I’m stressed – nothing big, just life transitioning again – and normally when I’m stressed, I stop being creative. This time? The creativity has kicked into a whole new level. I’m confused. I’m not complaining, but still, I wish my brain were a little more predictable. Especially because what’s popping into my head isn’t terribly useful when applied to current WIP.
So instead of a post, today you get a bit of random fiction. Totally, utterly random. Like, I have no idea where this came from, it doesn’t fit into any of my worlds…
I refused to let any of my kids play soccer. It’s not that I have anything against team sports, it’s just that I didn’t want to be a soccer mom. Which doesn’t stop my team from calling me that. I did put a stop to the inevitable nickname, though. No woman wants to be called socky. Not hard to convince your average team of Zekes to shut up and listen when you can shoot the wings off a fly at 20 meters, though.
Zekes is as much a nickname as socky, and about as accurate, too. Since we were never Zombie Killers, even if we were dubbed Team ZK28-2 by our forming agency. It made for great team patches, though. I wore mine with pride, and kept it clean after missions carefully, even when I had to replace the uniform it had been velcroed to. So, yeah, I’m a Zeke, and they don’t call me socky any more. But how I did earn my team nickname is a whole ‘nother story, and not one I can explain to my kids. Ever.
My real name is Consuela Evita Ramirez Cruz Cruz. Yeah, that’s a lotta names. More names than I am tall, nyuk nyuk. I’ve heard that one about a million times. I’m not going to bore you with my life story, but I figured you should hear the name, anyway, since this is a story about names. I’ve lead a pretty crazy life, with a small patch of calm and peace in the middle of it. Don’t know how it’ll end, except violently. I can pretty much guaran-damn-tee the violence of my death. Zekes don’t die in bed old and dried up. We go out loud and wet and too fucking young. Ahem. Sorry, trying to remember to keep the language down to a dull roar so the kids don’t pick it up.
Anyway, this is about the team. They aren’t my only family, not like they are for some of the members. I got it good. I deploy with the team, but I get to come home in between missions and pretend I’m a normal human being. A soccer mom, complete with minivan and a dog. I can hold onto that when we’re out there, in the dark, with no overwatch much less backup. Other guys? Well, I’ve seen what can happen when they think there’s nothing worth coming home for. It’s not pretty, and what’s worse, it can take the whole team on a fast ride to hell alongside them.
When I was a newb, they called me Cruz Squared. I was team 282 (we lose the dash when we say it) sniper and tracker. Funny how the person who is mostly sitting still in one spot is the one who can see where others have been moving, right? Anyway. I’ve been shooting, and shooting for distance, since I could hold the rifle steady. Papa taught me well, and taught me before the… I’m getting ahead of myself.
So I’d been out on two deployments, three serious fire missions, but I was still the f… the newb. I’m not saying the reason the newbs don’t last long is because we use them as an ablative meat shield, but… So I was going in first. Look, what we do isn’t that hard. We go in where they tell us to go, we kill everything that moves, we get to wait for our ride home. See? And like I tell my kids, you get what you get and you don’t get upset. The helo drop went off like clockwork, which had my hackles up to begin with. I never like it when things go too well. Something has to be fu… screwed up or I’m not happy.