The Contact

He may have been under the influence, but as Ozie passed through the arch that led between the small forward bar and the extensive bazaar that laid out behind it his name was something he couldn't help overhearing. It came from the bartender, a rough old fellow that was far beyond the limits of mortality, whom spoke with a woman that clearly did not fit in. Her skin was too light and the wrong complexion, she had too many teeth, red heads were nearly non-existent in these parts, her looks were too good to not be someones property, and she felt like a cop. It was fairly obvious he wasn't the only one to piece all of these factors together by the hidden glances from several of the patrons. It was a drop of blood in shark infested waters and this cop just gave up his name to the damn bartender.

“Fuck me,” Ozie whispered under his breath. The distances between the two was shortened by quick long strides and Ozie was busily figuring out how Sage was going to pay for sending him out to pick this woman up. “Idiot!” He was short and terse as he passed her, one hand grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her along with him towards the door. Outside once more he looked back at his captive contact, “Jhefurd, follow me,” he tells her after realizing he gave her no notion of what was going on. He wasn't going to dwell on that though. He set off through the aged buildings, weaving an indirect path back to their temporary accommodations.


It was a fairly large room coated in a layer of sand that had slipped in through shattered windows and cracked walls. The architectural integrity of the room was questionable at that point and if the large hole in the ceiling that filled the room with light was any indication a few more years it might very likely transform into an atrium of rubble. There were several smaller rooms attached to the larger one and most were in better condition. It had a silence to it that was uniquely confined to those buildings which have long been void of any denizens. With sharp enough ears the sounds of the pump outside could still be heard as it appropriated water from the canal to feed the old irrigation system that still functioned. It was a wonder that it was still performing after all this time without maintenance.

At least that's how it was when Ted brought word to Des and Sergei that a decent enough place had been found. Now it was full of laughter, drinking, and accusations of cheating at poker all confined to the smaller rooms. In the main room was a dusty couch, at least something that looked like one, that was hastily beat to a reasonable dirty-clean and a small table propped up by a pile of stones on one side.

At this station Des sat with a filled goatskin at his side. He tossed two strips of green cloth that once served as the sleeves of the Zeon uniform he still wore onto the table. It wasn't by choice, but rather the burns on his back that clung to the cloth that prevented him from changing. Next to these were sat a bowl and a bottle of rum. From the goat skin he removed a small chunk of a solid reddish material and dumped it in the bowl. A hand pushed back a lock of hair that slipped forward despite the bandanna wrapped around his head to prevent just that. In this he added a small portion of liquor and stirred the mixture with the tip of his knife.

He paused for a moment and looked at what he was attempting to create. It was something new for him and it might not even work, but if it could relieve a bit of the irritation then he would be pleased. If there were a god, then he'd know that Des could use all the help he could get right now. His hands were sluggish, his face sweaty, and his flesh was pale. None of these were good signs, but he'd endure. There were far worse things he'd dealt with in the past, but it didn't make it any better. He pressed the bottle against his temple in an attempt to relieve a bit of the slight thumping in his head.

The main door creaked open and drew Des' attention away from his work. In slipped Sergei who had been waiting outside for Ozie's return. A simple nod was shared between the two and the slight opening widened to allow their guest to enter.

“Welcome to the humble abode of Des Mielle,” Des greeted her from his purchase and performed a slight toast to her arrival with the bottle of rum which brought a bit of color back to his skin. “Hey, someone get the lady a chair!” He yelled to the room in which several of the men were playing poker then added in after thought, “and keep it down.”

From the other room Elden brought a battered wooden chair and placed it on the opposite side of the table from Des. “It wobbles,” Elden informed Jane and snatched the bottle from Des. He took a long swig and sat it back on the table before heading back. “Man, Des looks like shit.” Elden informed everyone else just before leaving ear shot.

The comment elicited a small grin from Des and a quick plot to get back at Elden. “Sit, please,” he gestured to the chair with his knife and took up his work on the mixture in the bowl. “I was told you have some business with the African Union.”

"You don't look too hot, sugar." She needlessly informed him of this right away which broadened Des' grin. "Before we talk business, I could help you out. I can tell you right away your wound is infected, and whatever you are treating it with is barely helping." She wanted to give him first aid? It was a novel choice to be sure, but her hands would be far more gentle than Sergei's. A woman's touch was never a bad thing of course Aleena would kill him if she ever found out he was thinking about another woman, but that would call for Aleena to give a damn about him in the first place. "Oh...and...I'm Jane. Nice to officially meet you."

“I know,” Des muttered, increasing the content of his mixture as he went. “I know I look like shit. Try three cracked ribs, two concussions, a hell of a burn, bad food, and being bit by everything between Morocco and the Kalahari in a span of two weeks.” A swig of rum fought back the painful memories. “I'll live.”

He reached over to sat the bottle near her edge of the table, but the strength faded from his hand and it fell the last couple of inches. A small sigh escaped his off-color lips in relief that it didn't fall. Once more he picked the bowl up and continued to mix it.

“Don't worry 'bout Des! He's a fuckin' cockroach,” Long called out from the poker game. “Go ahead, shoot him yourself. Fucker's a highlander.”

Ignoring the outburst from the other room he pressed Jane with a slow sentence, “and you are here for?”

The Karakals. That was one group that Des did not wish to hear about again. They'd spent several days in the jungles of the Congo working out a way to get around them and even then they ran into some Zaku's called up from the South. It was a bit fresh in the memory of his flesh to put himself through that again.

“Hostile? Is that how you people see us?” The smirk on his face faltered. “If I came into your home, ate your food, raped your children, made myself nice and comfy on your couch, and watched the ballgame would you simply be a hostile? And the cops aren't coming. They're useless. I've seen first hand how they crack under the lightest pressure.” He checked the consistency of the mixture with his fingers, sat the bowl down, and wiped the remnants on his pants leg. “Give me a hand here and tell me what you need. I may not give a damn about either side, but the more the two of you kill each other the better things are here.” He nods towards the bowl and repositions himself sideways on the couch. One last swig from the bottle before he begins to peel away the uniform burnt to his back.

Des cringed as the cloth parted early scar tissue by ripping apart the singed flesh between the two. Intense pain threatened to bring tears to his eyes, yet the sensation was pleasing in that odd way that peeling skin from a sun burn or tearing off a scab could be. Or maybe Des was simply some kind of freak that got off on that sort of thing. Des the masochist. The thought spurned a short snicker that was cut off by another spike of pain. Meanwhile his guest apologized about something she probably didn't understand. He'd learned that it was the way of the Federation to talk on and on while being oblivious to the world around them. Then the last couple of inches passed and the jacket was finally separated from his skin. A deep breath later he laid the jacket aside and handed the bowl to Jane with a nod towards his back.

“This isn't an enemy of an enemy is my friend kind of scenario. Both of you are my enemy,” as he spoke Sergei came into the room and set the gauze on the table then left once more. “Get Ela,” Des called after the platoon leader then redirected himself back to Jane. “The more the two of you kill each other the better off we are. That's how things are.” He grabs the rum and takes another drink before handing it to Jane. “If you want to take on those Zeek bastards then I'll give you what help I can for now.”

A homely young woman barely out of her teens entered the room, her eyes were glossy and her shoulder length sandy hair was unkempt. Her coveralls were covered in stains from grease and adorned with just as many holes. “Ela reporting, sergeant,” she belted out while standing at ease.

“Damn it, Ela, relax,” Des grumbled. “Ela here always wanted to join the EF. We're the consolation prize. Sometimes I think the only reason she follows us is because I was once one of you,” he smirked at Jane then shifted gears back to business. “She came to us with a beat up Draken E. It's not as nice as those monoeyes, but it's better than nothing. We've taught her a bit about the land and how to survive out here. Good kid and decent pilot when she remembers to shoot. What do you say, Ela, want to show our Feddie friend how to fight the odds?”

“Sergeant, yes, sergeant!” A light had lit in the girls brown eyes.

“But the question is, what do we get for contracting out this fine young patriot?”

Des sighed and shook his head with a sense of lethargy that wasn't entirely an act. “Reject a dieing man's last request before he can even ask it,” he faked a small sniffle, quivered a pale lower lip, and pulled off a decent ploy in with his eyes watery from removing the Zeon jacket. “Harsh.” He tossed the bottle of rum to Ela with a smirk, “antibiotics and rations.” Common forms of currency had depreciated in value a great deal in the eyes of the African population, but even more important was that Des could not fight with starved, sickly men. “You will receive a memorandum. Sign it and submit it to your superiors. We will take care of the rest.” He unrolled the gauze delivered by Sergei across the table and began slathering the cloth with his aloe and rum mixture. “If you will excuse us,” Des muttered, paying no mind to the two women.