I'm Solids

[Cyrill Nineball]

August 26th, 1999 0737
Somewhere in Somalia

Nick exhaled slowly, the hand not occupied with holding his cigarette idly doodled in the sand between his feet. In the sand was the picture of a tree on a hill, a sun with a smiley face, and a small stick figure underneath the tree. His name was Andrew and he was enjoying the shade and the clouds. Nick's mouth quirked to the side as he added clouds quickly, having forgotten those obviously. Andrew had a good life. He tended sheep and had little else to worry about. Small sheep were drawn at the base of the hill.

"Dear God, Corporal. How bored can a kid get before he starts making gay stick figures in the sand?"

Sitting on the edge of the deck to a UH-60 Black Hawk, Cpl Nick Burton looked up into the reflective visor of the helicopter's pilot and smiled as he put his cigarette to his lips and gave the warrant officer the finger with his other hand. The pilot laughed it off as he trudged to the side of the vehicle to make his routine checks and maintenance.

"Corporal Burton!"

He looked up, dropped the smoke in his doodle and snubbed it out with his boot, the doodle was gone as well much to his internal dismay. He stood to rigid attention, then shifted to the position of parade rest as Sgt Ford approached. He wasn't Nick's favorite person but he was his squad leader, and it was ingrained in the young man that you respected the rank, not the person.

"Corporal, get your team together. We're moving out to rally point Bravo at 0800."

"Roger that, Sergeant."

Sgt Ford turned on his heel and disappeared in the milling crowd of soldiers and tents. Nick gave the fading figure a dirty look before he brushed his hands off on his desert camo uniform and straightened his patrol cover. He reached the tent that served as their temporary home and flipped the flap back to enter.

"Hey, hey, Corporal!"

"Stuff it Chambers. We're moving out..."

"Are you kidding me? Didn't we just get-"

"So gear up."

The groans came in unison. While Chambers was the only one to openly voice his opinion, the other two men, Derrell and Whitehouse, weren't compliant enough to hide their own wordless murmurs. Nick sat down on the creaking buck, wiping sand from the green blanket covering his bed. He opened his chest and started to retrieve his gear.

"Don't worry guys. So far all I know is that we're moving to Bravo for the day."

"So? That just means we're either taking some convoy out, reinforcing some convoy, rescuing a convoy, or we can just save ourselves the trouble and get shot down on the way over there..."

[Cyrill Nineball]

August 26th, 1999 0822
Somewhere in Somalia

Nick looked out from his seat at the edge of the black hawk. In full battle rattle, he held his M-16 with the barrell pointed to the ground and the city beneath him. Chambers sat behind him, eyes closed probably, as the guy had a bad stomach, even for a few minutes in the air. Burton was surprised a guy could get away with such a weak stomach in a SF unit like this. But it never seemed to affect him in the heat of battle and Nick's trust in the SAW gunner was unwavering. Derrell and Whitehouse sat with their backs against the cockpit, both looking out the same side as Burton, Derrell was the closer to the edge and his rifle was also pointed out. Alpha team took up the other half of the passenger seats to the Black Hawk: Sgt Ford, Cpl Vickers, Mathews, Mosely, and Jones.

Burton looked up to the sky briefly, tired of the city beneath him but all too aware that his vigilance was paramount. He glimpsed the clouds above them, stretched in white sheets across the horizon. Andrew probably could see the same thing from beneath his tree. How simple life would be to be a sheperd, tending sheep who shared a sense of simplicity in life, grazing and being seemingly content within the confines of Andrew's watch. What was his house like?

His gaze eventually drifted back to the tan houses and buildings below. Gaggles of civilians milled about, some stood ontop of the buildings and pointed to the black hawk as it flew overhead.

He was all too aware of the children holding walkie talkies or cell phones. Or the group of men with slung AK-47s that stopped to gawk as they flew overhead. Or the truck with a mounted KPV heavy machine gun. It had anti-air capabilities which made Nick nonetheless uncomfortable. He hated looking down.

Nick later remembered the next series of events as occuring much slower than he was sure they happened.

A noise like ripping paper broke the rhythymic beat of the propellers. Nick turned around quickly in time to hear Sgt Ford yell something that Nick never quite seemed to recall. The helicopter tossed suddenly as an explosion could be heard and Nick's perspective changed.

He could see the helicopter from only a distance below it. The tail end was gone and in flames. Debris trailed behind it. An RPG or some other surface to air projectile. The black hawk itself was spiraling out control. They were going to crash. They were going to crash in the middle of Somalia. And the helicopter was getting further and further away, the screams beneath him from the swarm of civilians only continued to get louder.

And then Nick Burton died.

[Cyrill Nineball]

Date unknown
Location unknown

His eyes opened to the steady beat of gun fire. Rhythmic in a way, like the beating of a heart. Nick felt that though, the beating of his pulse, how strong it pressed against his head as he slowly sat up. It didn't feel like he was awakening; it felt like the world was awakening to him.

He stood slowly, wincing as the bright mid day light had him blinded. His senses were coming back to him in steps. He was in a street. Swarms of people were scattering in response to the gunfire. Sand bit his face and eyes as the wind picked up. As the rough gale came across Nick, he realized that he was standing in only DCU pants, everything else was gone.

His mind scrambled for explanations, the ground seemed to swim beneath his feet as he fell to a knee.

He could see the helicopter from only a distance below it. The tail end was gone and in flames. Debris trailed behind it. An RPG or some other surface to air projectile. The black hawk itself was spiraling out control. They were going to crash. They were going to crash in the middle of Somalia. And the helicopter was getting further and further away, the screams beneath him from the swarm of civilians only continued to get louder.

It was ok to cry sometimes. For the right reasons. Now wasn't really the time though. Later, when the adrenaline had died and the battlefield had faded. He would have the time later to sort everything out, try and piece together what had happened. But the kind of later when the bullets being fired weren't at him.

The sand exploded beside the hand supporting him on the ground. He turned to see his opponents, men wearing sunglasses and faces hidden behind wraps fired at him from around the corner. They carried AKs and a spray of bullets consumed the air as they unloaded their clips. If it had been the other way around, no weapon, no identifying marks to display what 'side' he was on, the military would not have fired on such a target. But this wasn't even a military they had been fighting. They were just another mob that thought they knew how to shoot. Obviously, they had been shooting at starving groups of their own people and weren't used to a single target because not one bullet got any closer than that one near his hand had.

Burton dived behind cover and hissed, hugging the plaster as well as he could. He was outnumbered and incredibly vulnerable. He needed to retreat; he was going to die if he stayed there for too long. He made a combat roll into an alcove and lined up against that wall as well. There wasn't a chance he would survive this really, one random shot would hit him and that could be the end of it. As to survival, he had fallen nearly five stories from the black hawk. And he was alive to say the least.

[Cyrill Nineball]

Burton stood as soon as thirty rounds since the last collective reload could be heard. The suppresive fire that the combatants were laying down was a simple tactic, keeping Burton in place until others could work their way around to a better line of fire. The most basic of his training dictated that in a withdrawing situation, one should not allow themselves to become the target of such simple maneuvers.

He burst into movement, finding that the space between two buildings nearby was in fact a narrow alley. It was common knowledge in the initial briefings that the lay out of the cities in Somalia were maze like due to chaotic growth and expansion of the available architecture. Running blind down any alley way was not recommended. Burton wasn't a fan of the option but it provided the most cover available at the time, which was painstakingly precious.

No other teams, or an escort had even been near their black hawk when it had gone down. He could hear helicopters in the distance but he had no idea how they were going to make it to the crash site. Moreover, Nick had no clue where he was or how long he had been out due to the fall. He had no idea how the rescue was going to make it in time.

He stopped running only for a moment to try and make sense of where he was, a split in the alley that led in four other directions from the one he had just come in. He knew two were the wrong choice as the enemy made an appearance and easily recognized their half naked prey. In a flurry of sudden movement, Burton tore down the alley way straight ahead. He had only moments before they made it to the intersections and turned on him, an open turkey shoot in his back. He heard an AK fire just as he cleared the alleyway into the open street.

He was face down in the ground, slowly pushing away from it with his hands. Sand and dirt stuck to his body as he turned his head over his shoulder to inspect the injury. His left leg had been shot, he'd never experienced as much pain as this before. Somehow, in the brief moment he was given to contemplate the sensation, he had expected much worse. And his examination had taken a little more than the few seconds before he remembered his enemy and their bullets that were scoring the ground around him. He tried to stand, anything, but fell back to the ground, another bullet caught him in the shin. Nick screamed in pain as his body twisted and flipped to its side in response to the bullet tearing through his flesh.

The next symphony of gun fire that rang in Nick's ears was not the same clank and ring of 7.62mm bullets from the barrel of an AK-47 though. It was the methodic beat of the X-4 and 5.56mm rounds on semi-automatic. The two riflemen dropped in succession, a spray of blood flying from what was left of their faces and neat holes made in the center of their chests. With the immediate threat removed, Nick leaned back, trying to scan the area without moving his legs too much.

"Hey soldier, don't try to move. We got ya covered."

[Cyrill Nineball]

August 26th, 1999 1303
Somewhere in Somalia

The feeling this guy gave him made his skin crawl. What really made Nick cautious of the feeling was that it wasn't a bad feeling or anything, like a sick feeling from gut instinct. This was a feeling of acknowledgement. He'd never known a sensation like this before but he knew this man from somewhere, he'd known him all his life and then again, he'd never met him.

Nick was sitting up on his elbows in a makeshift cot. They had carried him to an empty house which oddly enough appeared to be their base of operations. It was just an ordinary house. But the area was deserted for sure, no civilians passed by the open windows and doors. Why, he had no clue.

His legs though. He knew he'd been shot. Twice. He had felt the bullets tear through his skin and pull it with it. Exit wounds the size of his should have lest his legs in mangled pieces of flesh. Maybe he'd just been paranoid about it? Or the stress was getting to him. But even they had been astounded upon trying to rescue him. Nick had believed he couldn't feel his wounds due to nerve damage or shock. They had even asked him if he could walk. He'd been surprised at such a stupid question at first. After arriving at the house, beneath all the blood and tattered material of his pants, his legs were untouched. Not even a burn mark. And now he felt like could run even.

He could only call them 'they' because he had no clue either as to who they were. They wore a pattern of camo that resembled his from a distance but contrasted a deal more upon closer inspection. And they had no identifying insignia except for the X-4s. Were they mercs? Nick knew they got contracted now and then, contract soldiers being paid more than most enlisted soldiers made in three years. But they had army issue comm equipment in the other room. He'd seen it upon arrival.

And this guy, the one guy sitting next to him...

"So, you have no ID at all on you? Bloody natives, they scavenge the dead bodies of soldiers like they are vultures over a fresh corpse."

"Who are you again? I apologize, I must've missed the introduction, or I've got a concussion and I keep spacing out."

"It's alright. I'm Eightballer."

[Cyrill Nineball]

August 30th, 1999 0903
Black Cell HQ

"Cyrill Nineball?"

"Yeah, Nineballer. You wanted in, not to be in charge."

'Cyrill' looked through the folder, containing black paper with small white font, slightly translucent red tape hanging from the sides. The papers listed the authorization of another member in the cell, with given designation, ID, and assignment. But nothing official was really present, nothing saying it had anything to do with the United States or any government for that matter. No signatures, no passcodes, no dates, authorization merely granted by a 00Boss, the commander. Questions felt like they were about to overflow from his mouth but he already knew they would take him nowhere. He'd been there for almost four days and he still was on a need to know basis.

"You guys are... Black Ops?"

"Kid, you say it like its taboo or something, like you almost didn't believe we existed or something... It's not like it's so far fetched from something like vampires and werewolves or something."

Burton snorted at the man's comment, still uneasy about 'Eightballer's' disposition. There was just something about the man that he couldn't put his finger on. None of the other members present that Nick had been given the pleasure of an introduction had made him feel such a way.

"You know you're dead, right?"

"What the...?"

"Yeah, remains were found and tags indicating that a corporal Nick Burton, Special Forces, part of an entire firing team that died aboard the first of two black hawks shot down in yesterday's attacks by opfor. Why? Something wrong?"

The awe struck man looked up to see Eightballer reading off a document, holding out a picture in the other hand so that Cyrill could see what the investigation had declared has the remains of Cpl Nick Burton.

"I should make sure they at least know I'm still alive... I mean, like my relatives-"

"This isn't a game and its obviously not what you think it is. You already agreed to be in the Cell, you don't, you can't exist anymore. At least Nick Burton can't. You're not even an American citizen unless the Boss says you are. It's not like you can take it back either. The horror stories of the people who get wrapped up in this kind of stuff, they drown in the shadows, kid. And it's nothing pretty..."

Cyrill leaned back against the wall, holding a hand over his eyes, trying to let it settle down. He'd swallowed enough of this kind of stuff in Special Forces, it shouldn't have been too much of a problem, honestly.

"I'm dead then..."

"You don't know the half it, kid."

[Cyrill Nineball]

September 1st, 1999 0258
Somewhere in Somalia

Eightballer, Cyrill, and another member of the Cell whose code name was Cyclops stood with their backs to a wall as Eightballer checked the door beside them. He nodded and turned, his shoulder tight to the wall as the other two followed and all three stacked by the door.

They were standing outside the confirmed hideout of a warlord who was responsible for perpetuating conflict in the area due to his consistent trade of illicit armament. Not to mention the abduction of children from the villages on the outskirts to supply his armies in their civil wars. But the theory had been proven that in this environment, cutting off the head set the opposition back enough that multiple tactical strikes could be effectively accomplished in the time it took for them to recover a new leader.

Eightballer nodded and stepped out. Time slowed down for Cyrill in the next few moments. The door was kicked in, Cyrill rolled into the door way and followed the path and firing sector he had been trained to fall into. A bullet hissed by and into the wall behind him; his sights were at his eye and his rifle shook with the concussive force of a bullet being launched from the barrel. A young man seemingly close to Cyrill's age lurched back as a hole appeared in his chest and blood spilled forth. The body jerked twice more, one more round plunging into the frail sternum and the head snapping backwards as a round was placed between the eyes. Cyclops followed, taking down another combatant, before Eightballer entered and eliminated hopefully the last armed inhabitant of the building as the man came down the stairs. Two women and three children huddled in the corners of the room. Time still hadn't resumed its normal pace as of yet, the rush remained; Cyrill was unaware if their target was actually dead yet. The two spotters would've made contact if the warlord had made for an escape out of the other two exits.

"Nineballer..."

The name rung in his ears as if it were very distant, away from what actually was occuring. One of the children, facing Cyrill, pulled the trigger with his tiny fingers and the AK-47 fired.

[Cyrill Nineball]

September 1st, 1999 0302
Somewhere in Somalia

Cyrill stumbled backwards against the wall. His rifle fell to the ground as his body jerked again, another round entering his body. And another. And another.

His hand went to his neck, to stifle the blood flowing freely from the exposed artery. The lights in the room seemed to pierce his vision, his eyes dilated to a painful extent. His breathing was rushed and short, his body already slipping into shock. His focus and perception was scattered; he saw Eightballer, Cyclops, the crying children, the ceiling. Why was Eightballer smiling? It sounded like the ocean, the rushing waves, in and out, but it was slowing down, the tide was going out. And then, just as the world had nearly stopped, time caught up with itself, fast forwarding back to the present moment.

Cyrill was on his feet in moments, stumbling forward but feeling an adrenaline rush like never before. He closed eyes only for a moment but in that small span of time, another round was fired. His eyes opened to see the child holding the AK collapse like a rag doll.

Eightballer winked to Cyrill before motioning up the stairs and taking the lead. Had he missed something? He couldn't feel the bullets that had just entered his body a moment ago, much less any persisting pain. He remembered the pain, he was still breathing hard from it, but it simply wasn't there anymore. Cyclops had some kind of smirk as he followed. As if he had some clue to it all and didn't feel obligated to informing him. Cyrill leaned against the wall, his eyes drifting to the mother crying over the sprawled body of her child who's brains were against the small table beside them.

[Cyrill Nineball]

September 3rd, 1999 1458
Black Cell HQ

"We're going out again, Nineballer... Hey, you alright?"

Cyrill, Nick, whoever he was, looked through the side of his eyes, sitting on the ground, elbows resting on his knees, his X-8 resting across his lap.

"Vega, how the Hell did you buy into this immortal bull? I mean, you did... but how long did it take... ya know, to set in?"

The other man, tall, almost too tall to be good for this business shrugged but his glance was sympathetic to the newest member of the group. Vega had short black hair and a darker skin tone, a dark eyes to match. He was European to say the least but then what Cyrill had gathered, it didn't matter anymore, nationalities were nothing in the face of what they were really dealing with.

Cryill climbed the stairs to the sound of more gun fire. And then he heard someone yelling in Arabic. More gun fire split the air as Cyrill slid into the room, the adrenaline rush pushing his awareness to be ready for absolutely anything.

Anything but an Arab in the middle of the Somalian conflict with a scimitar who was taking every round of Eightballer's rifle to the chest.

"Again, Almaher? And this time you've moved from the holy land and brought our war to these devils?"

Eightballer was having a conversation and reloading while the Arab continued to advance? Cyrill was caught off guard enough with the Arab still standing. But something was in the air again, some kind of friction that he was only mildly aware of. And the sword wielding man retorted in Arabic.

"Devils? If anything, they are merely innocents, prey and consequences of your Christian imperialism. I came to give them cause."

The Arab lunged, his sword coming down faster than Cyrill could almost see. Eightballer stepped to the side and kicked out, his foot hitting the man in the thigh which deflected the momentum away. His rifle came up and blocked an attack from the sword; Cyrill was dumbfounded as lightning sparked from the edge of the sword and the rifle was almost cut in half. And somehow, from somewhere, Eightballer had acquired his own sword, it was long, black, a metal used for melee combat weapons in the military, and on the opposite side, the entire edge was serrated like a saw. Cyrill's commander caught the scimitar with ease and more sparks flew. Cyrill was in a daze all until someone's hand fell on his shoulder. Cyclops' voice was in his ear.

"We need to leave. Things are gonna get messy real quick. We gotta cover our path out for when Eightballer's done."

Cyclops practically drug Cyrill outside and across the street until Nineball seemed to snap out of it.

And then the building Eightballer had been.... dueling in exploded.

"I mean, did you come back from a mission and were told 'you are immortal, you can't die' as the final end of your debriefing?"

Cyrill wasn't even sure why he was talking to Vega; he didn't know anything really and Cyrill felt small, very small. So much else had gone on since that event, the arguement of Eightballer and Cyclops, who had disappeared shortly after that arguement. It had been something to do with Cyrill but he hadn't been able to catch what.

"You and the Commander are the only immortals in the group. I only had to see it a few times to believe that he couldn't die. Before Cyclops... before he departed, he said he saw you take two to the neck. And not even a scratch now."

Not a single scratch, and Cyrill felt like he could do everything all over again, better even. When Eightballer had sat down and broke everything down to Cyrill about Immortals, at least everything he had 'clearance' to speak about. Cyrill had felt like he was sitting down with his father who was explaining sex for the first time. With something like this, how did one exactly die. The sword duel had been explained shortly after that question. If your head was severed from your neck, you suddenly became mortal.

And then Eightballer had rationalized everything, sorta.

"Why do you think we are immortals?"

"Why does one fight for what he believes, Nineballer? Men are destined to this or that in life and you and I are destined for something greater, that requires one man to live beyond what any man can and to endure what any other man would perish under. But we're not alone."

"The Arab."

"Yes, the Arab. Almost as old as I am, he's living proof that we are not alone, and that there are men and things who would take this advantage that destiny has gifted them with and use it against what we stand for. An unholy war is being waged behind the scenes between all manner of beings, and our squad's sole purpose is to handle those... individuals that step out into the... normal scene of things."

"So we're like... the ghostbusters for Immortals?"

"I'm being serious, idiot. And for that, you can stay in the dark concerning the rest for a while."