No, days. 77, to be specific. He'd been attached to a group from the 1st Infantry ever since meeting up with the main US force at Normandy. More plainly, he'd been tacked onto a platoon under the watchful eyes of a sour-faced son of a bitch the men referred to as 'Ol' Brit', though only ever 'Sarge' to his face. He had rank here, but Ol' Brit didn't care. This was his platoon, and he acted accordingly, affording Kyle's suggestions on movements or tactics the same regard as the odd gust of wind that passed over the thick hedgerows.
That suited Kyle just fine; it wasn't as if he was close to any of them anyway. They had their jokes and hobbies and dead friends they liked to mourn over a campfire and a bottle of pilfered French wine, but none of it meant anything to Kyle's ears. Maybe all the time in France had made him go native; 'disgustingly un-American', as Colonel Wallis might have said once upon a time, when he cared to listen to the man. Maybe he was just cracking up from all the fighting, all his will to empathise spent as an empty magazine. Would knowing why even make a difference?
He had a system for times like this; name rank and service number. He'd picked it up from a greying Major down in Libya with eyes that couldn't seem to stop seeing. If it worked for him, why couldn't it do the same here?
"Washington, Kyle Stanislav. Captain. O-1376824."
The beach was dyed red when he'd reached it; the sea reeked of copper.
It was red back in Toulouse, walls drenched from the spray of defenseless men and women.
"Washington, Kyle Stanislav. Captain. O-1376824."
Red were the sands near Tobruk, dried and blackened from months under the blistering desert sun.
"Washington, Kyle Stanislav. Captain. O-1376824."
His 1911 sat heavy under his left arm, weighed down by the death dealt from out the barrel. It was practically the only thing he'd kept in one piece apart from the shield. Sad as it was to say, it was the closest he'd had to a friend these past years. Tunisia, Libya, Corsica, and now France; they'd been everywhere together. He spoke five different languages; the only language it needed was .45 ACP. He had to get up close most of the time, using his shield or his stiletto or sometimes just his hands to get the job done; it could blow holes in a man from 50 yards away. He had scratches and marks from everything from bayonets to mortar shrapnel; it had scratches and mark of its own. If you looked at them from a particular moral angle, compared the profiles of their usage, they could even be mistaken for one another.
The only true difference was that it was a better killer than him. More efficient.
Its normal resting place was nothing more than worn leather, resting just to the left of the flesh and bone over his heart. The strap unbuttoned with the smallest pop, the iron shape dulled by years of action. He pulled it free, two and three-quarter pounds of American iron slipping quietly into his gloved palm, light and familiar in his grip like the hand of an old lover.
The muzzle was a half-inch wide, the small hole pressing on his tongue and flooding his mouth with the crisp tang of iron and brass. He knew the taste well, be it from cartridges between his teeth or licking at the fresh spillage from split gums. It used to sting, make him want to gag and spit. But now he welcomed the bite of it, the only clear feeling in a world swallowed by the mad haze of battle.
Further he pushed, further, until the sleek curves of the trigger guard bumped his nose, and the main bulk of it teased his uvula. He let it rest there for a minute, tensing his jaw around the intrusion; it felt right, sticking in so far. I should be horrified, he thought. I'm a slipped finger away from blowing my head off. He waited for it, for his heart to pick up to machine-gun pace, for his skin to freeze and prickle with terror, for the muscles of his arm to swell with the burning desire to keep living and yank this reaper from his mouth.
It didn't happen. Because what even was living here? Another mission, another sniper's nest, another mortar pit, again and again until there was nothing left. Another order from a man who thought of him as nothing more than a gutless pinko bastard. Another young fanatic or weary veteran he'd have to shoot or stab or strangle the life out of. Another brush with the end, or perhaps something more final.
Why wait? Why not just cut out the middle-man and do it himself?
He was so close. He could see that glorious release right in front of him. Peeking from behind its cover, teasing the curl of his index finger, a shy steel mistress he could feel but not see. She was good to him, she didn't need much; just 3 or 4 pounds of pressure, and she could sing him to sleep. A good sleep, a long sleep. Perchance to dream, as the Bard would say. He could do with a sleep. It'd been so long since the last good sleep he'd had.
So long. And all he had to do was pull-
"Uh, Cap'n?"
The angel slithered from his grasp, falling limply to his side. He could try again, but it just made him feel pathetic now. Once the moment passed, it was basically impossible to get it back up again.
"Yes, Corporal?" He remembered this GI at least; Minelli, twenty-two, from Paramus. He was nice enough, but just a touch too eager. Kyle doubted he'd make it to the end of the year.
As if remembering he was addressing, Minelli stood at attention, the heels of his rough-outs thumping together. "Tech Sergeant wanted to see you." The man paused, something Kyle didn't care to decipher passing through his hazel eyes. "I'm not, uhā¦ interrupting anything?"
Kyle hadn't the strength for an answer; he put his angel to bed, stood himself up, and passed Minelli without a word of reply.
Maybe the middle-men would actually manage it this time.
Would Cele be considered a heartthrob on Earth like Nolan was?
I needed to answer this for a long time but now I finally will!
The answer: sorta? Yes?
Iām not going to sit here and act like I donāt see people online drool over cele and they very much are objectively beautiful even by earth standards. Even if there would probably be weirdos in-universe saying cele is ātoo muscularā or saying they should get a nose job. The thing is since nolan did what he did and people know that the hero āCelestialā is a viltrumite as well, people would be extremely critical and cautious of them for a good while.
In the hero community cele is very heavily disliked or just straight up feared/avoided. People ultimately see them as a ticking time bomb that they canāt do anything about and just have to awkwardly shuffle around. Over time cele would definitely gain a āfanbaseā especially because of the fact that their younger brother mark is invincible. People would have this very wary attitude around them and honestly the only thing keeping other heroes from calling for cele to be locked deep under the earth or hurtled into the sun is simply bc they tolerate them due to Markās (and to a lesser extent oliverās) presence.
It would take a few-couple years for people to really LUST after them in that manner widespread. Then cele gets to be subjected to the horrors of existing as a āwomanā in earth society ! So short answer is: yes people would find them attractive but people are also very afraid and wary of them esp at first !!
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