“THE FIGHT WITH NO FEAT” by Brittany Boone

Level 4

A fire burnt in the corner, bursting ferociously in the last moments of its existence. It’s
fading warmth dancing across the stale cold air. A dirty window filtered patches of pale
light into the room. The yellow hue of the fire and the white sunlight, contrasted against
each other. Both of the lights fought to take control; neither of them succeeding nor
failing. The blend of colours sailed across the walls that were cluttered with
bookshelves and small canvases of historical art. The floor, covered by an intricate
red rug, hiding a blood-stained floor. Furniture scattered aimlessly across the
floorboards, draped in dusty materials. The room seemed to scream history and yet
was altered with modern touches; a laptop stranded on the large oak desk and a
microwave rested on top of a small fridge snoring in the corner. From a crack in the
walls snow seeped through like a wound; counteracting any effect of the heat the
pathetic fire had made. The small square room, at first glanced, seemed meaningless,
but if you let your eyes wonder you would find deep secrets within the aging walls.

Had a blind man entered the room, he would have not suspected that it was filled to
the brim with soldiers. Paralysed in fear; they dared not move. The soldiers grinded
their jaws shut. So, not even the sound of chattering teeth would be heard. Their guns
rested close to their chests, becoming the pocket bibles that would bring them goof
fate. At every squeak and crack, the soldiers dug their weapons deeper into their ribs.
Although their bodies showed fear, their faces maintained an emotionless
concentration. Their combat boots anchored their bodies to the floor. Their eyes were
the only parts of them that moved, wandering hastily across the room. Their minds
drifted off for a moment; then sprinted back across memories, landing in attention.
Afraid that they might for a second lose focus and regret it for all eternity.

These were no ordinary soldiers, each a warrior with their own unique horror stories.
They were highly trained operatives who had just a few days before being the cause
of the “accidental death” of a famous Turkish business man. Murder followed them like
a stench; a personal cloud of bad omen hovering, waiting to plunge into action. Some
might have said that the team was protected by their lucky talisman, but no one knew
what it was or perhaps who it was. Their missions were classified amongst the highest
rankings and the mere whisper of their name was treason. They were the team that
could do anything, be anything and kill anything. They were known to topple regimes,
start wars and finish them, to hunt the dead and punish the wicked. What were they
doing in a small hunting cabin, in the middle of a frozen wasteland? Did they even
know?

A knock at the door and the metal clicks of all the guns chimed together. The soldiers
shuffled into their calculated combat positions, creeping across the floor as if they were
stalking the door. Their fingers hovering over the triggers and their bullets aimed
through the door and into the hearts of their targets. A deep voice broke the silence:
“The wind blows to the West.” The soldiers glanced at each other, their eyes finally
falling upon their captain. A man who towered over his enemies, a tactic he utilized in
interrogations. Afar, he was a ruthless killer. But up-close his baby blues gave him
away. The Captain’s hand signalled forward. The youngest Seargeant was nudged
towards the door. The metallic thump of the lock was followed by the whine of the
door’s archaic hinges. The young soldier struggled against the old timber, until a hand
from the other side gave it one final shove.

Tension skyrocketed. Eyes unwavering, hardly blinking. After an informal team of

soldiers entered hesitantly, a fat old man strode in. He showed no signs of fear. In fact
he bore a wide toothy grin, rubbing his chubby hands together and then motioning,
with his head, for the door to be closed. “Should we get down to business?” he asked,
far too eagerly. His hands slid into the safety of his warm pockets, as he calmly paced
about the room. His eyes searching for something that he never found, finally falling
upon the Captain. “Is it true what they say about your leader? That he is the one who
fought his way out of a terrorist compound with nothing but a broken bottle?”

The captain laughed. “I am the Captain of this unit, but those are just fairytales. Chatter
we leak to strike fear into enemies. The older gentleman stroked his beard and walked
over to a desk chair in the middle of the room. His men shuffled into attention, their
guns raised. He waved them off in irritation. “We both know that the story is very true.”
He flipped through the papers that lay aimlessly across the desk. “I have seen this
figure in the night. He is quick, efficient and merciless.” He waged a crooked finger at
the captain. “You are not him. He clearly understands the art of warfare and you could
barely throw a punch.”

The Captain lifted his eyebrows so high that they might have slipped into his hair and
disappeared, and with a silver tongue muttered quickly, “As if you’ve thrown any punch
in years yourself.”

The old man didn’t counteract the Captain’s words; no threats whistled through his
teeth. He was saving his breath for someone far more important.

The Captain strutted towards the desk and leaned his hands on the edge of the table.
Both sides quickly rising their guns in anticipation of a fight. One trigger happy moron
would have been the death of everyone. The Captain looked deep into the man’s eyes.
One might have assumed that he was trying to scare the man, but if you had to ask
the captain he’d have told you, he just didn’t know what to say next. He finally spoke
up after moments of silence. His demurer was calm but his voice was etched in anger.
“If such a person existed, why would they be working for us?”

The old man shrugged and smiled, “I intend on asking him myself. Perhaps he has
motives; plans we could never understand.” The captain laughed again, “You speak
very highly of a bedtime story that you’ve never met. I have a feeling you are going to
be disappointed if you intend on striking some sort of deal.”

The men began to grow restless and the two leaders ushered them to lower their guns.
The man spoke after several minutes in thought, “I did not think that a man like this
could be swayed by emotion or a sense of morality at all.” The Captain turned around
and walked to the window. The light that hit his face eliminated scars of previous
victories. His face, that had looked so youthful in the shadows, now showed signs of
aging. His tired eyes held more than stories, it held lies. Lies can do so much damage
to a man, and the Captain was in the early stages of his sinful demise. “I wouldn’t say
by swayed emotion exactly. I don’t think it exists in him.”

The man straightened his back and then just as suddenly, sunk deeper into the chair.

“So, it is all true?” the words slowly drizzling from his lips. “He is here?” His eyes
dodged across the faces of the soldiers. The men began to shift their feet that had
been frozen in place for so long, their guns sliding across their palms. The tension
rose to the highest level possible. At any moment the walls would be red. The Captain
spoke, his eyes focused on something in the snow outside. “You will soon wish it was
all just legend.” His neck jolted to the side to stare at the old man sitting behind him.
A deep exhale of anticipation left his body and in that moment, a figure burst into the
room.

A cold gust of wind suffocated the fire. The end of an oversized fur coat swung across
the room. The pure brilliance of every great action movie, all combined into one
moment. The soldiers did not flinch. The Russian men spun around in shock, as bullets
escaped their guns. A hand jolted from under the fur coat and held tight to the first
man’s gun, as a knife slid across his body. He fell over, wrapping his arms across his
chest, struggling to hold his flesh together. The figure turned and in one movement
stabbed the second man in the throat, and as his hand embraced around his neck, the
intruder kicked his knees in and the sound of shattering bone rung in everyone’s ears.
The third man ran towards the assailant. A leg swung high in the air, disarming the
man and simultaneously breaking his jaw. His body dramatically collapsed to the
ground. With a final blow, his head became one with the floor and his last breath
stained the air. With their own blood splattered across their faces, the last two men
stood still. Blade on each other’s throat. It would have been deemed effortlessly
elegant, had it not been for the cries of terror and the newly painted walls.

The old man aimed a trembling revolver at the mysterious character. “You are
Magnus?” A small laugh came from under the hood of the coat, “I have been called
many names, but I haven’t heard that one in years. It’s made me a little nostalgic, if
I’m honest.” His eyes widened as the hood fell off to reveal a woman. Not a young
woman, but her smile gave her a youthful charm, until you realised she fixed the fur
coat with bloody hands. Her face bore the stripes of war, her neck splattered with
cigarette burns and she carried her gun like it was a prop and not a pistol. An
unconventional beauty, with her hair shaved short, dull eyes and shoulders that were
too broad to be considered feminine. Her accent was undecipherable, perhaps hints
of Malawian, Spanish, or was it Australian? Her gaze fell on the Captain and in the
deepest sign of respect he bowed his head ever so slightly. Only for a second before
flipping it up again and preparing to murder anyone who posed a threat to his leader.
The other soldiers did not make eye contact with the woman; despite her wondering
stare, clearly recognising each and every one of them. Her mind mentally checking
that all her troops were accounted for. It was an unexplainable comfort to know that
she was in the room. As if she would have protected everyone, with one gentle blow.

“This is a business deal, so give me what is mine,” Magnus said, lowering her
weapons. The soldiers shuffled their bodies in confusion. The Captain’s eyes
widening, as he finally realised why they were there. The man sat down in one of the
chairs by the lifeless fireplace, as one of his men rushed to revive it. The man tossed
his head to the side and a man ran to the captain with a metal briefcase. “It will take
your men a significant amount of time to verify the contents of the package. Do you
have plenty of time to tell an old man a good story?” Magnus circled the room, as if
she was marking her territory. Like a jackal, sly and calculated. Her face etched in
thought, each inch of the room became a weapon and each heartbeat a potential
enemy. She took a deep breath, and said, “Stories are only half truths designed to
console the human heart.”

It was like watching a terribly written, overdramatic soapie. One that you just couldn’t
and didn’t want to switch off. They were both players in a game, fighting to outshine
their opponent. Neither one of them succeeding nor failing. The old man grew
frustrated, “Stop speaking in riddles! I need to know who you are.” Contemplating
whether or not to tell the truth, Magnus finally said, “A lie is often better to believe.
Ignorance is truly bliss.” The man shook his head ferociously, “I trade in lies. I know
when I want the truth and I know how a lie tastes when it is served to me.” Magnus
shrugged, “Very well. I will tell you the truth.”

Then she began her lie.

About Brittany: I am a first year student at the University of the Free State. It's been
so surreal for me to be where I am today, having the most amazing year here in
Bloemfontein. I've always loved to write and I'm so grateful to have been accepted
into the iCAN initiative.