Retribution (A Legend Fanfic)

Winter Alvarez

[1] Winter

K, so there was some mess up things with the parts and stuff when this book was published but it's all worked out now!

K, enjoy the chapter!!! (sry if grammar and stuff is lame, bruhs)

-Winter

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I flick my thumb up, knocking the safety switch on my .55 Delta Rifle to 'off'. If the Republic wants to stop this Patriot raid, I don't think they want me hitting them with the butt of my rifle. Plus, putting a couple bullets into criminals is quite satisfying. A shout kicks me out of my thoughts and I pull the beanie tighter around my head, again wary of the cold wind whipping at my face. The flurry of snowflakes makes the dark figure below my hiding spot on the roof hard to make out. It seems to be waving it's arms at someone below me.

I wrap my gloved finger around the trigger and lift the gun up to my cheek, placing the tip of the scope a few millimeters away from my right eye. Through the tube I see the figure more easily. He wears a maroon hat and has at least three layers of clothing on, a jacket wrapped around his chest. He glances at someone under me and shouts again.

My eyes flicker over his figure, searching for a sign of resemblance. Is he a Patriot? A Republic townsperson? There. My eyes focus on a golden eagle sewn onto his vest. Patriot.

I dip my gun slightly so that the crosshairs on my scope is on his chest. I pull my index finger and a loud bang rings through my ears. The man stops and his face turns pale. He glances up at my position, then crumples to the floor, his sweater and jacket already darkening with blood.

I bring my knees up to my chest and push forward, hurling myself off of the shingled roof. The moment my leather boots touch the soft snow beneath, I lean into a roll, swiftly hopping up to my feet.

The figure beneath the roof that the man had called to, puts his hands up, face white with fear. I lift my gun up and shoot him. The man topples backwards onto the snow.

I let out a sigh, my breath unfurling in white wisps that are snatched up by the cold wind and carried away. Lifting my finger up to my ear, I feel around for my comlink, hidden underneath my beanie. I find it and press down, a crackling sound instantly filling my ear. The sound stops and is replaced by my father's voice, crisp and neat.

"Have you done it?" He asks, through the small mechanism attached to my ear.

"Yes," I reply, leaning over the first man I had shot, pushing off his jacket, my eyes searching for the stolen plague vaccines hidden somewhere in a pocket.

"Good, I'm calling in a pickup helicopter immediately," The voice through the comlink states.

"Dad," I begin to say, sifting my hands through the dead man's vest pockets. "I can walk home, it's okay."

"I can't lose you," The stern voice on the other end answers. "Not like I lost your mother."

I sigh and lift my hand up to turn off my comlink. "See you soon," I say, tapping the button. I hear a few seconds of crackling, then silence. I guess that's the cost for being the commander's son. Most kids my age are going on dangerous missions and have lost more than just a mother, but my father says that when he resigns, the Republic will need a new commander, and that commander won't be much use if he's dead. I will only be a good commander if I have been through life-threatening situations, though. Why can't he see that?

There. I shove my hand through a deep pocket and feel around until my fingers clasp around two vials. I pull them out and hook them onto my belt. I glance down at my breath, again visible in the freezing air and rub my gloved hands together, again hoping for warmth. Nothing. It was this season I hated the most. Just cold, violent temperatures. Snowflakes and icicles. Wrenching winds and mounds of snow. Winter.

It was my mother's idea to name me that. My father said that I was born the moment the first snowflake fell outside on the longest winter solstice he claimed the world had ever had. I don't like it. My name reminds me of times like this. Coldness. Emptiness. Violentness. I used to and still wish I had been named something different. Something like everyone else. Jack, Thomas, Milton. My name is unique. Different. And here in the Republic, different is not always best.