image [https://yt3.ggpht.com/9CjVrJZaMuSucNRQDWdaZal2vHDaprJ5Ai12GK14SQXRqbHctWx9L32jv3kqdIuuovOV40nbfXs7=s640-c-fcrop64=1,00000000ffffffff-nd-v1]
Jamison Broadway
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Bu-thwack!
It was written in plain script. No. Printed on the wood, lined up so perfectly one would be forgiven for thinking it was stamped.
Bu-thwack!
It read: It wasn't slow. Know she screamed a long time
Bu-thwack!
Turner seemed more like a fish then a fox, mouth opening and closing and fresh out of words.
Bu-thwack!
Hugh was quietly being sick to the right.
Bu-thwack!
Lockwood had been turned away slightly, looking in middle distance once they got close enough to recognize the body.
Bu-thwack!
Colleen just started jabbering, her tight as a bowstring personality having visibly strained ever since they set foot on the island, looking ready to snap.
Bu-thwack!
Jamison swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. The words clawed into his mind, etching a vivid and gruesome picture that he couldn't shake off. Cold dread settled in his stomach, a stark contrast to the sweat beading on his forehead. The reality of their situation was spelled out in those cruel, impersonal letters—their comrade hadn't met a swift end. The notion of her suffering twisted inside him like a knife.
Bu-CRACK!
The sound split the stagnant air, a punctuation to the tension that clung to the group like a second skin. Shoulders heaving with rage, Donald glared hatefully at his now crushed helmet. The tree clearly came out the better of the two. The leopard's eyes burned, his jaws clenched in a vicious snarl.
His eyes fell on the decapitated head of a Moto-Bug and it quickly became his target. As he started stomping the thing until its eye lenses cracked, Jamison quickly took control of the situation. "Don."
Golden eyes met his green, full of pain, anger, and sorrow. "Snap out of it!" Jamison snapped, sharper this time. Not because he enjoyed the harshness in his tone, but because they couldn't afford the luxury of fear—not here, not now. They were soldiers in enemy territory, and shock could prove just as lethal as a bullet.
It seemed to work; Donald blinked rapidly, the glassy sheen of rage receding from his gaze.
Jamison's mouth closed slowly, the half-formed reproof dissolving bitterly on his tongue in the face of the soldier's silent struggle. It wasn't insubordination he saw there—it was pain, raw and unfiltered, the kind that couldn't be expressed through just words or tears but only through the catharsis of physical release.
"Eyes up," he said instead, gesturing to the west side of the small clearing.
Most attacks came from that direction, and he had no reason to think anything will be different. "I want you, Eastside, and Pudge to keep an eye on that direction. If anything bigger than a fly so much as sneezes from over there, you to open fire."
Hearing their nicknames, Lockwood and Hugh snap to some sort of attention and all three saluted. "Sarnt," They affirmed in unison, taking their places into lines of covering fire in case of an ambush.
It was once Donald was no longer drumming out his hate that the hedgehog's ears caught on to another's distress.
"Damn it all," Colleen muttered under her breath, the words tumbling out in a fevered cascade. "We checked the perimeters, scanned every inch. How did—how could—" Her voice cracked, the frayed ends of her composure coming undone with each syllable.
Jamison took a step ove to her, his own turmoil buried beneath layers of command. "Colleen," he said, his tone firm yet not unkind. Mouse looked up, her eyes darting and unfocused, much like how a cornered animal might look right before it strikes or flees.
"Can't be happening, not again, not to us..." Her hands were shaking now, fingers twitching spasmodically as she struggled to wrap her mind around the horror that had invaded their reality.
He wasn't getting through. "Hands, help Queenie out."
Turner seemed almost confused as if he'd forgotten where he was. When he's noticed Colleen, he hurried over to her, turning and leading the way just far enough so that the body wasn't within her line of sight anymore, and began speaking gently to her in hushed tones. Not proper procedure, but what the fuck was proper at this point.
He wondered if it was the right move to make, using his squad's nicknames but better they thought he was a cold bastard trying to playthings off as normal. The words were meant to anchor, to pull the everyone back from the edge of panic that threatened to claim them all. "Focus." He mumbled to himself, crushing his thrashing emotions.
Jamison stepped closer to the message, his boots sinking softly into the loamy soil. The precision of the print, the purposeful spacing—it spoke volumes about the perpetrator's intentions. To leave such a message, they had to know the squad would find it, had to know it would strike deep.
There was a certain irony, Jamison thought, in the way Donald's rage mirrored the turmoil within him. The sergeant had to remain composed, to be the stoic leader his squad needed, while Donald—Donald could express what they all felt: the seething anger at the loss of Shipshape... No. Opal, their comrade, their friend.
'Eggman and his bots... what a sick twisted fuck.' His fists clenched against the rifle stock, soil and grit digging into his calloused palms.
This victim wasn't just any Marine. Shipshape- Opal was part of their squad. At that moment, a rabid fury began to bloom within Jamison. It was a slow burn at first, the kind that lights up the corners of your mind with an ominous glow. He looked towards the horizon, past the fields and the forests, in direction where Eggman's goons and his miscreant bots would be hiding.
Each thought of Eggman felt like a punch in the gut. Every memory of their fallen comrades, every familiar face turned stranger by the crimson light of battle, scratched acidic lines into his soul. Each robotic monstrosity they had encountered, each lifeless piece of metal, each collaborator that had taken what was theirs. His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum, each beat echoing with rage—each throb inflaming him further.
His vision blurred as hues of red started to cloud his sight. Red—the color of war, of fury, of blood spilled—seemed to devour his world until everything around him was bathed in its wrathful glow.
Trembling, the hedgehog drew his drop knife, and began cutting her down.
His hands were steady despite the storm of rage that howled through his mind. The knife went through the ropes suspending her body with a swift, grim efficiency. Opal, once vibrant and full of life, now cold and stiff and ruined, hit the ground with a thud that vibrated in the pit of Jamison's soul.
Her lifeless form crumbled like a marionette whose strings had been snipped away. The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat as he bent over their fallen comrade, taking off his own jacket to make her somewhat presentable. She was a modest woman, Opal, always blushing at the crude jokes shared among the squad, preferring to maintain an air of quiet decorum even in the roughest marches and training. This was the last shred of dignity he could afford her.
His fingers tingled with an alien sensation, digits itching to wrap around a throat, to squeeze and choke until each bot and cloaked bastard responsible lay lifeless in the dirt. They'd pay for this. Each and every one of them. The thought those responsible were allowed to breathe air grated upon him like sandpaper against raw flesh, sending sparks of blinding white-hot fury pounding through his veins.
Jamison's knuckles whitened as he gritted his teeth, the sound of grating enamel barely audible over the rustling foliage around him. His hands shook as he gently draped his jacket over Opal's body.
The taste of copper filled Jamison's mouth and he felt a drop of warmth rolled down his cheek, snaking its way lower and lower before it fell onto Opal's forehead. He touched a hand to his face, drawing it away wet with blood—his nose was bleeding. It was as if his body was physically reacting to the hate that felt like it was boiling him alive.
He wiped it away with the back of his hand, leaving a crimson smear across his cheek—a warrior's mark. Perhaps it was a sign.
Bu-thwack!
The deafening sound echoed through the forest once more as Donald resumed his therapeutic rage against the robotic bug's remains. Scowling, the hedgehog whipped around and was about to rip into Donald for blatantly ignoring his orders. What he was about to say went half-throated when he saw the leopard was still where he'd been before.
So where had-
The sound come from? His eyes scanned the clearing, landing on a fallen log about twenty yards away. Rising slowly from the ground was another of Eggman's bots - leftover from their earlier skirmish. Donald tensed, ready to attack, but Jamison raised a hand to halt him. This one was his.
His boots squished in the undergrowth as he stalked towards the bot, blood streaking down his face and staining his teeth. His nose was bleeding more heavily now, but he hardly noticed. His vision was bathed in red, every line and curve of the metallic monstrosity standing sharp against the fury-laden background until it was all he could see.
Every pound of his heart matched a step he took, a symphony of discordant rage that drowned out the chittering sounds of the forest around him. The bot tried to rise, legs clicking and whirring as its internal machinery futilely strained to bring it's bulk upright. But Jamison was faster. He raised his rifle and fired.
The round struck the exposed torso of the bot, causing a blinding flash as its internal systems sparked and shorted. Yet, it wasn't enough for Jamison. The sight of those beady mechanical eyes blinking defiantly at him fueled his fury even more.
Jamison broke into a run. His vision was a tunnel of crimson, ending only with the sparking hunk of metal that dared to exist after what it and its brethren had done to his Opal. His footfalls pounded the dirt as he charged, his enraged heartbeat pulsing as he closed in on his prey. His world narrowed down to the dying bot before him, every other sensation drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears and the monstrous roar within his soul.
He arrived at the bot with a feral growl ripping from his throat. His hands wrapped around the metallic neck, the world narrowing into pinpricks of crimson.
The screeches of the badnick filled the air, its voice box crackling and sputtering in distress. A smirk broke through his bloody snarl, maybe these things could feel pain. Then it began to warble, a clear high-low repetition of something… A call for help.
Words. It was short and playing in reverse. Jamison didn't care. It could've been begging for it's life and he wouldn't have gave a damn.
It's neck crunched under his hands, and he pulled. Yanking the head off it a spray of sparks and oil. His own blood was everywhere now, splattering the crumpling body of the Badnick and mixing with the machine's fluids.
Then the dim lens eyes of the robot twitched in his bloodstained hands, focusing on his face with a disturbing level of clarity.
Its reversing speech halted abruptly, replaced by a series of clicks and hisses that eventually formed coherent words. And the hedgehog felt as much as heard the two words it was saying this whole time.
"H-$%-itri-%*!&$.Hail-*&%@!%@&… Hail Dimitri…"
- and Jamison jerked awake, his whole body jolting upright with a gasp.
Sweat soaked his sheets and the sharp taste of blood lingered in the dryness of his throat. He blinked with terrifying quickness, shaking off violent images from his nightmarish slumber. His surroundings solidified slowly into the stark reality of bare walls.
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A shaky breath shuddered through him as he touched his nose. Sweat met his fingers—no sign of blood—and relief rippled within him. 'No blood, just sweat. Good. Good.' The startling realism of the 'red dreams' always left him shaking. More than even the nightmares. At least, when he made the mistake of going to bed mostly sober.
"Just a dream, Jamison." Feeble words uttered against bile creeping up his throat. Fear-ridden voice failed to breathe any essence into those hollow words.
"Hail Dimitri." He whispered the words aloud, hating himself for giving them power once more. He had never found out who or what a Dimitri was, but the name took up permanent residence in the red. Maybe it was Eggman's real name or the name of some collaborator…? Plenty of Quislings out there who'd stab everyone in the back for a dollop of scraps off the fat bastard's table.
'No, don't think about that. Not now.'
Legs heavy with exhaustion swung over the side of the bed. As taste lurked unswallowable in his throat, he gave a decisive shake to clear his head. The vision was drawn towards the digital clock on an end table pulsating red 3:05—the confines of the RV now suffocatingly close. 'Great, you're never getting back to sleep now.'
He needed air.
Gritting his teeth, Jamison forced himself stand. His head, shoulder, and everything throbbing in protest knocking at every joint and nerve, creating a symphony with pins and needles coursing along his skin. Each movement was a battle as he coaxed his reluctant body into compliance, the sharp stab of pins and needles radiating from his head down through his shoulder, as he swayed down the hall. The door handle was cold under his clammy grip, an icy contrast to his fevered skin as he wrenched it open.
Night air rushed in, a sharp intake that cut through the fog in his mind. The chill was bracing, cleansing, as he stepped into the darkness, the ground solid beneath his bare feet. Stars blinked overhead, their distant light a silent promise of vast, open space. He sucked in deep lungful of the cool air, and for a moment, the tightness in his chest eased.
A musical note accompanied a light, barely perceptible yellow glow that still managed to slice through the gloom.
It was Sparks, materializing from the RV, the wisps presence a grounding force. He didn't touch him, knowing better than to crowd him when he was like this.
He recognized the words. They were the only two in the wisp's language he actually knew. The question repeated so many times on Tupelo, they become wrote but not state.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." He pushed out from his lips, using the wisp's presence as an anchor. It was a lie of course. One he hated to tell.
He knew, if anything, he was under attack. An attack of guilt. An attack of conscience, maybe. Certainly, an attack of hate.
It didn't matter what they were when they came, if fogged up his mind, overwhelming his senses like a tide. When the red creeped in his dreams were the bank where memory, rage, and nightmare crashed into all at once, crushing him until he could barely breathe.
Gradually, his breathing steadied his chest. His hands unclenched, his calloused fingers throbbing as if he were a raw recruit once more.
As if to punctuate what he already knew, Sparks made a questioning sound. It was urging, pleading even and as the hedgehog rose to face him. Embers of concern reflected brilliantly in blue depths of Sparks' eyes like a question poised mid-air. "I know," all he could muster without choking on unsaid sentiments left for future conversations he planned to never have.
He made his way back into the RV, ashamed at his weakness. Under Sparks's watchful eye, he methodically cycled through tasks preparing for the day ahead. Washing himself, dressing himself, cleaning up from last night's food...
Each small task helped in crushing the weakness he knew he hadn't earned. He didn't dare give the idea at how unhealthy this was more than the passing contempt it deserved.
As he laced up his boots, even the justified outrage he aimed at himself faded, the solidity of each knot metaphorically tying everything down where it belonged.
X-X
Jamison cracked eggs into the sizzling skillet, the aroma of bacon mingling with the morning stillness of the RV.
"Nearly done," he called out over to Sparks was busy organizing the day supplies on the table.
An official U.F flag folded neatly in a fitted triangle oak frame, a map with the Spiral Hill route marked, and a manila file featuring 'Copper Lockwood' in clear writing.
The bacon spluttered and popped as Jamison took it out of the pan, transferring everything onto a paper plate.
He said it before the wisp with one hand while tearing open an MRE pack open with his free one.
Sparks settled on the table, his gaze flicking to Jamison's MRE before settling on his own plate piled with freshly cooked food. The wisp offered him a grateful eye-and began eating.
Midway through sucking down a packet of military-grade peanut butter, Jamison found himself studying the photo attached to Copper Lockwood's file.
The hedgehog glanced at the file as he sucked down some military grade peanut butter, the red-furred hound's I.D. photo didn't flatter him. Jamison could see the family resemblance in the snout and around the eyes but where Jonah managed a smug casual no matter what like he knew something everyone else didn't, Copper Lockwood with his floppy ears and bright eyes made him come off like a puppy who just discovered a new toy.
A toy that went boom.
The hedgehog grimaced, powering through the MRE as another twinge of discomfort as he recollected Eastside's omission.
Not for the first time, he wondered why Joanah never told him his brother was in the same Battalion. The hound's mouth could outrun a bullet. He could go for at least two hours talking about the apple orchard his fiancée owned alone.
At least, Jonah thought so. He was good enough with a guitar and taught a big game among the Fukawi squad.
Jamison came out of his memories, regretful. He shouldn't have left Eastside hanging like that last night...
A frown crossed his face, suddenly unsure. Why hadn't he just gone out and said it? Hell, he'd have saved himself the trip.
While he couldn't exactly call informing someone their brother was officially KIA over beers polite but... He could've at least given the man the flag in the file. He was owed that much.
A memory surfaced as he saw the red fur of Jonah in his mind's eye as if it were yesterday.
Back in Union City, finally home, the man's rising agitation as Jamison followed him as he searched the ship, in spite of doc's orders to keep his slinged arm as still as possible. His sudden tightlipped evasiveness and how it cut the hedgehog to the bone. How the panic on his face felt or resigned –
He clenched his fist. He couldn't take it to heart. Not when he stayed quiet as well. At least Jonah was alive. There was some comfort to take in that.
He continued eating methodically, fueling his body for the task ahead. Once breakfast was cleared away, Jamison finished dressing in civilian clothes – a plain T-shirt that hugged his torso, and his leather jacket. He ran a hand over his quills, feeling the bristles against his palm, and then grabbed the keys to the RV.
The drive to spiral Hill village was uneventful, the roads empty save for a passing vehicle or people on foot. The village itself came into view as he crested the final hill.
Nestled on a plateau with a switchback road rising up to the main street, Jamison took in the sight.
Parking near what appeared to be the main entrance at the wall, he stepped out and walked into a picture-perfect place.
It was quaint in the way that brought to mind the typical countryside town in film and TV. Buildings painted in soft pastel colors, mostly blues and creams, lined the narrow cobblestone streets. Those streets were framed by flowerpots hanging from lampposts or from planter boxes in windowsills. The most plain example of simple home comfort he'd ever seen.
Even Barricade Town was more like a trading hub trying to be a comfortable fortress than a home.
Almost immediately, being amid such normalcy stirred unfamiliar emotions within him—of being an intruder.
Revisiting the file once more left him no choice but to sort out Gala Lockwood's home from the others but the layout of the village was obviously a bit more complicated than it appeared. He approached a pedestrian path that led towards what looked like a cluster of shops. They quickly turned out to be homes, each with gardens blooming with the colors of spring.
"Excuse me," he called out, flagging down a gray and white lemur in a jogging suit and leggings. "I'm looking for Gala Lockwood's residence—the Afghan hound?"
The young woman paused, tilting her head slightly as if sizing Jamison up. Then, pointing down a street that led out of town where he could clearly see cherry blossoms just beginning to bloom, she replied, "Take a left at the end there, then right at the old oak tree. Can't miss it. House with the blue shutters."
"Thank you," he nodded in appreciation. He took in the directions as he walked back to his RV, repeating them silently in his mind. 'Left, right at the tree. House with the blue shutters.'
He set off down the indicated path, driving closer to Gala, and the weighty news he carried.
"How do I look, Sparks?" He studied his reflection in the narrow bathroom's mirror while deftly pressing down the collar on the crisp green fabric of his dress uniform. The wisp jingled in affirmation.
"Thanks buddy. I'm actually... Excited to see Jonah again." He felt awful saying that. Even if it was true. The hedgehog hadn't seen the man since his acquittal.
He took a deep breath, stealing himself of the task ahead, and then stepped out onto the gravel path that led to Gala's home.
He moved with purpose, his boots crunching softly with each smooth step leading up to the house. The lane was tranquil, a stark contrast of the turmoil turning inside him. In the back of his mind, he couldn't help but laugh a little at what he saw. The house was a humble one and had more than just blue shutters. Powder blue from roof to porch, the two-story cottage stood out among the apple orchard though the road to it curved slightly like it was trying to hide behind a curtain of greens, pinks, and red speckled branches.
With the gate leading to the north end of the property, the leaves and apples caught the light in a way that was simply fantastic to see. Branches which still held some dew sparkled in the light, which dazzled the whole area when the wind brushed them to sway.
Sparks flitted by his side, making noises of appreciative wonder.
"I can see why he never stopped talking about it." He agreed, looking around.
Jonah had run his mouth constantly about this place. Jamison pictured Jonah here, sitting on the porch strumming his guitar, the notes mingling with birdsong. He felt a pang in his chest.
"Fresh air and with apples so crisp, your breath would fog after a bite." The hound would sigh.
As he approached the front door, Jamison straightened his uniform one last time, inhaling deeply. Before he had a chance to knock, the door opened, revealing a slender blue Afghan hound. Gala Lockwood's widened at the sight of him, peering up from under a straw sunhat.
The door swung open quickly, revealing Gala Lockwood peering up at him from under a straw hat. She must've seen him coming.
"Yes? Can I help you?" she asked.
Jamison hastily removed his cap placing it under his arm. "Gala Lockwood? Sgt. Jamison Broadway from G.U.N. at your service," he introduced himself nervously, "I served with your fiancée, Jonah Lockwood, and bear news regarding his brother. May I?"
Her eyes widened slightly, a slight slackening around the lips, but she wordlessly nodded and stepped aside. The inside of the house was just as cheerful as the exterior, filled with bright colors and family photos. Pulling off his peaked cap as he entered, his gaze inadvertently searched the room for another familiar face.
He found it on the fireplace mantle. A picture of two young hounds on the porch of this very house, Jonah and Gala captured in a joyous moment in which Eastside was virtually smothering Gala while she remained casually laid back against him. Another showed Copper and Jonah as kids, lounging in the same tree, mischief dancing in their eyes. He couldn't help but chuckle softly at the costumes they were wearing, must've been Halloween. Jonah's ears flopped to the side in what the hedgehog instantly knew was embarrassment.
Jamison was a man of habit and over the these last few months since the war ended he'd fallen into a pattern; knocking on doors, stepping into houses when permitted, offering condolences, delivering the dire news, providing paperwork for acknowledgement and finally saying his courteous goodbyes before departure. This time was different.
Seeing those pictures through them off just enough and he was forced to shake off a sense of wrongness suddenly nibbling in the back of the skull. Catching a whiff of familiar strong tea snapped him abruptly from his reverie compelling him to divert his attention away from the mantel.
He blinked as Gala came through the kitchen door carrying a tray with two steaming cups upon it. He hadn't even noticed she left. He hoped he hadn't stood there staring into space like a gaping fish the whole time. 'Best not look crazy right now.'
He took a seat as quickly as he was able without coming off as unseemly.
Gala set the tray, adorned with delicate porcelain cups and saucers, on the polished coffee table between them. The aroma of freshly sliced apples and a hint of zesty lemon wafted from the steaming cup she passed him. The liquid inside was a deep golden color, almost glowing in the soft light of the room. He brought it to his lips and took a sip, savoring the tart sweetness that danced across his taste buds. "Thank you," he said, grateful for both the warm drink and her thoughtfulness.
"Jamison was it?" Gala's voice was a little shaky, but she too sipped at her own cup, setting it down after a second with a shaking paw. "What's this about Copper?"
Jamison set his cup down, the tremble in his paw making a light clinking sound against the saucer. He'd been dreading this moment since he'd gotten the orders. "I wish I had better news to bring, but..."
He faded.
"Where's Jonah?" Jamison couldn't help but ask, the question slipping out as he scanned the photos on the mantel, snapshots of happier times. It was his brother after all, he should be here for this.
Gala's expression cracked, even as she took a steadying sip from her cup. "You haven't heard," she murmured, tucking her arms closer to herself as if bracing against a chill.
The creeping wrongness practically catapulted itself back up and this time the hedgehog couldn't ignore it. As his eyes were dragged kicking and screaming back to the mantel, the gnawing realization set in – there were no wedding photographs!
No wedding photo. But that couldn't be right? Jonah never stopped talking about the woman before him. How he planned to get married to Gala, have kids, the whole nine yards. Yet, as he took in the empty space where a framed picture, several, should have been, Jamison knew. Panic slowly started to creep into his system, the stark reality stood staring right back at him from that visibly empty space on the mantel able to accommodate several frames. The reality was terrifying, it seemed anathema to everything he knew about Jonah.
The room felt like it had suddenly been sucked of all air as he finished the sentence. Jamison gulped down the rest of his tea in one go, needing the searing hot liquid to blot out the agony building in his chest. 'Focus, get the job done.' With Sparks on his shoulder, he just needed to get the job done. "Copper didn't make it." He said, sliding the file over to her and setting the folded flag next to it. "In this file is an application to retrieve the body from G.U.N."
"How...how did it happen?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. She looked up at Jamison, eyes pleading for an explanation, for this all to be some terrible mistake.
"There was an ambush. His squad was outnumbered. Copper…" His voice was flat as he crushed down his own questions. "He died bravely. Took down as many enemies as he could."
Fresh tears spilled down Gala's cheeks and she buried her face in her paws, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.
Jamison wished he could comfort her, but knew better than to attempt it. "I'm sorry for your loss, Miss Lockwood," he began as he stood up, the familiar words coming to him automatically.
As Jamison turned to leave, Gala's voice stopped him. "Wait..." she called out, reaching out a trembling paw. He turned back to see her wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "Jonah...he...he… you're that Jamison, right? He talked about you a lot. He… You're his friend so you have a right to know."
Gala took a deep, shaky breath as she tried to compose herself enough to speak. "Jonah is gone too. He took his own life nearly three weeks ago now."
The words hit Jamison like a physical blow, staggering him. A silence fell, heavy and suffocating, as he grappled with the twin specters of grief and guilt. He had come to deliver one tragedy, only to be blindsided by another. He sank back down onto the couch, gripping the armrest to steady himself. "What? No... Jonah wouldn't..."
'He would,' came that bitter evil voice. 'Only death would've kept Eastside from this woman.'
Her voice broke as she tried to continue on and she pressed the handkerchief to her eyes again. "I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you like this. I thought someone would have told you already."
The green hedgehog barely heard her as thought back to last night. He'd just talked with him. Jonah had been in his damn RV all smug and…and what? His mind reeled as it hit him the hound had never entered or left his RV. The door had been locked and Jamison needed to unlock it to let Sonic in. Jamison's stomach roiled as the pieces fell into place. The solitude, the drinking, even that damned beer.
No! Jonah had never been one to give up easily. Not in all the time he'd known him. Why?! He had so much to live for! Why would he do that?
"When he came back, he just wasn't the same. He struggled every day." She stared down into her teacup. "I tried to help, but it was like he was trapped in his own dark world. And then one day he just..."
Gala broke down again, face buried in her hands. For the longest time, they just sat there. "I never even got to say goodbye. Or tell him how much I loved him, how sorry I was. If I had just been there for him..." she trailed off, overcome with grief and regret. Her mouth worked and when it became clear she couldn't bring herself to say it again, she looked up at Jamison, eyes pleading. "I'll show you where he is. He called you his friend."
If the news had been a sledgehammer, the last sentence was a knife coring out his heart.
Gala led the way, her strides slow and calculated as they made their way through the winding cobblestone path of Spiral Hill's graveyard. The atmosphere was calm and still, the only sound being the gentle rustle of leaves in the morning breeze. Headstones stood tall and imposing, bearing the names of those who had once been a part of this village.
Jamison followed behind her, his formal military uniform feeling out of place against his skin compared to the softness of the grass beneath his polished boots. His eyes scanned the landscape, taking note of the ancient oak trees that provided dappled shade over the resting places of countless souls.
"Here," Gala spoke in a hushed tone, but her words cut through the quiet like a sharp knife. She stopped at a fresh grave, marked by a simple stone cross without much adornment.
Jamison stepped forward, his movements almost automatic as he stood tall and faced the grave. He read the name, dates, and epitaph – each serving as a stark reminder of how young Jonah had been and all the years he should have had left ahead of him.
"Was there...a note?" Jamison's voice cracked with emotion, unsure if he even wanted to know the answer.
"A poem," Gala answered, her gaze fixed on the headstone as if she could gather more information from its silent message. "He left a poem."
The line between soldier and mourner blurred for Jamison as he let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Memories flooded his mind – Tupelo, chaos and camaraderie, desperate battles fought alongside brothers-in-arms. It was fitting for Jonah to leave behind a paragraph where a sentence would have sufficed.
They stood together in silence, united in their grief yet lost in their own thoughts of memories and regrets. The sun climbed higher in the sky, casting its light upon both stone and soil, indifferent to the feelings of the living or the peace of the dead.
As the day wore on, Gala excused herself, leaving Jamison alone with his thoughts and the grave of a man who had been more like a mischievous brother than a comrade. He stayed there for hours, grappling with the complexities of honor, duty, and the unfathomable decision made by a fellow soldier who couldn't find his way back from war. Finally, he put his hands together and prayed.
"Hallowed God, glory be to you, I ask of you in my burdened hour. Forgive my friend so he might live in peace. I ask this of you as your faithful child, o giver of love. Empower him with your eternal warmth, enfold him in your arms. Amen."
Only when the sun had set did Jamison rise to his feet, crouching down to place the folded flag atop Jonah's grave. "Godspeed, Eastside," he whispered, saluting his fallen friend one last time. "I'll hold the line for Fukawi squad from here. I'm sure you'll save me a seat, if Pudge doesn't."
'Who are you kidding?' the voice said as he turned around and left Spiral Hill Cemetery. 'You're gonna burn for your failures.'
Jamison quickened his pace as he left the cemetery, eager to put distance between himself and the fresh pain brought on by Jonah's grave. But the voice in his head only grew louder, tailing him relentlessly.
'Some friend you turned out to be. Abandoning him when he needed you most. Some soldier too, letting your whole squad die while you survived.'
Jamison clenched his jaw, trying to block out the accusations. But they wormed their way into his heart, prying and throwing gas on the burning guilt. He needed a drink.
It was Sparks's twinkling alarm that finally broke through his spiral. The small wisp zipped in front of him, body flashing urgently. Jamison stopped, looking down at his companion with confusion, shaking his head to clear the haze of grief and regret.
"What is it, Sparks?" he muttered. But the wisp was already pointing, a tendril aimed up and to their right.
Jamison glanced to the south. "Oh hell."
The unpleasantly familiar outline of a very large Buzz Bomber entered his line of sight, its wings flapping lazily as it swooped over the land and right for them.
"No," he muttered, adrenaline-fueled determination replacing grief. "Not today, you bastard." He spun on his heel, dashing back to the village proper. His mind raced with strategy, putting together a plan. They had about an hour, two if they were lucky.
'Too late to save Jonah, but not for others,' he thought grimly. "Sparks! Warn the Mayor! I'll get whoever is the sheriff, meet me at the RV after."