Home is Never Home

[Berlioz Lamond]

Zanabar, Redwing - 3353

Pt.1

The following takes place during Berlioz's first and only return home, after his first 15 month deployment.

There was a certain smell about public transport that you really couldn't get rid of. That smell of people, just people, all kinds of odours that would permeate every surface and linger for months afterwards. He would be grateful for the fact that the train he was on had enough seats for him to have a row to himself if it weren't for that. Mind you, the last few months had held worse than just something unpleasant to smell. He shifted the black duffel bag between his legs, he hadn't put it next to him out of courtesy but it was apparent now that he obviously wasn't that appealing to sit next to and make conversation in his BDUs.

What he was grateful for was the quiet, almost everyone on this bus was older than at least 40 or 50, no one else of his age was anywhere to be seen. The small village that his mother lived in was mostly resident to the elderly or their children that cared for them. Despite the number of ex-military personnel that were living out their later years here nobody even really acknowledged his existence. It was a strange place, home to so many that had lived lives of violence and noise, being so peaceful and calm. Then again that could be what age did to you.

Alicia, his mother, had said she'd meet him at the stop as he didn't know where she lived now, she'd moved since he left and found a smaller and cheaper place to live as he wasn't going to be home for long anymore. He really wished she hadn't sounded so excited to see him, sounded so... proud to know he was coming home. He didn't really know how he should feel, was what he was doing right? Would it be better if he was proud of his actions? His work? Could he really just call it that, just call it work, like it was a normal job?

The train turned a corner sharply bringing him back, Berlioz looked out the window at all the trees flying past, must be there soon, he thought to himself. He hoped the time he had away would help take his mind of everything that he'd seen and done. He really wished there had been someone to stop him joining up, to hold him back no matter how hard he fought. Just so he didn't have to go through all of that. The silhouette of the station came into view and the train began to slow down, as it came to a stop everybody stood up. He sat and waited as everybody pushed their way towards the exits, all eager to get off the train and do whatever it was they did.

Finally as the carriage emptied, he stood up, picking his bag up as well and slowly walked to the door, stepping out into the afternoon sun, the glare making it somewhat hard to see. Walking over to the station he waved his train card over the scanner, verifying that he had paid for the journey and the gate swung open automatically. There was quite the crowd, people returning from holidays, coming back from business trips. Then there was him, the 'war hero' come home. He continued past everyone, tuning out the chatter and the noise when he finally saw a face he recognised.

She came running up to him with the widest smile and crashed into his chest wrapping her arms around him, her head just coming up to his chin. He automatically did the same squeezing her tightly, they stood like this for a moment, no words to be said before finally he heard, "Welcome home, Berlioz", the words slightly choked up as she began crying. "I missed you Mom"

[Berlioz Lamond]

Pt.2

Berlioz sat on the edge of his bed staring at the floor. He'd been there a little while now, completely spaced out, thinking of the afternoon he'd spent with his mother. She'd taken him out for a meal once he'd packed the few things he'd brought back with him away. He found it strange, having spent so long eating in prefabricated buildings that sitting in a restaurant was almost a forgotten experience. They'd sat in a broken silence, only speaking occasionally and even then it couldn't really be called a conversation. She spent the entire time smiling though, so intellectual discussion clearly wasn't the reason she wanted him home.

He snapped out of his reverie at that. Home. Was this really home anymore? He remembered a conversation he'd had with another soldier as they had been evacuated from his first mission, a raid on a city held hostage by an independent faction that wanted to break away from the UCR. As they'd sat in the Sparrow he'd leaned over to him, opening up a private channel and said, "You know, having come out of that, I don't know what I'm gonna do when I go back. I joined up to help people, make the worlds safer places you know? And now what? I can't say I've helped anyone." Berlioz hadn't known what to do or say then so he just sat and continued to listen, "Am I gonna be able to tell my parents I did a good job? That I was doing what I thought was right? I don't think I can man. We'll never be free of the horrible things we've seen, what kind of relief can we get now after all the shit we've done." He heard him sigh over the private comlink, "No matter where we go, or what we do from now on in our lives, we aren't gonna forget any of this. Instead we'll forget what we know of that life we lived before all this, right? This is it isn't it? We can't go back now, what would be going back to, huh? Home...? Home is never home again after this".

That had stuck with him, it was hard to shake a mentality like that when it took root. He hadn't heard from the soldier after that, he was transferred to another unit, but he hoped that he was at the very least still alive. Looking over at the shut door, he knew his mother had gone to bed at least an hour ago and decided that sleep was probably for the best. He fell on to his back, shuffling up the bed until his head was on the pillow, the duvet thrown on the floor, replaced by a thin sheet better suited for the warm nights. He laid there, wondering how long it would be before sleep took him, not that he had any idea where exactly it would lead him. He'd never looked into dreams, more often than not he simply wouldn't remember them, or they'd just be repeats of previous events. More and more recently, he'd find himself back in the battles they'd fought, find himself in those hellholes and wouldn't be able to tell it was a dream until he was awake. Did any of his squad mates go though that when they slept? Was it just something th- "Private! Get out of the fucking APC and return fire!"

[Berlioz Lamond]

Pt.3

Everything suddenly flew to the side and the hold of the APC was filled with noise as what he assumed they were hit by a light anti tank weapon that failed to penetrate their armour. That didn't stop it being extremely disorientating. He could hear rounds pinging off and the sound of weapons firing in several directions. He flicked off the safety on his rifle as he stumbled to get out of the small rear hatch, the bright sun dulled by the polarised visor and the light turned a muddy rust colour by the dust kicked up around them by the explosion and the rounds impacting the ground. He moved away from the exit as several other soldiers clambered out and began to move into a familiar routine to deal with a convoy coming under fire.

Berlioz moved round the right hand corner of the rear of the APC and peered round, trying to inspect the damage done. During the brief look he got, it was quite clear this APC wouldn't be going anywhere fast as two of the wheels on the right side had been blown clean off and the entire vehicle was sitting heavy on its damaged right hand suspension. The mounted .50 machine gun on top swivelled to the right and began blazing away at the low rooftops where the missile was assumed to have come from, fragments of the building scattering around. It's dull roar punctuated by several snaps as rounds passed his head forcing him back behind cover. Looking up he saw a man wearing what looked like nothing more than a t-shirt, some shorts and a magazine rig on his chest peer over the lip of a building roof with a rifle aimed at all of them. The training kicked in and he shouldered his rifle and snapped off two rounds as fast as possible, both visibly slamming into his stomach and chest, the body tumbling backwards out of view.

Pulling back further behind the APC, Berlioz's radio came to life, the voice of his squad leader resounding through his head, "We need to move to the APC in front, ours is out of action and the crew will be picked up in a vehicle from one of the following units in a few minutes so don't worry about them" The dull roar of the heavy machinegun made listening somewhat more difficult as he peeked around the APC again to see the forward vehicle beginning to slowly reverse towards them, it's own .50 firing at unseen targets to the right of it, down what looked like the beginning of another large street.

Looking behind him, everyone was moving round the left hand side of the crippled transport as more fire began to volley down on them from the right hand side of the street. Berlioz pushed himself in against the back of the APC, trying to stay out of sight as he moved, trying to get round the rear left corner. The sheer stupidity of the situation wasn't lost on him, why an armoured APC group had been tasked to patrol an urban area would never be explained to him but it was rather apparent that someone higher up wasn't entirely familiar with trying to fight an opponent that didn't fight fair.

As he finally made his way around the other corner, he saw that his squad mates had pushed through the open ground and had taken cover beside the still functioning APC. However, despite the continuing fire from the right hand side of the street, the other members of his squad appeared to be preoccupied with looking down the road they had been heading down. While he couldn't see what they we're all looking at, the dull thuds that were beginning to become more than just audible gave him a chilling idea as to what it could be. No, there is no way they got their hands on an assault unit. The fire from the right prevented him from moving up to confirm his fears, but the fact that someone in front was unpacking a LAW was a pretty good indication that he was right.

The .50 on the lead APC suddenly spun forward and began firing off short volleys at the unseen target. He opened up the squad com channel, "I'm unable to see from my current position what exactly the APC is engaging, can someone confirm what is approaching down that road?" There was an almost imperceptible pause before a somewhat panicked voice came back over "It's a Strider, they've got a fucking Strider! 200m down the South West road and closi-! Oh Sh-!" The soldier was cut off as the turret on the lead APC exploded, sending shrapnel scattering around.

[Berlioz Lamond]

Pt.4

The now weaponless APC suddenly rocketed backwards apparently attempting to retreat from this considerably better armed opponent. As it pulled away it left his squad without cover and Berlioz could also now see what exactly was advancing on them. Standing over 4m tall in a dull orange/red colour scheme was what he now recognised as an old MA41 Assault Unit, given the call sign 'Strider', it had been slowly filtered out of service and replaced but obviously some had wound up on a black market somewhere and been sold on to these independent fighters.

The left hardpoint was mounting the standard 88.75mm cannon but the right looked like it had been taken apart and put back together wrong, instead of the normal matching cannon, there was a makeshift pair of anti tank missiles on what looked like a rather unstable mounting system. Also the 30mm autocannon had been replaced by a jury rigged .50 machinegun, it was rather clear this particular Strider had been sold partially destroyed and repaired later on. The Strider turned slightly and one of the missiles peeled away with a horrific screeching noise and slammed into the side of the retreating APC, ripping through armour and blowing the wheels apart. The sudden loss of control on one side meant the APC now shot off to the right instead of backwards and crashed into one of the shops on the street side, now completely out of action.

He watched as the LAW equipped squad member took aim, not that there was a massive chance of destroying it with a single rocket but potentially disabling a weapon system or even crippling it somewhat would improve their chances of survival greatly. The other members ran over to the left to take cover in the opening of an alleyway as the LAW fired out it's small projectile, covering the short distance in seconds, slamming square into the front plating and throwing out a cloud of smoke from the point of impact. The Strider stumbled backwards into the cloud and the soldier who had fired the LAW stood up and pumped his fist in the air, completely disregarding the rounds now snapping over his head from the soldiers still on the right hand street side and shouted over the squad channel, "Fuck yeah! Eat shit you fu-" The dull roar of a .50 opening up synced up with the soldier's chest exploding into red as the machine gun tore him to pieces.

The Strider moved through the now dissipating dust cloud, the front armour clearly damaged, its attention now completely focused on the remaining squad members still hiding round the corner. Berlioz ran around the rear of the APC he had been crouching next this whole time so that he was now in line to run to the APC that was embedded in the building. Breaking into a full sprint he heard the cannon fire and the .50 start up as the rest of the bio-signatures on his HUD all flat lined in seconds. For now all he could do was try and get the soldiers still inside the other APC out and try and get them to cover as the following vehicles would arrive soon.

Just as Berlioz got under the cover of the overhang where the streetside shops began, he felt something smash into the side of his head, the blow knocking him straight to the ground. His ears were ringing and his vision was distorted. He crawled forwards when someone kicked him in the ribs, flipping him onto his back. Hands were working on his neck, the clasp on his helmet was torn apart as his helmet was ripped off him, the sudden assault of sunlight overwhelming him for a moment. Then his training kicked in, lashing out with his right leg he swept them out from under his attacker sending him to the ground. He scrambled over, pinning him down with one knee on his arm and one hand on his chest. He then lashed out with his right fist, the hits landing so hard he could feel his knuckles pop and the back of the soldier's head crash into the dirt with every blow. This monster killed my squad. Another hit. He was the reason we were sent here. More blood on the ground. If it weren't for him none of this would have happened!

Berlioz struck him one last time, panting from the exertion, his right arm feeling like a lead pipe. He looked down at the quivering mess in front of him, but there wasn't an ounce of pity left in him, not now. He let go of his chest and swung his other leg over so both arms were pinned under his weight and he reach down to the soldier's neck and began squeezing, feeling the muscle give way under the pressure. He started weakly flailing, lightly slapping at Berlioz's arms and wrists with the limited range of movement he had, twitching his legs to try and escape. Don't you dare try and get away! You're going to die right here! He could hear him trying to croak something out but he didn't want to hear it, if it took him half an hour to choke this man to death he was going to do it. "P... Ple- Sto..." He stared into those eyes, the ones begging him to not do it. "S.. Stop... Do..." There was nothing else around him now, all focus was on this dying man.

"B... Berlioz... Pl.. Stop..."

He blinked. Staring up at him was the bloodied and broken form of his mother, lying under his weight, the bedside table toppled over, blood smeared slightly on one edge. He froze, unable to think. Realisation hit him like a freight train and he launched himself backwards, slamming into the radiator under his window, the feeling of sickness rising up, pain becoming more noticeable in the side of his head. His mother retched and coughed as air suddenly flowed back into her lungs. He started crying, not willing to believe what had happened, not to mention what he'd almost done. He stood up, still shaking and grabbed his bag, throwing one last pain filled look at the near lifeless body before running out the front door. He took the cheap disposable phone from his pocket and rang the emergency number. "919 what is your emergency?" "I need an ambulance to 87, Garden Falls Road, Bowland, please hurry!" He then hung up before they could reply, snapping the phone in two and throwing it into a nearby bush.

Then he ran. Ran away from what he'd done, ran away from the shame, ran away from the guilt. Taking the first train back to base, to sign up for the next ship off world. But no matter how far he ran, or how many battles he fought in, he carried it all with him. The soldier, from his first mission, had been right all along.

Home is never home.