Have it all // Dallas Winston

07 | You Always Leave

Six months later, Soviet Union, July 4th 1986.
Quincey Bradshaw

I don't know how long I've been here. I want to leave.

I'm a prisoner. A worker. A slave. So is Kazansky.

"Americans up!" The Soviet scum yelled. It's also cold. I can see my breath when I breath out my mouth. I haven't spoken in a week. I haven't been in contact with anyone other than Kazansky and Viper in the past time I've been in this camp.

That's right. Viper lost too.

The Soviets caught us, brought us to a miserable part of their country and have us as slaves basically. We work and we work and we work. This was the daily questioning and beating for us. We're supposed to give up secrets we don't know. It's true. We don't know them.

"Curly, you're first." They grabbed my shirt and brought me off my knees and dragged me into an office. The only thing good about this office is that is was warm. It's warm and I like it in here. I don't like what happens in here.

"Tell me what you're people are planning." The general asked me. I looked him straight in the eye and didn't say anything. He brought hit hand up and smacked me. It hurt, but I didn't show it. You couldn't show any emotion here.

"I'm a fucking pilot." I told him sternly in a monotone voice. He smacked me again. "What does that have to do with anything?" He asked. "So you're people are violent and stupid? Grest combination." You have to add a little sarcasm in there for the additional kick to the back to the knees and an uppercut.

Blood was now running down my jaw from his rings, it was also coming down my nose onto my uniform. "I'm going to ask you again," he pulled me up and brought his face close to mine. "Tell me." He growled. I just spat in his face. Fucking cunt.

The general was done with me, so I was dragged outside to the snow and thrown on the pavement, scratching the hell out of the palm of my hands and face. You could see the red specks of my blood dripping onto the snow and smearing on my boots. It wasn't a good feeling.

I stood up straightly and looked to my left, seeing a couple of guards bringing in someone new. I also felt a firm hand on my shoulders. "Keep walking, American." He said, pushing me forward. All I wanted to do was punch him in the face, but that would cause more problems.

We passed the struggling guards, right then and there my heart dropped. I saw Pete fucking Mitchel. Maverick. He was dragging his feet against the snow and kicking and shoving the five guards the best he could. He wasn't going anywhere. None of us were. It was like Nazi Germany in 1939.

As the officer and I were walking to the hut I shared with three other people, a white machine caught my eye. It was a plane. It was a pissy puddle jumper. The ones that carry 8-10 people. It was the way out.

I was then shoved into the hut, the door slamming behind me. Kazansky had stsrted a fire, Viper was writing on a piece of paper with a pen he had stolen from the guards. It's funny how it hasn't froze yet.

"No hope?" Kazansky asked. I rolled my eyes. "Be a Comedian." I said, taking a seat in the snow. He laughed. He actually laughed. Then the door opened. Maverick was shoved in. Then it slammed again.

"Maverick." I looked him in the eye, bloodied face and a smile. "Ain't I glad to see you." I told him, he stood up and wiped his face, a mix of dirt and blood coming off as he did. "I've been looking for you since day one. Why the hell didn't you radio when you crashed?" He yelled, I rolled my eyes and smiled.

"I did. You and idiot over here heard me and didn't answer." I point to Viper, then him. "You and i both know it, so don't even argue. We ain't gettin' out of here anytime soon." I said, picking at what fingernails I have left. Everything just hurt.

"Where were you?" Kazansky asked. Maverick sit on the haybail they gave us and folded his hands. "I was back at base." He said, that just sent me into a rage. All this time he knew we were down and he didn't say anything? What the fuck is wrong with him.

"You didn't say anything?!" I yelled, standing up and looking down at him. "You didn't fucking send a search team for us?" I asked, he tried to grab my hand, I pulled it away. "What fucking side are you on? You saw us go down and you didn't even shoot the f:14's there? What the hell is the matter with you?!" I screamed, looking down at him.

"Bradshaw," he stood up calmly, looking up into my eyes. "I did. I did tell them. I'm not even supposed to be here right now," I cut him off. "NONE OF US ARE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE, DUMBASS?!" I yelled louder than I did before, making him move back a bit. God was I mad.

"I wasn't supposed to leave base." He corrected himself. "Then why did you, huh? We're we suddenly important?!" I asked him, moving closer. "Mav you don't give a dman about anybody but yourself, you know that?" I told him, he looked at me with a hurt expression. Good.

"Quincey, listen to what you're saying." He attempted to calm me down. "No. Don't even say I'm wrong because you know I'm right." I looked at him. "My dad, Steve, me, everybody goddamnit." You could see the tears in his eyes now. I hit a nerve.

"You did what you do every time." I sat back down in my original spot. "Leave. You always fucking leave." I mumbled, leaning my head against the wood. "Nice feeling ain't it?" I asked, he sat back down and didn't answer. "I said, it's a nice feeling, ain't it." I repeated more sternly. That also hit a nerve.

"Yes, Quincey. It's a great fucking feeling!" He yelled at me, I just laughed in response. "There is it!" I sighed, closing my eyes. "There's the old Pete Mitchel guys!" I laughed. Remembering Steve's household and how it was when I used to sneak over to his house. God I remeber it so vividly.

"Hand me a rag Kazansky, get the shit off my face." I asked Tom, he handed me a rag and I wet it with the snow on the ground and wiped the blood from my face. It came off in clumps and crisps, but I couldn't feel it anymore. All I felt was anger and sadness and fustration. The fear wasn't there anymore.