Not Until I Join the Ground (Piers Nivans x Original Character)

PROLOGUE

"Please." Gloved hands claw onto a shirt woven by a mix of polyester and cotton and now regrettably blood, shoving away what little remained of the child. "Please don't make me do it."

The child gurgles from the excruciating demand of flesh between his teeth, no longer able to comprehend the soldier's futile attempt to reason. Ample cheeks are hollowed to mere pits and groans fall off his tongue rather than the articulation of syllables.

Perhaps if Lexis had learned to flip through the Pijin phrase book before the mission, she could have somehow conjured up a bond with the boy through the comfort of a language he had once spoken. Something much more pleasant could have been in place; there was that promise of bringing deliverance to the child from within the monster's grip. If only she hadn't tossed it to rot away at the bottom of her luggage maybe then the boy would have been given another opportunity to live.  A translated 'I can help you' would have sufficed, right? But she's lost that right as soon as she had opted to neglect the book provided by her captain.

'You might need it, Lexis.' And he was right. Not entirely so as to how he might had imagined it being used, but he was still correct.

It's the little, stupid mistakes like these that end up rupturing the solid ground beneath her feet, and she knows that there will come a time when they will drown her into the ocean below until she's succumbed to it. Metaphorically or literally... well.

"Don't make me— " She inhales sharply as his tiny digits seize her braid.

Her neck cranes at the motion, allowing better access to the jugular veins running across her throat. Tears prickle the corner of her eyes.

"Please don't make me kill you."

If her life concludes at this point, she doesn't know if it'll be a just way to do so. She personally agrees with the notion; there will be no need to wake up at the break of dawn with people's cries being the sole thing that she hears first as she rouses from her sleep. Or particularly the wails of a man, feeble arms cradling the wooden casket where inside it his little girl had been lain to rest. Once someone had witnessed a man truly weep as if he'd lost everything and felt like a real moron as they helplessly lowered the dead to the ground, they will wish for nothing more than to end it all. All she prays for now is a moment with an enveloping darkness, soft and gentle to her ears.

Yet it spirals down to this child with nothing left to lose, and he's loud.

However, something is holding her back. It's a force that yields strength to her arms as she fights to preserve herself. It's the thrash and jerk and every movement with the will to survive left in their wake, acting as the narrow tether that divides her from his wrath. Maybe it's that appalling concept of her being given as much right to live as any other person, even after recollecting the list of people she'd done wrong in the past. Maybe it's the fear of dying so horribly and painfully. She'd rather be dead; it's better, it's what she's desired for so long —

"Helpem— " he croaks, and her heart stops, " —me..." And she snaps.

Everything else became a blur, a frenzy of images with grey trimming the edges. There was red stained across the floor, an abundance of the pungent fluid she hopes to never pillow at the foot of her lungs again. A glinting piece of metal was skewered into the tiny silhouette's throat before her; he was limp and heavy against her torso. Her vest had soaked in what exuded from his neck.

A heavy boot had rammed the door open — was it her sleeve that wiped away her tears or was it someone else's — and she was held tight.  Her ears picked up a series of words trained towards her, but it could have been a question judging by the slight rise in the tone at the end. Something about 'needing help' and 'getting up' if she hadn't been mistaken. Her lips did not move, she couldn't, so she was carried out of the godforsaken apartment by a pair of arms that promised security.

There is a silence, thoughtful and in mourning all the same. Her body trembles against the person's chest, moments soon followed by shuddering: violent and turbulent as she grieves once again for a departed child. He says nothing, though his nails dig deeper into her clothes at every quivering exhale she lets out— they may as well could have left red crescents if she was bare.

"Tell me why I'm still fighting," she finally chokes out, her fingers clutching onto the jacket that is familiarly scented with gunpowder and sweat.

"To rid the world of bioterrorism."

She shakes her head, recognising the husky yet exquisite voice belonging to none other than the Alpha team's lieutenant. His voice is the resonance she believes she may come to revere in the near future like an overzealous worshipper to an idol. It brings fleeting peace to her soul, but it'll do. Nothing else has.

On the other hand, she's not happy with his answer; it's an answer told too many times to count. He didn't need to think it through; it's the litany shared between hundreds of warriors who have pledged their lives to fighting off the degenerate. It's the promise she'd sworn to keep once she had joined.

"No, that's not enough."

She'll be selfish this time. A surge of confidence gushes through her veins, and she plans to relish in its presence by surveying the enigma that is Piers Nivans. In the few instances she had listened to him speak, the words spilled hadn't been truly from the soul. Heart, though? Sure. He shares the same heart as every BSAA operative: to of course, 'rid the world of bioterrorism' as they say.

But still, she'd sometimes wished to hear the reason why he lies awake at the most nights when everyone else sleeps. She'd wanted to know what he does to ease his nerves whilst under great pressure, or how he manages to stay sane from amidst the chaos. What makes his heart flutter at the thought of it, what helps with coaxing the delightful twists into gracing the corners of his mouth. What makes, well, him and not just any other person existing in this world.

"You of all people should know that the world's not going to live after this. Or even through it," she murmurs. "I'm tired of trying to save people when they end up the same way wherever I go."

"Dead," her voice breaks as she utters the word.

Piers sighs. "Look, Anderson. If you won't fight for them," he says, hazel eyes diverting from the path to meet her own, "you will fight for me."

Her heart skips a beat under his stare.

"Not until I join the ground will you stop fighting for our cause."

People would have asked 'why'. Why the hell would anyone consider risking their lives for someone they barely know about, especially when they have called it quits already? Her resignation is justified. This organisation is just one of those things she'd imagined she could flawlessly pull off with the snap of her fingers, it was something she was desperate to seek out for the sake of finding a new purpose while she's still awake. And it was definitely something she'd realised she's not capable of withstanding until it was too late, only for it to add to her current woes again.

She guesses that he must have noticed the stumble in her walk away from him: how she's challenged him to give her a reason to stay but still hesitates to move from the spot where she's ended it herself. In all honesty, he is not wrong; she is lost -- lost on what to do next if she were to leave. Because also while she'd rather be wiped off from the face of this planet, living with a resolution is much, much more preferable.

"... Okay."

He will be her motivation.

For now.

If her eyes served her right, she could have sworn she caught a glimpse of a smile on his face.