Well, you asked for it and now you've got it. A Scout story. More specifically, a Scout story that explains something about his background and his family. Caution to the readers: this is rated "R" for a reason. Violence and graphic imagery to follow, not to mention continuation of the parallels between Dread's rule and Nazi rule in the 1940s. I think it's worth the read, but you'd be well advised to turn back now if you're looking for fluff.

This is dedicated to all the people who I call friends. You know who you are. :)
 
 
 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Hark hear the bell, sweet silver bells..."

Scout should've known Mentor had a full collection of Christmas Carols. After all, the damned computer had found the collection of Glenn Miller Tank had been torturing everyone with for weeks. Why he couldn't have added a little Frank Sinatra or Bing Crosby to mix was beyond his comprehension; at least "Fly Me to the Moon" had lyrics.

"Christmas is here, bringing good cheer..."

Great. The last thing he felt like right now was cheerful, and what he needed even less was some 200-year-old song encouraging him like a Sunday School teacher. He reached out to slap off the recording, but stopped at the last second. After what he'd just done, a little self-flagellation could go a long way.

Why had he dumped that whole story on everyone like that? The looks on everyone's faces told him everything he needed to know. There was sympathy, there was understanding, but there was also pain and they'd all had a little too much of that lately. War took 'em indeed. He should've just kept his mouth shut and then everyone could've enjoyed a nice, quiet Christmas Eve. Without looking at the Christmas tree and thinking morbid thoughts.

"Oh, how they pound, raising the sound..." There was a sudden knock at the door, sending Scout spinning roughly around in his chair in surprise. This time, he did slap off the recording. Somehow, he was getting the distinct feeling Mentor was reprogramming the lyrics to mock him.

"C'mon in." There was a long pause, and then the door to his quarters creaked open. They squealed softly, refusing like everything else in Powerbase, doing their work with a little token protest. Of course, given the jerryrigging they'd all been forced to do with the majority of the controls, a little bit of token protest wasn't hard to put up with.

"For a second there, I thought you'd locked the door." Jonathon Power was standing in the doorway, a half-bemused, half-irritated smile on his face. "Of course, I can always assume you had and the lock malfunctioned...if you'd like me to leave."

"No, that's okay, really." The last thing Scout really wanted was company, but he didn't want to go chasing the captain out the door, either. It'd just give everyone more ammunition for getting worked up over nothing. He waved the older man in, and plastered what he hoped was a vague attempt at a smile on his face.

"Just figured you all didn't need anymore Christmas downers." He wheeled his chair back to where it should've been, so he could kick his feet up on the console. They landed with a satisfying thunk. "We all got our fair share of skeletons and horror stories...didn't mean to spill mine."

Jon shook his head.

"No need to apologize. Like you said, we've all got our stories." His gaze settled sympathetically on Scout. "I didn't realize you'd lost your family that close to the holidays, though."

Scout swallowed hard. Last thing he wanted to do right now was relive this. Not now, and not with the captain. This sort of stuff was the kind of thing you tackled at least half-drunk. Maybe if he could find some of that moonshine Hawk was always talking about...

Still, he owed the captain something.

"Yeah, a few weeks after New Years." Scout leaned back in the chair and did a studious job of looking at his own feet. He was NOT gonna meet the captain's eyes right now. No way. "One of Dread's early raids. Murder, mayhem, blood in the streets...you know the drill."

"Better than I care to. I saw it as a teenager, I've seen it as an adult. The wholesale slaughter of humanity." Jon's voice caught on the word slaughter, and Scout snapped his head up to see the twisted look of pain on Jon's face. Hawk had taken to calling it the "lost look." The one they'd all had way too often in the last year...or the last ten years...or 15...

After a long moment, the look slipped away, and was replaced with a light smile as Jon leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

"In any case, you took off so quickly, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay." It wasn't, but Scout had to give him credit for trying. They'd worked together for so long and in such close quarters, the leader in Jonathon Power wouldn't let him do anything else.

"Just not into the Christmas spirit today, I guess." Scout cracked a grin himself, this time feeling a little bit more sincere. "Hawk's attempt at the Christmas tree notwithstanding...I just hope he and Tank won't start with the Christmas carols later."

Jon just chuckled.

"If they do, I think we'll all run in terror." Jon stared at him for a long moment, and then finally nodded. "Feel free to come back when you feel up to it. I won't make it an order, but..."

"I'll be back in an hour or so. Just want to clean up a few files, sort out a couple of things." Jon stared at him for a long moment, and Scout knew his excuse was as transparent as glass. Wildly, he began thinking of some way to talk his way out of the corner he'd just worked himself into, but finally, the captain just nodded.

"We'll see you later, then." And then he slipped back out of the room, the doors hesitating and creaking their way shut the same way they had when they'd opened.

For a few minutes after Jon left, Scout could only sit there, tapping his fingers on the computer console and wishing for something to make this day go away already. Too many bad memories, too many old stories...he didn't want to deal with any of it anymore. Every year, he'd kept telling himself that time would heal the wounds, and every year, it got a little easier, but not enough. No where near enough. If it had been, he would've been able to look at the newly constructed tree and not said a word.

But he hadn't. And after letting his hand hover over the switch for a few seconds, he finally switched the music back on, and thumbed the volume up to full.

"Hark how the bells

Sweet Silver Bells

All Seem to Say

Throw Cares Away

"Christmas is here

bringing good cheer

to young and old

meek and the bold."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"Mama, do we gotta take it down? It looks so pretty and nice and sweet and no one else got one and Robbie worked so hard on it and..."

13-year-old Robert Baker groaned and skidded to a halt in the kitchen. A million words a minute and not even a pause to catch her breath. He swore he'd never been able to wheedle like this when he was a kid. God knew he tried. But whenever he wanted something, he'd gone about it in a dignified manner. He'd asked politely, and if he'd been told no, he'd gone into his room and sulked the way he should've.

Wheedling must be a girl thing. God knew, his 5-year-old sister was good enough at it.

"KEISHA BE QUIET!" Rob winced as his mother's voice finally rose above the undignified amount of noise Keisha was causing. "The tree is coming down, you are NOT going to win this argument, and if you keep this up, I'm going to make you help your brother get rid of it."

Rob groaned again. Not HER help. If Keisha got involved, it'd take double long, she'd try to sweet talk him into keeping it...and who knew? Maybe she'd talk him into it. Not like he hadn't put enough effort into the thing, but geez...bad enough Mom was mad at her. No sense doubling the insanity.

Keisha wasn't quite ready to give up the ghost, though.

"But, MoMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmM!" Rob closed his eyes, leaned his head against the wall and thunked it a few times. Of all the annoying little sisters he could've gotten in this world...he knew he was supposed to love the little twerp and all that, and ya know, most of the time he did, but she could be the most annoying, stubborn, little brat of a ...

"No!" His mom's voice finally cut into his sister's ever-extending pronoun. "Now go outside and play before you get into more trouble. NOW. And Robbie, quit hiding in the kitchen and get your slow butt in here."

He boggled at the entry to the living room...sometimes, he had to swear, she could see through walls. Or hear him breathing a mile away. Or twitch wherever his little sister's whining was concerned. She knew EVERYTHING.

He gave up and sauntered into the living room, wearing what he hoped was his best kick-ass grin. Keisha raced past him, pausing just long enough to quit pouting and flash him a toothy smile that immediately dug into his annoyance and melted it away. Okay, so she could be cute...sometimes.

"Bye, Fugly!" The nickname had just registered enough for him to start glaring when his sister bobbed her head, and sprinted out of the room.

His mom watched her go, wearing a harried grin of her own. Once she was gone, she walked over and ruffled his hair.

"Fugly?"

He blushed furiously. Oh, he was in for it now. His mom was amazingly cool, but this...this she just wasn't gonna buy.

"Umm...you know, fu...umm, ing, ugly." He shrugged helplessly as his mother's jaw dropped practically to the floor. "I don't know where she got it, honest!"

Rhea Baker's response was swift and more than a little loud.

"KEISHA! You get in here RIGHT NOW!"

Rob couldn't help it. Keisha's little 5-year-old butt was toast now, and he cracked up laughing. His mom had turned away and momentarily forgotten about him, but now she swung around, the full brunt of her emotions focusing on him.

Uh-oh. Now his butt was gonna be toast too.

"What ... do you find ... so funny?" The harried expression was back, this time with more than a little anger. This was NOT a place where he wanted to tread, oh, no, not at all. His little 5-year-old sister was going to be very, VERY dead before this day was out. And so help her if she ever decided to call him "Fugly" again.

But for now, he tried to slip back into the kick-ass grin he'd had when he entered the room.

"Well, umm....Mom, you just sent her outside!" Her eyes just bugged out at him for what seemed like forever, and then cracked a grin that told him that, whatever his transgression, she at least found it funny enough to forgive him.

"You're a good man, Charlie Brown." She reached out and ruffled his hair, and he couldn't even bring himself to duck, he was so confused. It must be a special mom power, he thought, being able to come up with all this stuff to confuse him. God only knew where she got all these references...well, those and all those Glenn Miller tunes she always hummed.

"Who's Charl..." A rumble of stuttering footsteps cut him off, as Keisha came flying into the room. She came within inches of plowing into him, but just as he started to glare at her, she skidded to a stop.

"Mama!" Keisha was panting so hard, Robert guessed she'd run as fast as she could when she heard Mom bellow. Little brat always knew how to make an entrance. He glowered at her, wishing he could pound her through the floor and wring her scrawny little neck at the same time.

Of course, if anyone could talk her way out of corner, it was his little sister. It might be funny just to watch her try it with "fugly," especially if he got to watch and she couldn't...

"I saw a bad guy!" Keisha was practically bouncing on her toes, and Robert wondered just what kind of 'bad guys' wandered around Alba in broad daylight. This was his little sister Keisha, the same kid who once SWORE she saw dragons hiding in the shadows at sunset.

"Gee, twerp, see any boogeymen lately? Did they scare you?" Robert snuck his hands out behind her, and yanked playfully on her ponytails. Keisha jumped about two feet in the air, and he started snickering. "Oh, yeah, short stuff, did they growl and threaten to send you to the moon, too?"

"Roobbbbbbert!" Keisha stamped her foot and glared at him with all her might. "They were BAD GUYS! All made of metal and their stomachs glowed too! They don't look right!"

And suddenly, Robert didn't want to laugh anymore. Not at all.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

His mom's grip on his wrist was so tight, Robert was tempted to try and pull away. But with the speed at which she was pulling them through the house, he didn't dare. She looked ready to snap at the littlest thing, and he didn't want to give her the reason.

"Mama, you're hurting me! Quit pullin' so hard!" Leave it to Keisha to be the one to open her trap. The little twerp had planted her heels as they went around the corner, and they came to a dead stop. His mom's hands slipped off both of their wrists, and he rubbed it gingerly. God, she had a grip.

But when he looked up at her, all of his bad feelings fled. Her face was all white and she looked scared enough for all three of them and trying to hide it all at the same time. Robert shivered a little...mom was scared, and mom was never scared. Not over anything, never around them.

"Keisha, Robert, I'm sorry. But we've got to hurry. Dread's people are here, and we need to hide." Whatever she looked like, she still sounded like Mom, all authority and no-nonsense. She started forward again, this time picking Keisha up in her arms. Robert almost wanted to say thanks, because it didn't leave a hand free to drag him along behind.

"But Mom...where're we gonna go? If they saw her come in here..." Robert tried to push his own fear away. He was the man of the house, ever since dad was killed. He wasn't allowed to be scared...and besides, if he started crying over the Dreadheads, Keisha would start in, too, and then they wouldn't get ANYWHERE.

They hitched to a stop for just a second, and then she started forward again.

"The old Crispin house. No one's lived there in months." They were out the back door in a matter of seconds, out in the early evening dusk. She quickly pulled them into the shadows, and huddled them down behind an old trash bin. Out beyond their house, Robert suddenly heard the sound of blaster fire, and screams that were cut off way too quickly. He shivered a little, and sunk further back into the darkness.

"But, Mama..." Keisha's voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I don't wanna leave our house."

Robert silently agreed, his stomach dropping out on him. Keisha was just doing her 5-year-old whining act, not having any kind of understanding of what she saw or the consequences of what was happening. He knew. He'd listened to the resistance broadcasts, heard the military broadcasts on the old ham radio in the town hall. It had happened a million other places, and now it was happening to them.

Dread was raiding their town. And unless some kind of miracle happened, this wouldn't be "home" a whole lot longer.

He didn't get any more time to think about it. Mom pulled him to his feet, and clamped her other hand firmly over Keisha's mouth as she hauled her up onto her hip.

"We go, now. No more talking, either of you." With no further warning, Robert was dragged out from the safety of his hidey-hole, and into the open alleyway, moving at a pace even he found hard to keep up with. All the noises were moving away now, the shooting and the screams shrinking into the fading light. All he could hear was their footsteps echoing around them, and Robert liked that. Maybe they'd be okay. Mom was being careful, they were out of sight, maybe Keisha'd gotten away clean after...

"Well, well, well, what have we got here?" The three of them skidded to a halt, and Robert looked up to find a figure clothed in deep grey towering at the end of the alleyway, framed in what was left of the evening light. A blaster pistol was drawn, and the man was tossing it back and forth between his hands. "A fugitive and her two little runtlings. Won't Lord Dread be pleased...a new Overunit like myself doesn't often get to spill human blood."

Anger boiled in Robert's stomach. He wasn't a runtling, no way, not anymore, and he wasn't gonna let this guy spill anyone's blood. He balled up his fists and glared in the direction of the Overunit that stood before him, but just as he opened his mouth, his mother's hand slipped over it, hushing him.

"Please. Do with me as you will, but let my children go. They haven't done anything to you, or to Dread's people, and I promise they won't do you or anyone else any harm."

The Overunit stepped closer to them, finally getting close enough for Robert to see what he looked like. His face was twisted in an odd sort of smile, and the gun kept going back and forth between his hands. As he got closer, he could hear what sounded like laughter bubbling out of the man's throat.

Laughter, from a Dreadhead?

"What to do, what to do...a desperate plea from a desperate woman." He kept coming closer, his steps slow and measured, but the gun kept switching hands, going from left to right almost like tossing a ball. Slowly, Robert found his mother guiding him behind her, out of the sight of the weapon. All he see now was his mother's grey shirt, and the feet of the Overunit as he stopped right in front of her.

"Now, that's not very sporting of you, now is it? I'll just have to take what's available, then." There was a sudden snap-click, and then a single flaring, sound from the blaster echoed out into the alleyway. Robert staggered backwards as his mother's weight fell into him, and he felt himself sprayed with something wet and sticky.

No, no, no, not mom...not her. And then his mother let out a single wailing scream as she went to her knees, dropping his sister's lifeless body to the ground.

"Keisha!" She was wailing now, huddled over his sister, leaving Robert standing exposed behind her. He couldn't do anything but blink in shock. Keisha? Not his mother? But there was blood everywhere, and why would he shoot a little girl who hadn't done anything?

The blaster primed itself again.

"Too much noise." There was another sudden rush of sound and air, and his mother's wail cut off as she collapsed against him. Robert threw his arms up for protection, his eyes screwing themselves shut in disbelief as the weight of his mother's body pinned him to the ground. This wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening, they couldn't be dead, not both of them...not this quickly, could they?

Robert didn't know how long he sat there, panting silently and waiting for another shot of the blaster to take him away from all this.

It never came. There was nothing but silence in the alley now, and all around them, too. He couldn't even hear screams or blaster fire from far away anymore. Could it be over? Or was he just dead and he hadn't realized it yet? Would he know it if he'd been shot? Or was this what the kids meant when they talked about death?

He finally got the courage to open his eyes. The Overunit was still standing above him, staring at him with what looked like...curiosity? Robert pulled his legs free, and he found himself staring at the two bodies now sitting in front of him, his thoughts spinning wildly around in his head. It couldn't happen like this...this had to be some sort of bad joke.

In the silence, the Overunit tapped him foot on the ground, and then cleared his throat.

"You." Robert's head shot up in terror, and he saw a crazed smile on the man's face. "You I like. Go."

He could only stare in response. He couldn't mean...

"Go on. Run. I'm letting you go." He shooed Rob with his hand, like he was some sort of fly, and Robert finally found his voice.

"No." There was a huge lump in his throat, and it hurt to talk. "If I go, you'll shoot me in the back."

Rob had the feeling not all the marbles were present in this guy's head. Well, okay, with the Dreadheads, that was a given, but this guy was just short of nutso. Then he got another look at the bodies laying in front of him, and shuddered. To hell with just short...he was crazy.

The Overunit just tsked at him.

"No, no, I promise. I won't shoot. I can't guarantee none of the others won't find you, but at least you won't be joining the dearly departed, yes?" The man contemplated him for a second, and then his face twisted in anger. "NOW GO! Before I change my mind, and go bang-bang with your body, just mommy and sissy."

Robert hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then without a word, scrambled to his feet and fled, the tears already starting to spill down his face.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Scout jolted awake, sitting up so suddenly that the chair slid away from the computer console and dumped him unceremoniously on the floor with a loud thud. He hardly even noticed the tears were now streaming down his face at a steady rate.

Damn.

"Hark how the bells

Sweet Silver Bells

All Seem to Say

Throw Cares Away."

Angrily, Scout got up on his knees just long enough to slap the control and halt the computer-generated music, and then sank back into a heap on the floor. His chest was so tight, he could hardly breathe, and it was another minute before the last of the nightmare faded enough for him to stop crying.

Nightmare. Right. Pure, unadulterated memory was more like it. He'd spent 10 years trying to flee it. He'd wrapped himself up in the Resistance, created himself a codename and a persona, and cracked so many jokes that most people took him for a half-wit at first glance. Those who stuck around learned differently, but he didn't encourage it. He doubted anyone'd want to get that close, anyhow.

He was still here because of...what, luck? He'd never been able to explain the Overunit's actions. Dread's little minions normally acted under a strict set of rules. By all rights, his mother, his sister and himself should have been taken to some central staging area to wait for Soaron to come and digitize them. By that point, no one was really getting killed anymore. Dread wanted 'em all alive for his great visions for the mass of humanity.

So why was he still alive? The Overunit should have shot him, but he hadn't. If his mom hadn't been holding Keisha, would the Overunit have shot him instead? Or would he have shot his mom, and left him and Keisha alone? He rested his head against the computer console and let out a quivering breath. He might as well debate the chicken and the egg theory with Tank. At least that would be amusing.

Above him, the console chirped as the comlink opened.

"Scout, old buddy, old pal, you awake down there?" Hawk's voice echoed in the silence around him. He considered ignoring his friend for a minute, and then decided he really didn't want to invite a face to face visit at the moment.

"No, I've mastered the art of coherent speech while sleeping." He pasted a grin on his face and forced a little good humor into his voice. "What's shaking, Hawk?"

"We've got a message from Locke on tight-beam transmission. Captain wants everyone down here for a mission briefing." There was a pause, then Hawk continued. "Sounds like trouble. Guess we can't even catch a break on a holiday, huh?"

Scout sighed and got to his feet. The way he felt, they'd be lucky if they ever caught a break again in this lifetime.

"You know what they say, Hawk...another day, another Dreadhead. I'll be down in a minute." There was a grunt of approval on the other end, and then comlink shut down with another chirp. Scout took a deep breath, and then blindly grabbed his gunbelt off the console in front of him.

Another day, another Dreadhead. That was a good one. Another fight, another victory. After all, it was Christmas Eve. Maybe they could have a little luck, and keep another tragedy off the boards, at least for one day.

And when it was all over, maybe he'd be able to sleep and avoid the nightmare, just for once.

"Christmas is here
bringing good cheer
to young and old
meek and the bold."