(S) Fallout: Braving the weathers.

California, 1989;
Jinks Weathers was only 6 then.

He grew up in Downieville, Sierra, just a county up north of Nevada. He went to a reputable school and lived in a fairly safe neighbourhood.

At 7, he was witness to the first of the many deaths that would come to encircle his life.

It was his parents.

They worked together in a security firm called Versacorp, a company that designed security software for the major firms that had formed a joint-venture with the US military. Details of the project was kept tight-lipped and even his parents were forced to work on individual segments of the programme, unsure of what they were developing. However, word did manage to leak out that something big was going on. And coincidentally, the USSR caught hold of it. Their field agents worked around the clock to make out just what exactly were their US counterparts up to. It was a shame that they dint find out, for if they had, Jinks’s parents wouldn’t have had to die.

Maybe.

On the night of August 27th 1989, Jinks was in the country-styled kitchen trying to steal a piece of Mama’s latest batch of cookies. The jar was located high up in one of the wooden built-in cabinets that were hackneyed to most American families. The kitchen was filled to the brim with all sorts of canned food, vegetables and preserved meat. Knifes and similar cutlery lined the racks adjacent to the kitchen sink, which was overlooked by a small round window. To top it all off, the warm light of the lamp that hung over the dining table gave the kitchen a nice homey feel. Of comfort, and of love.

He had tiptoed silently into the room; the smooth tiled floors reflecting his scrawny image of 7. Picking up footsteps from the living room, he lunged towards the dining table, seeking refuge behind a wooden chair as he peered out between the spokes. It was his mother, tall and sporting gorgeous dimples, she was the epitome of every mother. She never spoke a harsh word to anyone and would always give in to the demands of the family. Her wavy hair was black and lustrous, and she had the characteristic angular nose that ran deep in the Weather’s family line.

She was preparing supper for the family; scoops of mashed potato, coleslaw and home-baked chicken filled each of the three plates to the brim. Carefully, she picked them up from the counter and placed them upon the tabletop. The aromas of the combined scents wafted throughout the house and Jinks was almost betrayed by his stomach, which let out a grumble of protest. Wiping her hands on a towel, his mother called out loudly, “Jinks, dinner in 10 minutes, hopefully your father would be back by then!” she proceeded to walk back into the living room, awaiting the arrival of her husband who was working overtime for that night.

With cat-like grace, Jinks recovered from his hiding spot and in a semi-crouch, inched slow, by agonizingly slow steps towards the counter cabinets. Any slip up now would result in alerting his mother, who was sitting on the living room couch. Her line of sight extended past the kitchen doorway that linked both rooms together and onto the row of cabinets that, unfortunately, housed the jar of cookies. Reaching high up with both hands, he realised with a start that he was too short.
He needed more leverage.

He half-carried half-dragged a wooden chair towards the counters and was on the verge of mounting it, when the sound of a car driving up on the gravel outside could be heard. Headlights lit up the front of the living room for a split-instant before shutting off, the sound of the engine dying away with it.

Crap. He thought. It was his father!

He hurriedly lowered his leg that was already on the chair and dragged it back to the table.

All of a sudden, the front door banged open. Peering around the edge of the kitchen doorway, Jinks witnessed his father half-stumbling into the house, as if pushed from behind. Following closely behind, was a man in his 30s.

This stranger wore a green jumpsuit and had an unfamiliar insignia stitched on the front of his shirt. It was the motif of a hilt-less sword that was superimposed on the image of an eagle, wings out-spread. The stranger had cold eyes of midnight blue, and it filled his very being with dread and fear, yet Jinks felt compelled to look on.

By then his father had regained his equanimity, with his mother already on her feet, arms wrapped around him protectively. Jinks did not have a clear view then, as his parents were between him and the obvious assailant. He dint know what was going on, but he knew it was nothing good.

The man at the door took two casual steps forward and, without warning, swung his clenched fist in a wide arc, slamming it against the face of his father. It was immediately followed up by a vicious kick to the abdomen. Yet the assailant’s face was still as impassive as when he first entered, cold and calculative.

“I ask you again, what did you find out?”spoke the man, with an accent that Jinks could not discern.

His father did not answer. Instead his mother spat at the intruder, screaming vulgarities. Jinks was taken aback at her momentary lapse in composure. Never had he witnessed her in such a state.

“Very well,” murmured the man. He turned to leave and almost like an afterthought, turned back to them, whipping out a pistol in mid-spin. He fired twice from the muffled muzzle and left.

Jinks stared in horror as his brain struggled to process what had just happened. His knuckles were deathly-white as he gripped the doorway, unawares.

The headlights of the car lit the living room in a nightmarish glow, as the car reversed back out of the gravel strewn driveway.

The silhouettes of his loved ones were illuminated by the whitish glare, their bodies seemingly frozen in time. And it would serve as the last memory he would have of them.

Unhurriedly, almost dream-like, a small trickle of blood started down the back of both their heads. Almost in a whisper, their bodies slumped against each other and slowly tipped forward. Even in death, his mother still had her arms clutched around his father.

The red globules of blood followed in a trail as they traced a falling arc towards the floor. The fading lights of the vehicle caught in the tiny spheres. The sparkle of blood-red lights contrasting in reflection against the eye whites of Jinks’s as he stared wide-eyed, lost in the chaotic whirl of emotions raging within.

Finally, with breathing so shallow made his heart struggle to beat, he let out a piercing scream that echoed down the neighbourhood.

The police arrived to find two adults dead in a pool of blood and a young boy unconscious in the back of the house.

Jinks was transferred to the care of his relatives who also lived in the town. They were later informed that his parents had been the targets of a USSR attack and were persuaded with enough sustenance to keep the incident under wraps.
Jinks grew up a bitter boy.

At 15, he left his school with top grades and was offered a scholarship for further studying into his young adult years.

He took the offer without a hint of regret.

Two months after, he left his relatives in California to continue his advanced studies in Atlantic City, New Jersey. He took with him nothing but the clothes on his back and an unparalleled loathing against the USSR.

The white-washed academy wherein he studied was situated right beside a military boot-camp for fresh recruits. At that point in time, small skirmishes were taking place between the US-led defence and USSR in the Asian countries. Jinks reasoned that the fastest way to exact his revenge was to join the army. He would often receive a sharp rap on his head by any number of lecturers who caught him staring longingly outside the lecture hall windows, into the adjacent compound.

However, when he wasn’t caught up in one of his retrospect moments, he could often be seen laughing with classmates and doing all sorts of silly antics. It appeared that his childhood experience did little to stunt his sense of humour. Yet, he was sharply observant of his surroundings, often avoiding the little accidents that would have caught any other unsuspecting person. As such, he was given the pet name Jinx by the friends that he often hung out with. This did little to stem his spirit, as by the end of college, he had graduated with Honours in his class, showing the other condescending posh students just what he was exactly capable of. He was immediately offered jobs by various logistics companies hoping to capitalize on his abilities.

He declined them all and instead, joined the army.

Somehow, his pet name stuck.

The first few months of rigorous training left him trim and fit. And over time, he came to garner the respect of his peers, both through his sense of humour and his incredible foresight. His studies in logistics in his schooling years paid off, as he utilized his knowledge to help him gain an edge over his opponent’s movements and thus, their strategies. Unsurprisingly, he graduated from boot-camp top of his cohort and was attached to the 5th platoon situated in New York. His platoon leader was called Jericho, a Mexican with so much influence that he basically ruled the 5th platoon with an unprecedented autonomy not seen in other platoons. It was this autonomy that resulted in their downfall.

In 2012, the platoon was posted to the jungles of Cambodia, South-east Asia. They were tasked as a peace-keeping force in the region, and when fighting broke out against the Cambodian Guerrilla forces, responded with an inflexible arm. It was then that Platoon leader Jericho was killed. At that point in time, Jinks was thought of as the next best to lead them and a majority of the platoon deferred to him as their temporary leader. Jinks, with his usual track record, routed the Guerrilla uprisings and returned back to the US awaiting a promotion. However, upon return, some factions within the 5th platoon harboured negative opinions of his leadership and eventually fragmented away. The 14 that remained formed his ‘Skull’ Squad, whilst the defectors were posted to other companies in hopes of preventing further hostilities.

By 2016, of the 14 original soldiers, 7 did not make the cut and dropped out of the squad. ‘Skull’ was now down to 8 men.

Present time:

Upon the recent promotion into the Special Ops team, Jinx Weathers was presented with a fresh uniform that had the word ‘Skull’ ironed onto the side sleeves. No longer was the insignia of the 5th platoon, now-forgotten, on the breast pocket of the uniform. Instead a new insignia marked the entry into a different division.
However, Jinx could only stare at it as a steely look flashed across his eyes.

“Sir, are you alright?” queried the soldier presenting the uniform.

“No...No, I’m fine.” He replied, flashing a tight smile at the soldier.

“Just send it to my quarters alright? I need to be somewhere else right now.”

With that, he turned and left the fitting rooms.

“I wonder what that was all about.” Thought the soldier to himself, staring like how Jinx had at the front of the uniform.

It was the motif of a hilt-less sword, superimposed on an image of an eagle with out-spread wings.