Chapter Text
“The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man.”
-Fyodor Dostoevsky
RUB’ AL-KHALI DESERT, SAUDI ARABIA, 1314
“Come on, Sands,” Jason grunted, sweat stinging his eyes, “you’re not dying on me.”
He dragged the groaning man by his lapels, arm wrapped around his neck, thick combat boots burrowing in the sand, straining his already exhausted muscles. “Come on, now, stay awake!” he ordered, desperately. “You got a little girl at home waiting for you, Sands. You’re not dying here!”
Except Sandoval was dying, and Jason was only a consolation; his pleas were to convince himself, and no one else, that there was another possibility. “Dammit,” he muttered to himself, as a sharp pain shot through his right leg.
“Ed-Edmund,” Sandoval groaned, choking on his own blood. It pained Jason’s heart that, despite his own injuries, Sandoval’s main worry remained his teammates. He even used the man’s first name, despite protocol.
Jason tracked on, biting down on his molars, “Fontaine’s alright, Sands. He’s behind us, don’t worry.” It was a half-truth.
He left Fontaine’s unconscious body at the crash site, near the smoking Black Hawk, unsure if the man was dead or alive.
If Fontaine knew Jason was questioning his living-or-dead status, he’d smack the shit out of him; they had already planned this exact scenario.
His mind wanders back to a few months ago on the offshore helideck, as the others observed the gleaming expanse of the Pacific Ocean for a final time; yet, before he could join, Fontaine grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and threw him against the helicopter’s exterior: “Hey,” he growled, annoyance evident in his tone.
“Listen to me,” Fontaine hissed, firm grip on Jason’s uniform, “if it ever comes down to it: you choose Sandoval. Understood?”
At the time, the two men were still at odds, like water and oil. It wasn’t necessarily a difficult demand.
Jason’s mouth contorted into a sneer as he grabbed the older man’s wrist, “Was there any other choice, asshole?”
He yanked the older man’s fist downwards, throwing it to his side. They glared at each other, posturing in a way that always felt juvenile, no matter the circumstances of their arguments.
“It's mutual,” was all Fontaine left off with, walking towards the crew, not bothering to spare a glance to preserve Jason’s dignity. What’s it to him?
Now, after everything they had gone through leading up to this point, he felt like he was abandoning a brother.
But, even if they had, did-he couldn’t use the past tense, yet, like each other, the man would still have requested Jason to save Sandoval if it were between the two. The self-sacrificial bastard, Jason thought. They can’t help themselves, can they?
Sandoval began to wheeze and cough violently, black blood coating his cracked lips.
We’re not going to make it, Jason thought bitterly. Sandoval’s dying.
With concealed anguish, he fell to his knees, undoing the man’s arm around his neck while gently laying him on his back. “Here, lie down,” he urged, hands shaking as he undid the dangling water flask from his belt loop.
From a distance, through the heat haze, the ominous smoke from the helicopter crash rose in the sky, signaling to their attackers their exact location.
They couldn’t even make it up the nearby dune.
His eyes grew misty in frustration. To hell with it, he thought, just for that moment, all of it-it wasn’t important, Sandoval’s not dying alone.
“Come on, Sands,” he called out, placing the man’s head on his lap, “what’s her name? What’s your baby girl’s name?”
Sandoval moaned, eyes fluttering as Jason tipped the flask over, ridding away the excess blood. “Val-,” he coughed out, “Valen-tina.”
“That’s right, Sands,” Jason huffed out, scooting them away with bare will-power, “you got a beautiful baby girl, and she needs a father, alright? Come on, man, talk to me.”
“Ja-” Sandoval whispered, fatigue getting the better of him, “Jason.”
He just needed to rest. They can get moving.
With darkness edging at his vision, Jason pushed forward, attempting to rehaul Sandoval’s body into a standing position. “Please, Jason,” Sandoval wheezed out, voice trailing off, “don’t move me. Don’t move me.”
Jason’s head naturally began to shake; he couldn’t accept Sandoval’s defeat. His nose began to run, and a stray tear fell down his cheek; a bitter sob escaped his throat. He bit his wrist, taking a deep breath. “Come on, Sands,” Jason pleaded, attempting to shift him, “we've got to keep moving.”
“Stay with me,” Sandoval begged, hazel eyes gazing unseeingly at the sky. “Stay with me.”
And what more could Jason do but stay?
“Ok, ok,” he relented, emotion getting the better of him. He felt out of body, as if everything were happening to other people, in the role of spectator. With a deep inhalation through his nose, he cupped Sandoval’s face, the stubble rough on his fingers.
“Talk to me,” Sandoval whispered, losing strength.
Jason nodded, despite the lump growing in his throat. “Your girl has your eyes,” Jason started, tears clouding his vision, “and she-she has your smile. Remember,” he was full on crying, “you said you always hated it? But now that she has it, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.”
Sandoval smiled, teeth stained red. “Yeah,” he breathed out with difficulty, “I remember.”
“There’s always gonna be a piece of you here, Sands,” Jason said, more dignified than before, “and I’m gonna tell her about what a great father she had, alright? I’m not gonna let her forget you.”
The dying man could only mouth out, “Thank you.”
Now was the time for dignity.
Jason leaned his head down on Sandoval’s so that their foreheads were touching. “Look up, Sands,” he whispered. “Look up.”
For the first time in a long time, here was a man he couldn’t bear to see the light leave his eyes.
A falcon flew overhead, circling, crying out, as if announcing the soul’s departure.
Sandoval’s chest finally stopped moving.
He allowed himself a moment to feel the weight of it all, his face scrunching in agony, before survival became top priority-even though he wouldn’t get very far.
Quickly and abruptly, so as not to look closely at the deceased, Jason’s head popped up as he ripped off Sandoval’s dog tag before slipping it into his camouflaged pocket.
Ricky Sandoval. Sands.
Then, mechanically and instinctually, in a dissociative state, he began to haul himself and his equipment pathetically up the dune, slipping down continuously.
The sweat built up at his temple from the sweltering heat until finally, he reached the top.
On his knees, peering out at the vast expanse of the desert, he could take in its otherworldly, golden beauty-but only for a moment.
He felt the metallic barrel of the gun behind his head.
“I promised you I would hunt you down and kill you like an animal,” a thick, accented voice announced from behind him.
“Well,” the male spat out, “I keep my promises.”
JACKALS: YEAR ONE