The Ivory Fist

The 20th anniversary was about a month ago, but if there's a weakness all strong people have, it's time.

Ted Lewis strained over the roar of chopper blades hacking through sunset air. 

"I sang I cried! It's just a bit of heaven when-", Laurent croaked along trying to outdo both the janky helicopter and the radio. He stole a peek at the cockpit to see if his tune was having the desired effect. 

The back of Isabelle's head rested still, calm, unfettered, only a robotic rocking of her lower jaw assured Laurent she was still alive. Isabelle wasn't Isabelle without gum flopping around in her mouth. 

"Like a dream amirite?!", Laurent poked through the intercom. 

Isabelle's grip held firm and assertive on the controls, iron gaze locked on the tinted plains below. Laurent knew she was not admiring the scenery. He shifted and with sunken shoulders attempted to catch back up with Ted on the radio, but he could never return to the chipper and bounce he had at the start of the tune. Something wasn't right, he was accustomed to being ignored, especially on missions, but this felt different. 

Laurent leaned up off of the turret mount to get a better view of scrappy grass plains below...to savor the beauty while it lasted. Not that what was coming was any less beautiful...just a little different. He tapped an improvised drum solo over the tune of the radio, rapping his fingers on a rugged 6 ft 50 cal Browning stretched across his lap while his feet dangled outside off the edge of the chopper, swinging to the rhythm. He was lost in a daydream. 

"Deadweight." The word stung, snapping Laurent back to earth.

"Belle you say something?"

A headshake. Laurent swore he heard something...he fiddled with the headpiece of his skin tight devil cloth bodysuit, drawing the black fabric of the face opening closer up as if it couldn't cover enough skin. This was one of his bad habits, second only to making sure the black paint covering his fingertips wouldn't smudge off. But this time it was a ruse to distract invisible enemies from him swallowing the lump that had grown in his throat since he heard that voice. Mentally he brushed it off as pre battle nerves, (everyone gets them), and braced on the mount with one hand as Isabelle tilted the gunship and drew it up through the air. 

It was time for the games to begin. 

Isabelle didn't have to make a sound, although Laurent wished she would. Years of drills and action brought him to his feet and within split seconds he was mounting the 80 lb gun onto its turret like a mother packs their 3rd child into a pram. His mind and eyes were elsewhere while his hands worked, visually chunking the black dots 20,000 ft below into approximate numbers. 

"Belle, that isn't no 300!", he half laughed. 

They were sent to bite off more than they could chew. Or more realistically more than they were paid to chew. The brigade tended to do that, toss them out on what would otherwise be scuicide missions. Independent life was much better. Laurent's pride bristled at the idea of being treated like dogs, but Isabelle worked too hard for this security, sacrificed too much, and he knew it was mostly for his sake because she could handle herself fine on her own. If it gave her peace of mind, his pride and a few bad habits were nothing to part with. At least that's what he liked to believe. 

"We can turn around." Isabelle buzzed dryly over the intercom.

"Nah The Ivory Fist never turns around, this bad boy is on its last legs either way!", Laurent hollered, slapping the ceiling of the chopper. The mask contorted to accommodate Laurent's grin bursting through the bulletproof fabric when he felt the dip in his gut from the chopper's descent. Just the sound of her voice was enough, he knew she wasn't back to normal, but at least she was speaking to him.