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Guardian IV: Omake

Spec Ops Tigers

(To read this chapter, you must agree with the disclaimer and copyright posted in the first chapter.)

(A sign of the times... an idea that's been bouncing around for years... and now, over a decade after the end of the original Guardian series, I bring you the legendary omake: Spec Ops Tigers.)

Gritted teeth. On his back. Hands on his AK-47. Too tired to think straight, too injured to aim. He just pointed his weapon roughly between his legs, in the direction of the enemy, and pulled the trigger.

Fucking shoot. Fucking shoot and fucking kill them. Humans--barely. And he'd killed before. In cold blood, without any risk to him--to protect those he loved. This was no different. The enemy was just shooting back.

Fuck 'em. Even if he died, fuck 'em. This was a cause worth fighting for--and killing, and dying for. Just don't let them get to close, don't let them take this place.

A snarling figured appeared at an oblique angle, charging through a hallway. Alex drew his pistol and shot him dead in a second, then threw a grenade after his bullet for good measure. A shriek and then a loud deep thunk told him he'd done well.

Water. There was water everywhere now. Too many bullets spanging off of too many pipes, and too much steam and fog.

Blood. His blood. The blood of the enemies. Dillueted, coagulated, comingled, congealed. Didn't matter whose blood it was. It was all the same dull off-red.

Noise. Gunfire. The shriek of bullets breaking into and out of the supersonic. The shriek of the enemies as his bullets tore them apart. His own gargled screams as he cursed their mothers.

A volley of gunfire tore his weapon from his hands. It lay on the floor--in pieces, useless.

So what? Fuck surrender. His pistol had ammo, and he'd fight until it clacked empty. And then, he'd reached into his left back pocket for that final round that he kept for himself, just in case.

The violence was song in his ears. The colors, art. The subdued earth tones of his fatigues, and theirs. The blood spray when he shot them. The gray viscous porridge that erupted when he got a headshot. The searing heat when their bullets found him. All feelings, all emotions, all sensations, all temporary.

What was important was eternal. And what was eternal was safe. Alexandra, Chris, Christine... all safe, all away, and all waiting for him to come home. Which he wouldn't--he couldn't. He was defeated, as good as dead, and yet he would not fail in his mission. He would hold his ground and kill the enemy until he could kill no more. That was the mission.

Yet, even as he fought, as he killed and died, he couldn't help but smile, thinking of the tender moments in his life. The private moments with Alexandra, the time he'd spent growing Chris from a boy into a man, and of course, his little fan, Christine.

She loved him so much. Whenever he left home, she clung to his ankles until he picked her up and favored her with kisses. And when he returned home, she dropped whatever she was doing and ran to greet him. Even now, when she was well into her teens, none of the friction that was expected had come to pass. She had her life, and he had his, and they respected each other, and still, she was his sweet little kitten.

He remembered, when she was just a baby, she had insisted on joining him in some yardwork. He had taken the hose out, marched to the garden in the distant corner of the backyard and then he saw her, mittening at the valve until it was off. Playing with it like it was a toy. It was just one of the hundreds, or thousands of sweet moments he'd shared with her. His little girl.

Eject the magazine. Slap in a new one and rack the slide. Didn't have the strength to thumb the release anyone. Now keep fucking shooting, and--

"Hey, old man. I figured you could use some help."

A force caught him, clung to his neck. Pulled him backwards. He remembered a sensation, as if a dream from another life, when he had met Alexandra--a tiger was carrying him. Talking to him. And even in the din of the battle, with his eardrums all but ruptured...

He turned. And then he panicked.

"Christine--no! What are you doing here?"

He struggled, tried to wrestle out of her grasp, but she was too strong for him. She pulled him bodily backward, out of the battle.

"Like I said," she said through her teeth, clamped around his collar, "I'm helping you out."

"What--but--no! You're not supposed to be here," Alex snarled. An enemy appeared--an enemy died from gunshot.

"I'm protecting this place--if these fucks take the powerplant, we're done for--"

"Don't worry, Pops," Christine said. "I have a plan."

He shrieked something that was more outrage than word, but let her continue to pull him away. Wasn't much else he could do anyway. He held his fire--the enemies had lost sight of them--and so when they finally arrived at a ditch, some hundreds of meters away, the air was still and silent.

She released him unceremoniously so that he fell on his face. But when he got up, there she was, cuddling and licking the blood and grit from his face. He had to laugh--and cry, and hold her tight.

"But--why are you here? How did you even find me?" Alex croaked. "And the mission--"

"Don't worry, Pops," she said. "I got this."

She stepped back, shifting from a feral form into her less familiar anthro form, dressed in fatigues not unlike his own, with a blue and yellow flag patch on her sleeve, just like his own. She had a grenade, just like his own. Too much like his own--it was not her own.

His eyes widened--he shouted to stop--but she was already sprinting to the power plant.

Somehow, Alex managed to throw himself onto the edge of the ditch. Claw his way up so that she could see. She was darting through the dead plains, flitting through the dried corn stalks and the manure-soaked earth, back to the plant.

To the exterior. To the emergency purge valve.

And then she mittened at the valve as she had when she had been just a kitten. Bigger mittens now--good for the bigger valve. In feral form she grabbed the valve, then reared back... then finally, it began to turn. Began to open.

Back to anthro form. Wedge the grenade into the jet of escaping gas, pull the pin, then back to feral and run the fuck back.

Three. Two. One. Zero.

The explosion ripped through the air just as she jumped, silhouetting her against the raging fireball. She landed--back to anthro form--and took cover next to her father as they watched the plant go up in flames.

He was still panting. Still bleeding. Even as a human, the blood trickling down the side of his face made him look wild. Salt and pepper hair, unshaved face, and his pistol was still in his hand. Ready for more. Ready for the next mission.

He looked at his daughter. His flesh and blood, he was her sworn guardian. She looked back at him, unblinking.

"Guess we'd better get going," he rasped. "This battle's won. There are more that still need to be. And this time, I've got a sidekick."

She smiled a smile that he'd not soon forget. There was love in it, and honor, and a potent bloodthirsty killer streak. She got up and started to move--and in a moment, he started after her.

They'd find weapons as they moved, he reflected. This was a battlefield and this was war. There were enemies to be killed, battles to be won, and when all was said and done, they'd celebrate their victories. Honor their fallen.

That was what they did. That was who they were...

Spec ops tigers.

Geroyam fucking slava.

(Slava Ukraini.)