bishop and sat back down. "Let's hope that's a clean one."
Bishop laughed, sniffling between
the chuckles. He put the towel to work and blew his nose.  "They're not racists for starters."
"No, they're not."
Taylor's tone was that of a therapist: neither to dismiss Bishop nor invite him
to elaborate. 
"Everyone else gives me shit
for being who I am no matter how well I perform." Bishop held the cloth in
his hand, grinding the inside of his thumb into it like he was trying to clean
the fur off his skin. "How many of those guys got positions they wanted?
What, like, maybe a third at best." Bishop rolled his eyes. "If any
of those..." He struggled to find a word that matched his feeling. "Fuck-faces"
God, that felt good. "...had even t-the slightest idea what kind of scrutiny
I'm under, they'd have quite months ago!"
"That's not untrue,"
mirrored Taylor, arms crossed over his chest. "So, I have to ask: why did you
stay? You could have left any time, you know. Failed a test, failed an
evaluation at the range, pissed off Tanner, anything at all. Why stay if it's
that bad?"
"If I failed, they'd be
right."
"I figured that was it."
"I mean, it's not like I have
something to prove to them. I just..." Bishop gave up letting out a sigh and
eyeing the cloth. "I'm just tired of being the last one for everything,
the least important all the time. My brothers all enlisted when I was still
seventeen, so I couldn't join them. They went off into the other branches, too.
My dad told me to enlist in the army because you're the only ones that would
accept 'one like me.' " 
"You seem fine to me, Connor.
All your parts work as far as I can tell, and you're pretty good at using
them." Taylor ran his hand through his hair and scratched behind his ear.
"I mean, what does your dad know about the army?"
"He'd tell you he knows
everything--about everything. That's just... how he is."
"How did your mother feel
about you enlisting?"
"She was worried like she was with
all of us, but she was used to it by the time I left. She always wanted to
protect me from my brothers, and, once they were gone, she started trying to
protect me from the world."
"Can't blame a mom for that,
though."
"No, but I know she didn't do
it for me."
"How do you mean?"
There was a long pause again and
Bishop contemplated what to say. His jaw was tight, and Bishop could see his
muscles twitching as he grinded his teeth.
"You don't have to tell me,
Connor. I'm just trying to get to know you a little."
"She didn't want to be the
mother of the faggot rabbit who got kicked out of the army."
The honesty fell like a ton of
bricks in the room. 
"So you're...?" Taylor was
apprehensive to ask.
"Yeah." 
"Well, I guess that makes more
sense. Army policy doesn't concern itself with things like that. We just want
soldiers wh-"
"The army will take anyone, I
know." Bishop's stomach and jaw clenched again. " That's why I'm here
and not with my brothers. That's why everyone else gives me shit. That's why I
have to barter for food and shower last. That's why I can't be alone--anywhere--without
getting harassed." They both recalled the dozen or so incidents that had
come up with Bishop being caught alone by other soldiers and abused in various
ways. "I haven't even told anyone, but it's like they can just smell it on
me." Bishop sneered at his lap. "They can smell the faggot on
me."
Taylor just let him talk, a little
disappointed at his manner, but still understanding. Bishop was normally the
epitome of self-control and patience, but something about this talk was much
more than Taylor had bargained for. 
"I think you smell like baby powder,"
said Taylor in a tone that was far too serious for the silliness of the
sentence. "Doesn't make a difference to me what you smell like. Few hours
ago, you smelled like shit, and I still wanted you in my team. Now you smell
like baby powder and dehydrated potatoes, and I still want you on my
team." Taylor put his hand on Bishop's and squeezed a little. It was an
intimate gesture that communicated a sense of sincerity and closure.
Bishop looked up to him, his eyes
finally dried. The red they displayed was ebbing away to reveal a clear blue.
"Thank you."
"Thank you, Connor. You are an
asset to this team. If nobody else accepts that, let it be enough that I
appreciate you, and so do Barnes and Smith. The Commander took note of your
service today," Taylor said with a hint of excitement. 
"Wait, really?"
"He wants to recognize your 'determination
to serve' despite being wounded. Rumor has it he might put in a recommendation
for a medal." Taylor winked conspicuously and leaned back into his chair. "Don't
get your hopes up, but, hey. A recommendation can be just as good to the right
ears."
Taylor looked up above Bishop's
head and smiled. "I'm not sure I could put up with those things."
It was a ham-fisted change in
topics, but Bishop didn't mind. This conversation was one of the first he'd had
in a long time that felt good. 
"I really don't know what to
do with them." Bishop looked up and let them flop down into his face,
smirking when they covered his eyes. "Two big, white flags on my
head."
"Oh," Taylor groaned. "Stop
it. No more beating up on yourself. Nobody wants to listen to that."
"I know." His tone was
assuring, casually playful even. Bishop was still smiling as his ears perked up
to attention, his broad front teeth showing. All he needed was a little
acceptance, a place to belong that was even a little respected. Now that he
felt he had it, there wasn't much else to do. Bishop's stomach howled again. 
"I guess you're right,"
said Bishop. He grabbed the fork from his lap and scooped up some of the
potatoes. "You really can't poker-face a stomach."

Source: https://sofurry.com/view/802077