Fire and Maneuver

Soldier in Survival Mode

The thick mist and weeks of filth matted his hair. It had been a long time since he last showered.   Cold sweat, mucus and condensation from the air formed drops at the tip of his nose.  The skin itched and burned, was sore and painful like most of the rest of his body.  He wiped it once and then forced himself to ignore it.   A lifetime of subjugating himself made it easy to forget about minor bodily discomforts.  He could hold in a sneeze, reverse a cough by manipulating his diaphragm, refuse to scratch the torment of an itch and deny his body's calling to urinate or defecate for hours, sometimes  even days.  He could vomit nearly on demand, or the opposite, imagine away nausea and invite calm into his stomach and head.  As long as he could keep even a little bit of balance in his body then he could keep going, keep moving, fighting when necessary .....survive.  Two of three vitals were enough: Food, sleep and water.  He had learned to survive with at least two of the three, although his preference was always for water as one of the two.    

   He had been living, training and doing this business for a very long time, but never on this side of the hunt.  From infancy, physical  training and mastery of his emotions were the stuff of his life.  Discipline and skills development were the practices of everyday for as far back as he could remember.  Only when he was nearly starved or dehydrated to death did he slip in his mental prowess, and at these times he knew to take shelter, rest, and do absolutely any thing he could to replenish his body.

   At this moment he was about as strong as he could be.  Three days of rest and water kept him feeling lean and fresh and healthy.  He imagined himself a deer, sleek and graceful, ready to run, but he was weak, muscles cannibalized for fuel over the weeks and months, leaving him able to exert only short bursts of energy, but no long bouts of endurance.

   At this point he knew better than to engage in close quarters combat.  Wielding the metal club he made out of a plumbing pipe wouldn't last long.  He was hydrated and rested, but far too weak to fight muscle against muscle.  There was never enough food to bring him to full strength, to his entire formidable warriorship.  But as with every other detail of his upbringing, he had been trained for this, to fight even when worn down. His bow was his best bet, keeping distance, delivering suppressing fire,  maneuvering and harrassing.  

   Right now he was the hunted, and this was no training exercise, but he was superior to them.  As good as they were in school and on the courses, he was still better than them.  At least, just enough to stand out, be considered by the council and cadre as Class A of the system and "Best Adherent" of, The Code.  

Author's Note

read well? engaging? better as a narration for play?