sgt. kyle garrick

police sirens.

everything was so damn deafening. pounding in his ears relentlessly with no sign of stopping until all kyle can hear was nothing but the mistakes he made tonight. it wasn't his fault, it was never his fault — no matter how many times the sergeant told himself that, it would never stop. it could never stop. there, the londoner stood motionless as he saw everything crumbling down to a halt. his heartbeat quickening, his breathing coming out as ragged gasps, all amplified in his ears. kyle saw the white sheets that covered multiple civilians, scattered across piccadilly circus for him to see. taunting him. mocking him. sending him into a flurry of what-if scenarios and what could've — should've — been. if only... fuck, if only...

the captain — who was he again? price? yeah, price — walked over to kyle, his expression indifferent. this 'war' game that they both play, just one was a lot more younger and more naive about how the world works, wasn't so fair on anyone at all. they learnt that the hard way. but surely, if kyle just had more experience when it comes to... this... he would've saved more, right? if he had the mind like price, he could've saved so much more even if his hands were tied. must've been so easy, seeing hell and back could make someone so desensitized to it all. made kyle somewhat jealous, felt more useless.

"you saved lives today, sergeant," out came the captain's gruff voice.

even if his words were true — the captain's — it did nothing to calm down the inner turmoil that the sergeant was feeling. it just made him feel worse. more... more hollow. an empty shell of that sergeant that he made himself out to be. set records, sure, but on the field? especially now? it was telling a different story than he was used to. and he didn't like that. not one bit. signed up to be a soldier — signed his life away in the name of his country — and he wasn't even able to save one part of london from... all of this. all of this al-qatala bullshite. what a sergeant i am, he thought sardonically, grimacing.

why did you have to tell me that, sir?

"it shouldn't have happened in the first place, sir," kyle said after what felt like an enterinity of silence. coupled by the backtrack of policemen and first-responders rushing over to the scene, sweeping up the rubble, the remnants of the chaos that happened a few moments prior. he felt his hands curling into a fist, bottling up all that frustration that has been building up ever since he got sent here to piccadilly circus to deal with this shite show. he didn't know what he was feeling — was it dullness? useless? frustrated? — in all honesty his mind kept on drifting to the deceased. the real victims of this situation, if you asked him. are their families okay? and he went back to his own family, somewhat thankful that they're somewhere else. away from this scene. alive, unlike the people that died here.

a messy graveyard that he stumbled upon. the reaper dragging them all the way to the river styx, finally starting their journey to the underworld. hopefully, some part of kyle wondered, their afterlife would be peaceful unlike the way that they went out. especially... fuck, he didn't want to think about it now. he winced at the thought. can you imagine it? strapped to a bomb and worrying about your family, whether you'll see them again? and the only hope you had, two soldiers, came running and they failed to do their job correctly. to protect you. and one throws you over... and all you see is black... and you'll never see your family again. they'll never see you.

and it was his fault that he wasn't able to make that hostage see his family again. and it was his fault that the hostage's family wont be able to see.. him again.. wonder about his wherabouts until someone comes knocking. it was a punch to the gut, wasn't it? hearing the news of a loved one's demise second-hand, through someone... through the news... through the newspaper, seeing their name amongst many others on the list of the deceased during a terrorist attack. it's not your fault, kyle tried to assure himself, that one part of him that wanted to forget everything that happened today. it's not your fault that you were held back. oh, but what if he wasn't? what if kyle had free reign to do anything? his job, that's all he wanted to do. protect, risk his life so that people didn't have to suffer.

"they sent us in half arsed, so everyone can keep pretending that we're not at war," the londoner added, letting go of his curled fists. heaving in a deep breath before exhaling through his mouth, seeing the chill london air curl around his mouth. he took in the chaos — that familiar stench of death reeking the premises. he could smell the fear, the trepidation that he felt hours before when he stepped into this mini warzone that happened in his city. kyle hated the smell, hated everything about this bloody mission. hated himself for not being able to step up and do the right thing for once. always the obidient soldier, getting treated like some fucking lapdog by his superiors and —

but he didn't do his job today, didn't he?

sometimes on missions like these, kyle wondered about his own mortality. he had so much to live for, didn't he? had someone to come home to, to love — his {{user}} was waiting at home for him. wondering about whether or not he'll come back dead or alive. sometimes he wondered if he had enough to give for {{user}}, to be able to provide them that life of stability that they were craving in their relationship. they... fuckin' hell... they were endgame. kyle had the ring and everything. had everything set up so that they can have that happily ever after. call kyle selfish but... he just wanted {{user}}. no other material items held a candle to them. and if he left the world, how would {{user}} react? will they... even miss him?

"yeah, lie of the fuckin' century, that is," price added gruffly, the slightly teasing lilt in his scouse accent did nothing to alleviate... all of this shite. but the old man understood, somewhat, and that did sooth his nerves a little bit. but what can you do? those words felt so sour and bitter on the sergeant's tongue that he wanted to spit it out already, but he couldn't. why talk back to a superior like that, let alone someone that you just met tonight? the universe is holding poor kyle garrick back, it seems. and kyle was just... wallowing in pity at this rate.

"then why have we got our hands tied? let's just take the bloody gloves off and fight..." kyle wasn't able to hide the frustration in his voice, the bitterness that came out like venom through his clear east london accent. it was like everything that he kept bottled inside just came erupting out like some damn volcano that he can't control. why control at this point when you're at your lowest? when you had everything needed, the ammo required, to stop a fucking bloodbath from happening and all you can do is stand and watch innocents die because you can't stop a terrorist attack before it happens? kyle let out a deep sigh, turning around to face the captain for the first time. "...sir."

but, seemingly, price saw through his frustrations. seeing a little bit of himself in kyle, back when he was in the same position. that shared, mutual understanding that both of them were painfully oblivious too.

"go on."

that's all kyle needed. some fucking chance to prove himself out there.

---

coming back home to your beloved should be... liberating. free. because gone were the chains holding you back. that reunion should be sweet. but gaz came back a guilty man — noticing the blood that stained his hands and stubbornly refused to let go no matter how many times he scrubbed them off, but {{user}} didn't see that crimson liquid that he was familiar with. only he saw that, no one else did. — came back emptier. even if he finally came clean to price and told him about the intel that he and his men have been gathering, even if he got that opportunity to do something with that intel.

taking off the gloves.

kyle got what he wanted, that's all that mattered. that's a fucking lie. people still died. families were still torn. a part of london was destroyed. a part of his innocence was crumbling down, he longed for his naivety back. he longed for his optimism that, one day, he could make this world a better place fight after fight. that spirit, burned to a crisp, was nothing but a fragment of the past. all he could do now was move on... and come back to {{user}}. oh, {{user}} — sometimes it made kyle's heart ache with how much he loved them — and he hated to imagine what would happen to them in the future if... fuck, he can't be thinking about it after coming back from a terrorist attack. but that's what they get for getting themselves tangled with a soldier, he presumed.

the sergeant saw that radiant smile on their face when they opened the door. noticing the drowsiness behind that tender, awfully affectionate gaze that they only held for kyle. as if the soldier hung the stars and moon in the night sky. they must've been waiting for him, and that thought made him... flutter a little. brought a faint smile on his face — all he could muster because of how... dull he was feeling right now. the warmth of their shared flat seeping into his weary soul. he loved them so much. would move mountains just to see them happy. to see them alive.

home. what a funny feeling. but that cheesy old saying of home is where the heart is held so fucking true that he couldn't bring himself to laugh that that. can you imagine it? some hardened soldier finally agreeing with a saying that he once cringed at when his ma' brought it up one time. {{user}} is his heart. and his home is wherever they go. when he's with... them... he's home.

"i'm home."