Chapter Text
The soaked bandages were everything he had to cover the wounds of those soldiers, and he couldn’t help but grunt in disappointment. Nothing seemed to work properly in that place. Men died of malaria, died of the simplest cuts because of serious infections. The Colombian revolutionaries never sent him proper medicine and equipment to treat their soldiers. Not even a single drop of disinfectant he had to clean those bodies and the worst thing was that he had no idea how those men would survive only with bandages, humid because of the rain.
Martín was sick of watching men die, because he was helpless. Sweat ran down the bridge of his nose as he tried to treat a soldier, cleaning a gunshot wound with a piece of damp cloth. He heard the man’s weak moans, body shaking slightly as he looked at the medic with a small smile.
“Doc…”
“What.”
“Thanks for helping me, even though you—“
“Mm.” A nod, then a sigh.
“You know, I thought I would die. I really did.”
“Right.”
“And, you came to me, and said that you were a medic, you would take care of me. You saved me.”
“Mm."
“You’re like a hero to me, doc.”
“Mm.”
“You don’t speak much, do you?”
Martín chuckled, shaking his head while he wrapped the lesion with some bandages. The man was right, he wasn’t much a talker. He would rather listen than speak. Funny thing was that stranger could read him that easily. He felt naked, exposed. What else did he know about him?
“I’m Jose.”
“Martín.”
“You Colombiano?”
“Nah. American.”
“Foreign parents, right? By the sound of your name…”
He didn’t answer, setting the equipment inside the kit. He didn’t like when people could see through him. Then, he leaned his sore back against the chair, closing his eyes with a deep sigh. The soldier looked at him, still expecting for an answer.
“Did I say something wrong, Martín?”
He shook his head, not even bothered to open his eyes. “No. ’m just tired.”
“You deserve some rest. You’ve been here, taking care of me and my friends… I don’t think you’ve slept in two days.”
That was right. Martín didn’t get some proper sleep in days. But again, how could he when those poor bastards could be dying of infection? At least, some of them seemed to be strong enough to survive. A good reason to finally relax -- a pity that wouldn’t be possible.
Gunshots came from outside. Jose widened his eyes, and Martín suddenly jumped from his chair, grabbing his handgun from his leg holster. Before he could leave the room, the soldier grasped his clothes, his face went white, cold sweat sliding down his washy face.
“T—they are here—“
“Who?”
“The Colombian government! They want to kill us!”
“I won’t let them touch you.”
Jose released the clothing, nodding lightly as he shook badly. Martín pressed a hand against his forehead, checking his temperature. A fever, nice. He didn’t have medicine for that there.
He had to deal with the intruders first, or else they would be all dead meat in a few minutes. He would worry about Jose’s fever later. “Can you move?”
“Y—yes.”
“So, hide somewhere. Try to help the others if you can.”
“But, Doc…”
“I’ll be fine.”
Jose gulped, and gave him a firm nod, sliding out of the bed, using a sheet to cover himself. He limped towards the next bed, and shook his friend to wake him up. Meanwhile, Martín checked if he had enough ammo to deal with, at least, three or four of the intruders. Then, he opened the door, and headed outside, narrowing his eyes as he looked for them.
A couple of mercenaries showed up, laughing at Martín because he only had a handgun to protect himself. He blocked the entrance of the cabin with his own body, gritting his teeth at the enemy soldiers.
“A medic trying to save his patients’ lives, that’s interesting.”
No answer came from Martín. In fact, his attention went to the man in a bandanna, calmly smoking a cigar next to the car where two more mercenaries were. He had heard about him before; the Serpiente – the man was a gun for hire who lead a group of mercenaries. He was cruel, merciless, responsible for the new bamboo manicure the Colombian Army learned few months ago. That was no joke.
“Give it up, doc. We don’t want to hurt you. We’re here only for your patients.”
Slowly, Martín put his gun back into its holster, and he raised his arms with a deep frown. The men looked back to their boss, and the Serpiente didn’t move, puffing the thick smoke with steady single eye. He knew that eye was staring at him, shoulders getting heavy because of that steely gaze.
No doubt that man was scary as hell as the stories said.
As soon as the men tried to get inside the cabin, Martín grabbed one of the arms, and twisted it, dislocating the joint with a fast move. The soldier yelled, and when the other was about to grab his knife, the medic threw the body of the injured man against him. Both men fell on the ground, grunting in pain, especially the one with the broken arm.
The other two soldiers in the car stared at their boss, frowning at him. The man in the bandanna, Serpiente, killed the cigar with a rough movement of his fingers, and jumped out of the car. He didn’t seem to be impressed or scared, and Martín wasn’t expecting that from him in any case. Something about him made Martín feel intoxicated, dizzy, as if that man was a predator, a wolf ready to catch his prey.
And, when he woke up from his thoughts, Serpiente was a step close to him, that lonely eye looking through him, eating him alive. Martín couldn’t recall the last time he was so scared. The other two soldiers grabbed Martín suddenly – he was so focused on that man that he didn’t notice them coming.
“No! Release me!” The medic yelled, unfortunately already subdued by the two mercenaries. “No! You cowards! They are sick, they couldn’t hurt an ant if they wanted to!” He tried to break free from those arms, but it was useless. That Serpiente man got inside the cabin, and all Martín could hear was the yell of Jose, the others and gunshots. He shut his eyes close, gritting his teeth so hard that he could taste blood.
What a nightmare. For a minute, he wished that was just a bad dream.
The last thing he remembered was a strong hit against the back of his neck. Then, everything went black. His vision was still blurry, he groaned softly as he tried to recall what happened exactly. When he was about to bring a hand to his face, he noticed his hands were knotted with a thick rope. Marvelous, he was now a prisoner.
A yell left his throat as his eyes met that man on the other side of the bars. The Serpiente still had that steely gaze, penetrating him so hard that he could actually feel it. Although Martín was curious about him, he didn’t say a word, preferring the silence. If he wasn’t dead yet, it was because they still needed him for something.
Another man, probably younger than the Serpiente, unlocked the cell, and stepped inside, walking towards the medic. He grabbed Martín by his collar, and shoved him against the wall, punching him in the stomach and face several times. Martín received all the hits, biting his lower lip to muffle his screams since he refused to show any kind of weakness to the enemy.
When the man was satisfied, he forced the medic to sit down on a chair with a violent push. Blood ran down from his nose abundantly, and he could feel his nose was broken, lips all swollen and blue. Good thing his eyes weren’t as bad as the rest of his face, so he could still see what was going on.
And, what he saw wasn’t exactly pleasant; another soldier got inside the cell, bringing a little box with him. He shook it next to Martín’s ear, giving him a cocky grin.
“You know what we have here, doc?”
No answer came from Martín’s lips, but he had a hunch. That was probably tiny pieces of bamboo or any wood. He stared at the man in front of him, and spat at his chest, receiving a punch in the face right after.
If they were there to torture him, Martín wondered what kind of information he could give them. He knew nothing about the revolutionaries, he was in Colombia only to take care of any kind of people, soldier or not. He was more a medic than a soldier, in fact.
“We were impressed with your performance. You neutralized two of our comrades.” The man spoke again, his voice ringing in the medic’s ears, almost like an echo. Martín looked up at him, panting roughly since it was hard to breathe with that broken nose. “Now, we think you know something about the rebels.”
“I—know nothing.” He replied simply with a rough voice.
Another punch in his jaw, his mouth spilled blood on the floor. The soldier caught his chin strongly, and turned his face back, forcing Martín to look at him. “Ah, I know you do.”
“… no.”
The other soldier opened the box, and handed some of the pieces of bamboo and wood to the torturer. Martín’s heart started beating faster into his chest, but he refused to show any fear. Instead, he took a deep breath, waiting for the worst. The man untied his hands; the other soldier held his free arm behind his back.
“Do you know what I’m gonna do with your nails if you don’t tell me where the rebels are?”
Martín, again, didn’t say a word, only trying to breathe through his mouth.
“You’re a hard man to talk, aren’t you?” Then, the man pulled the hand closer to his body, and pressed a piece of bamboo under the nail of his index finger. Martín cried out, shutting his eyes in pain as the sharp foreign body dug into his digit, nail detaching from the flesh. He literally almost shitted himself, but he wetted his pants, the soles of his feet hitting violently the damp concrete of the floor, teeth grating. God, that hurt like hell.
“Did you like it? Imagine that same pain nineteen times.” The torturer grinned at him as he caught another fragment of the wood with his index and thumb. Martín was too dizzy to think straight, slowly opening his eyes to check his hand. It was shaking badly, raw in the place where his nail used to be. “So, where are the rebels?”
“I… don’t know…” His voice was hoarse, almost inaudible. “I’m just a medic. I treat… take care of people who need me…”
“Liar.” The soldier spat at his face, and shoved the chunk of bamboo into his flesh, tearing the nail of his middle finger. Martín screamed, convulsing against the chair, saliva bubbling from the corners of his lips. “Tell me where the rebels are!” Martín coughed hard, tasting acid from his stomach, but he shook his head frantically, and repeated the same answer, choking on his own saliva.
“I don’t know.”
When the soldier was about to introduce a third piece of wood into his flesh, a steady, firm voice echoed in the room. “Enough.”
“But, Boss—“
“I said enough.”
Then, the man pulled back, giving him a salute as he watched his Boss getting inside the cell, boots hitting the damp ground heavily. Martín’s vision was blurry, whited out for a while until he saw the figure of that man, that predator approaching him slowly. It was at that very moment he thought he would die for sure, so he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath through his mouth, waiting for a bullet or a clean cut at his throat.
Instead, he felt a hand cupping his swollen cheek – it was rough, but soothing nonetheless. The thumb caressed his abused skin, and he opened his eyes slowly to look at that man. He was like a beast, Martín was terribly afraid of him.
“Release him.”
“Boss—“
“Do it.”
The second soldier dropped the arm, but Martín was too weak to react to anything. He was nearly fainting because of the pain.
“Take him to the infirmary, now.”
No other words. The men took him, harshly, to the place. And, before he could even see the face of the medics, his vision went black.
The sound of the rain woke him up, slowly trying to bring back his senses. His mouth was bitter, the copper taste still around. And the pain was still horrible, but numb, bearable. Where was he? The bed was far from being soft, it was comfortable though. Looking around, he could see a combat medic by his side, on a chair, scribbling something in a book. Then, he turned his attention to Martín, and cocking both eyebrows, he approached his face to take a better look at him.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better.” Martín replied with a snort, averting his eyes.
“I’m sorry about that. Bamboo manicure is never a good thing.”
“Mm.”
“And, you’ve lost two nails, but no broken bones. You’re tougher than I thought.”
“Thanks, I suppose.” That was his enemy complimenting him. He should be proud of that.
Before the other man could say something else, heavy steps hit against the ground, his blood froze when he turned his eyes to see who was coming. The Serpiente stared down at Martín, never taking his gaze away from him.
“Leave us, doc.”
The man nodded reverently at his Boss, and left the room. Snake took the chair where the medic was, calmly sitting down. There was silence for the next couple of minutes, both men only eyeing each other, studying their features and movements. Martín wasn’t sure what that man wanted from him; he tortured him, tried to get some information from him, and now he was there, watching him like a wild animal, ready to attack or something. Martín should be dead, and yet, he was there, in that bed, wrapped in bandages and dizzy because of some medicine. They had treated him, their enemy, but why?
“Serpiente.”
“Mm?”
“That’s how people call you. The mercenary who works for the government, Serpiente.”
“Snake’s fine too.”
Martín felt his mouth getting dry, still nervous about that whole situation. Whatever he spoke could be used against him later, so he shut his mouth, lowering his head to look at his own hands, one of them covered with bands of cotton. He shivered when Snake’s voice reached his ears once again, deep and guttural, but not aggressive.
“The only info I found about you was your name. Martín Morales. Am I wrong?”
“No.”
“Latino?”
Martín didn’t answer, finding breathing suddenly too difficult. And, with a broken nose, it would worsen.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
He looked at Snake with a bitter expression, feeling his stomach getting acidic. He wanted to ask why he killed Jose and the others in cold blood while he let him live. Torture was understandable, but questioning his personal life? Why?
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you asking me personal questions?”
“Martín, you’ve already heard of me and the Militaires Sans Frontières.”
“Yes.”
“We’re always recruiting new people.”
Martín snorted at the comment, shaking his head slightly. Was that some kind of sick joke? “You killed my patients, tortured me, and you expect me to join you?”
“That’s how the battlefield works, Martín. No absolute enemy. Besides, good soldiers are better on the same side, don’t you think?”
He had a point, but it wasn’t enough to convince him. “So, I’m a good soldier…”
“I think you are. You have good knowledge of martial arts. You managed to neutralize two of my soldiers, that’s not ordinary. And you care for your patients, too.”
“I’m just an average medic.”
“Where did you learn those moves?”
“Army.”
“Colombian Army?”
“No, American.”
Martín didn’t know why he was talking so openly to that man. Something in Snake made him feel scared, but a part of him wanted to trust him. He couldn’t say exactly why.
“So, you’re American.”
“Born in Los Angeles, California. Mexican mother.”
“I see. Single mother, I can tell.”
That was so weird. Martín finally looked at the man, trying to read him. Snake, though, had the same expression as before, while Martín softened his a little. What was that power of persuasion?
“I’m also American, but I left my country behind.”
White American, thought Martín. But, for some reason, Snake didn’t judge him by the fact he was latino. He also left his country like Martín did.
“Now, I’m working on a place for soldiers.”
“Mm? A place?”
“Yes, where we can fight together without being used as tools. We’ll fight for ourselves with honor and respect.”
Interesting that his expression didn’t change a bit while he was talking, but his blue eye did shine, showing that he was serious, passionate about that.
“And… this place, any soldier can join?”
“Any soldier.”
“Even latinos?”
“Most of my soldiers are latinos, Martín.”
Martín felt his stomach getting hot again, this time because he was really interested in that place. However, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to accept that offer. It was tempting, but he was still bitter about what happened hours ago.
“I think you should rest for now. I’ll let you think about my offer.” Snake, then, stood up from his chair, and walked towards the door. But, before he could leave the room, he looked over his shoulder, at Martín.
“You came to Latin America because people wouldn’t judge you here, right?”
Was he that easy to read? Martín swallowed hard, nodding lightly. Yes, he wanted a place where people would see him as a normal person, but it was more than that. Certainly.
Snake gave him a grin, and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. He left a confused Martín to contemplate their little conversation.
Two days had passed, and Martín was finally able to leave the infirmary, although he wasn’t completely healed. He tried not to interact with Snake’s soldiers, keeping some distance from them. However, he didn’t leave the place either; that offer was still in his mind, making him ponder his whole life. That was his chance to find a light in the end of the tunnel, he could join them. He wouldn’t lose a thing with that.
When he knocked the door of Snake’s office, he felt his throat aching. He was nervous, anxious, but also excited to see that man, and he couldn’t say why. No doubt Snake was a charismatic man, always convincing people to join him. He understood everyone so well; spoke so naturally that Martín questioned his own loyalty. In the end, he wasn’t sure where his loyalty belonged to, but he wouldn’t mind giving it to Snake.
It wasn’t Snake who answered the door; a blonde man, wearing aviators, cocky grin – yes, Kazuhira Miller, MSF’s second in command. He was holding some papers, scanning them while he glanced at Martín.
“You’re looking for the Boss, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s out, I’m afraid. But he’ll be back soon.”
Martín gave a respectful nod at the man, and turned around to leave, but he was interrupted when Kaz placed a hand over his shoulder, holding him in the same spot.
“You’re Martín Morales, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He looked back at Kaz, reverently.
“Come on in. Take a seat.”
Martín stepped inside the cabin, trying to act as natural as possible. He sat down on a chair as he watched Kaz approaching the desk to set the papers in the drawer, and pour some coffee. Then, he handed the mug to Martín with a smile.
“Still fresh.”
“Thank you, sir.” Martín accepted the drink, softening his expression. Well, the smell was pretty good, at least.
“You’re a combat medic, right?”
“Yes.”
“And, you were working as a lone soldier.”
“I take care of people, soldiers or not.”
“Enemies, too?”
“Anyone, sir.” Martín pointed out with a cocked eyebrow, sipping his coffee calmly.
“And, since you didn’t leave this place yet, I’m assuming you want to join us.”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh? How so?”
Martín knew he was there only because of Snake and his ideal, nothing more. If it wasn’t for Snake, he would have left even before he was discharged from the sickbay. And Snake was respectful enough to wait for him to heal without bringing up the offer, as if he wanted Martín to think carefully about it. No pressure.
“I want to see how the MSF works, first.” He said, holding his mug tightly.
“Ah, so you want to study us. It’s fine, though.”
Nothing wrong with that, right? Martín wanted to make sure he was doing the right thing, if the MSF was the right choice.
The door suddenly cracked open, and gently, Snake got inside the room with a cigar between his lips. Martín’s stomach sank down, and he averted his eyes from both men as Snake approached them with a serious expression.
“Something going on?”
“Martín’s thinking of joining us, Boss. But before that, he wants to see more of our routine.”
“Routine, huh?” A laugh left Snake’s throat, but it didn’t sound like he was making fun of Martín’s choice. It was a sincere laugh. That man was really fascinating. “Well, even if you didn’t join us yet, I consider you as my comrade already.”
Martín felt a warm sensation inside him; someone needed him, wanted him to be around. He would drop everything he was planning to say yes to that man, but there were things he should do first.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Snake’s fine, Martín.”
Martín gave Snake a timid smile, not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t the kind of man who smiled often, but to Snake? Snake was different, he could feel that. Snake deserved that smile, his respect.
Snake patted his back firmly, and Martín stood up, gulping his coffee fast as he nodded at him. Then, he left the office with a sensation that he would join the MSF regardless of everything he needed to do.
When he realized his thoughts at that moment, he paused to think clearly; why was he so interested in Snake? That man killed his patients, tortured him, and nearly killed him. What was that? Some kind of manipulation? Martín shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. That man was dangerous, and not only physically – his tongue seemed to be one of his main weapons. He had to be careful with him.
It’s been two weeks already, and he wasn’t used to that place yet. People were certainly respectful, even though he had to stop two soldiers from fighting once, because Snake was on a mission, and Kaz was busy in his office. Besides that, nothing bad happened, and the men even saw him as a comrade. Technically, he wasn’t part of the MSF yet, but they already considered him as their family; and Martín felt content with that. But also, he was concerned because something was bothering him since the beginning.
Martín thought of that while he was getting ready for bed, his mouth tasting bitter as he imagined the possibilities in case he decided to join the MSF. Then, he heard the door of his room knocking while he was undressing, hands pulling the hem of his shirt up. Who would come to see him so late?
“It’s open.” He said, looking at the door as he removed his shirt, and he got pale when he saw Snake coming inside with his typical cigar between his lips.
“Can we talk?”
Martín swallowed hard, nodding politely, trying to figure out why that man was there at that time. Snake pointed at his bed with his cigar on hand, asking permission to sit down on it. And Martín gave him another nod, putting his shirt on again in respect.
“You didn’t have to.”
“Sir?”
“You know… your shirt.”
He felt his face burning, his throat suddenly was dry.
“And, I told you. You can call me Snake.”
“Yes, si—I mean, Snake.”
“I hope you don’t mind me coming this late.” Snake sat down at the edge of the bed, puffing the smoke gently. That lonely eye always made Martín uneasy, even though he couldn’t exactly say why. Was that fear? Admiration? Maybe both.
Martín didn’t take a seat; instead, he leaned his hips back against the table, supporting his weight on it. Crossing his arms, he waited for Snake to say something, tapping his fingertips on his palms. Snake remained in silence for a couple of minutes, enjoying his cigar, and then he turned his attention back at the man, making a serious expression.
“So, don’t you want to ask me anything?”
“Excuse me?” Martín looked confused, frowning at the man. Wasn’t he the one who came to him?
“I know you’re bothered with something, soldier. You want an answer.”
“How do you—“
“How do I know? Two weeks, and you didn’t leave us. But you didn’t join us, either. You’re looking for something. Now, I can’t really help you if I don’t know your question, mm?”
Martín could feel the back of his neck sweating, cold as ice. That was it; he had to be honest with Snake. Before he could give him a reply, Snake raised a hand, requesting him to wait.
“Let me ask this first. This question, whatever you have in mind… if I don’t give you the right answer, you won’t join us, right?”
“… You’re right.”
Snake, then, took a deep drag on his cigar, and nodded at the man. “Fine, ask.”
“How do you feel about gay people?”
“Gay people?”
“Yes. Men who are sexually attracted to other men, women who enjoy other women.”
“To be honest with you, I hate labels.”
Martín cocked both eyebrows at him, not quite sure what he meant by that. “I don’t understand.”
“In the MSF, it’s simple. We see each other as equals. I don’t see men and women, I see soldiers. I don’t see latinos and white people, I see people with the same dream. And that dream is to fight for ourselves with honor and respect. That applies to sexual orientations, too. You’re all welcome to our Heaven, because we don’t have any ideology.”
Those words could easily make Martín cry, but he didn’t. Instead, he stared at Snake, Snake back at him, and when he felt he was ready to give a verdict, he saluted the man firmly, respectfully.
“Can I trust you, Snake?”
“You give me a chance, and I’ll show you.”
“Alright. I’m in.”
Snake grinned at him, rolling the cigar between his index and middle fingers. “Welcome to the MSF, soldier.”
“Thank you, Boss.”
So, now Snake knew he was gay. Would he treat him the same way? He wanted to believe so. He was willing to give him that chance, even though he had to admit he was scared of him. But, at the same time, Snake’s power of persuasion worked pretty well; Martín could say he was also intriguing. He wanted to learn more about that man – so complex, so unique, scary and fascinating.