>>935524
This is too nice of an ambush spot, suggesting a setup. With the benefit of hindsight the apartment might still have civies in it they hear the commotion, ID you, you need no witnesses and so end up needing to 'deal' with them.

The feeling of unease only grows. Building until you can't ignore it.


You slink up behind Lead and tap him on the shoulder. "Lead, something's bothering me," you try to remain professional, keep the apprehension from your voice even as your skin prickles.

He glances over his shoulder at you, "What's the problem?" He respects you, he's voiced that respect, but you note a slightly dismissive tone as his attention remains on the clear objective.

"It's this place, the mission... Something isn't right. Something's off, it feels like a trap," you wrinkle your brow and glance around at the dilapidated buildings. That feeling is only getting stronger.

Lead sighs and scans the surroundings with a scowl, "I know, I feel it too. But we have to stay focused, now get back to your position," to make his point, he brings his RPG up to a ready position, poised to strike.

You frown, but still give a solemn nod and make your way back to your post.

Halfway there you stop, the hairs on your neck raise and you hear something.

"K'TSHHHHH"

That's a strange sound, almost like—

There's a boom. Your ears ring, you can't hear. There's a terrible pain in your left arm. You're tilting, falling. The ground is shifting beneath your feet, you're sliding. You feel your body hit the ground, you feel your head jar...


Your ears pop, the ringing slowly recedes, sound crashes back in; burning, shouting, gunfire. Abstract sounds, as if heard underwater.

You open your eyes, and cannot see. Blood, blood is clouding your vision, blood in your eyes. You cannot see. You try to call out, try to shout for help, but no sound escapes. There is no air in your lungs, the wind has been knocked out of you.

You gasp for air and the haze of battle begins to clear, tears fill your eyes and wash out the blood. For the first time you see your surroundings.

You're in a schoolroom. The ceiling has collapsed, and is hanging half-attached to the roof. Cement and rebar lie strewn about the room, there is blood pooling on the floor, you hope it is not your own. There's a fire burning to your left, burning plywood. You look down at your body, and see that your leg is pinned under a large piece of rubble.

Then you see your teammates: Niceguy and Lead firing at unseen enemies through windows on the other side of the room from you. Crunch kneeling over a bloodied from in a corner.

You try to shout for help, but only a feeble sound escapes "Help."

Niceguy hears you, and turns to look. His eyes widen when he sees you. "Karma!" He fires off one last burst from his MG before rushing across the room in a crouch.

He kneels next to you and clenches your hand tight, "I got you!"

You cough, expelling cement powder, "Leg," you groan, clenching your teeth.

He sees the chunk of cement pinning your leg, and gets to work; grabbing it's edge with both hands, he heaves. Even through his uniform you can see the muscles straining. The ruble is lifted a couple inches, enough for you to pull your leg out with difficulty.

Niceguy immediately releases the rubble once you're out from under it, obviously fatigued. Panting, he grabs your shoulder, "Karma, you good?"

"I'm fine," you grunt.

He nods and picks his machine gun back up, rejoining the firefight from the window.

With a groan, you pull yourself up into a sitting position, and look yourself over. Your leg is fine; bruised and sore, maybe a fractured bone, but it's fine. Your torso's all banged up, feels like internal bruising, but again, it's fine. What stops you is your arm. Your left arm.

You have to look at it a couple times to understand what you're seeing. There's a piece of metal about 6 inches long going straight through the forearm, between the bones. It gleams dully in the light of the fire. You hesitantly touch it, and as if some magical spell was broken it immediately starts hurting immensely. Agonizing pain that seems to shoot up the whole arm.

You utter a strangled "fuck" and hold back tears. You're chocking, you feel sick.

You fall backwards and start crawling, away from the pain, towards Crunch.

You're about to call out to him, when you see Brains: he's completely covered in blood, his own. His shirt has been torn away to reveal several deep cuts in his chest, shrapnel wounds; gushing blood. Crunch is doing his best to patch him up. Brains is making a horrible, gagging laughing sound, blood spewing from his mouth. He sees you crawling across the floor and smiles, "The got me, Karma, they got me. Go get 'um, go fucking kill them," he shoves Crunch away violently and brings himself to the floor next to you, his wide, bloodshot eye inches away, "GO FUCKING KILL THEM!" He shouts, his blood spattering your face.

Crunch is quick to pull Brains back up against the wall, and resume his work. But not for long before Lead turns to face the scene, "Leave him, Crunch, he's done. Get to work on Karma."

Crunch gives Lead a look of purest contempt, but still complies. Brains is left to bleed, and Crunch turns to face you, dragging you up against the wall and into a sitting position. "What's the problem?" He asks you in his usual, obtuse tone, sporting his usual, unpleasant expression. Seemingly unfazed by the Marine dying behind him.

You wordlessly raise your left arm, and Crunch just nods solemnly.

He puts on a new pair of medical gloves and fishes for something in his medical kit, retrieving a syringe full of some unknown fluid which he injects right above the shrapnel in your arm. Almost immediately, the pain begins to subside.

Crunch gives a rare sympathetic look, "Clench your teeth."

You open your mouth to protest, but he moves faster. In a second he has grabbed the shrapnel and pulled it out.

The pain, which had been receding before, comes back twofold. Blood gushes from the freshly opened wound and agony beyond imagination wracks your arm. You give an anguished cry, and attempt to control your breathing as Crunch pours styptic into the cut, then bandages it.

"Flex your fingers," he says in a clinical monotone.

You clench your left hand into a fist, and though renewed pain shoots up your arm, all of the fingers comply.

Crunch nods solemnly, and turns to Lead, "Karma's as mobile as she's getting. What's the play Lead?"

Lead presses himself against the wall adjacent one of the windows, bullets pattering against the other side of the wall. He clenches his teeth in anger before addressing Crunch, "We move." He pulls a grenade from his vest, removes the pin, and to your shock, hands it to Brains; "They're going to swarm this place once we're gone, take a couple out for us Brains." His tone is of bitter conviction.

Brains takes the grenade, holding it firmly in his shaking hand, "Understood, Sir."

Lead turns to you and grabs you by your good arm, "On your feet. Move!"

You're hoisted up, and before you know what's happening, you're sprinting through a back door, up a fire-escape, and across rooftops. It's all a haze, a blurred rush, a mad dash. Every one of you running the blade's edge between total determination to survive, and utter hopelessness.


Finally, when your lungs feel ready to burst and your legs buckle beneath you, Lead shoots up a hand in gesture to halt.

You immediately collapse against a wall, breath raged, adrenaline and pain in equal measure egging you on and begging you to stop.

Lead, though, seems to have barely broken a sweat. "Listen," he whispers.

You notice it immediately, one of the worst possible sounds you could hear on the battlefield; total silence. A perfect stillness, like chilled water. And it indeed chills you to the bone. A silence like this always precipitates death.

And sure enough, the macabre staccato of a grenade detonating in the distance breaks the silence.

Brains. Splattered all over a wall like some fucked up Jackson Pollock along with whoever was unlucky enough to be in the same room. He was a pretty good friend of yours, you know. Not like it matters now.


With eyes burning of hatred and cold with fury you stare Lead down. He abandoned Brains, gave him a fucking suicide bomb. And doesn't even have the decency to show a fucking facial expression. Wrath, white hot and uncontrollable boils beneath your skin, and you are suddenly very aware of the weight of your M1911 holsters at your hip. It's loaded. Your hand is poised above it, now caressing the wooden grip.

It would be easy.

Lead's making the best of a bad situation. Disregard his apparent lack of empathy because he's your best shot at making it out of this alive and finding the reason why four elites were sent into a meat grinder.

Your anger seethes, a rising crescendo like the hiss of a steam kettle, until finally it reaches the boiling point... And dissipates.

You sigh deeply, and with the breath, all the anger leaves your body, replaced with a hollow sadness, and deep disappointment in yourself.

It's not Lead's fault. There was nothing he could've done. It took a lot of strength to do what he did, to remain calm in the face of such a shitstorm. And you almost repaid that strength with a bullet. Yes, you're disappointed in yourself, but more so you're glad you stopped yourself before fucking up irreparably.


And besides, you see it now. That sadness behind Lead's eyes, the way he scans the horizon with hollow repetition. It was hard on him to do that, it was a hard choice. But he chose to keep the living alive, instead of cling to a corpse. You couldn't even begin to thank him for that sacrifice, for being surrogate to the guilt that would have hounded others. So you do the one thing you know he'll understand.

You clasp a hand on Lead's shoulder. He looks to you with questioning, almost hopeful eyes, as if he wants you to chew him out, to verbally beat him. It's easer to bear someone's open anger than quiet contempt.

But words never come. You stare him right in the eye, features set in a soft, mournful expression; a tiny, sad smile that reassures the promise of a tomorrow, and knowing eyes that speak the words you do not possess, telling him that you understand, that you feel his pain.

And just keep staring, neither of you breaking eye contact, until you're standing beside him, staring into the abyss. Until the abyss becomes you, and you the abyss.

This sadness will never leave, either of you. No amount of time will erase it, no amount of drink drown it, no measure of happiness dull it. It will remain, like an eternal wound, because it must remain. Pain is one of few constants in life, to avoid or deny it is to deny humanity, and in so bearing it, in so cherishing the hurt: those who have fallen, those mistakes made, those wounds inflicted; none if it is in vain. For in blood and suffering, we must find life.

And we must remember it.


And so you stare. Into his eyes and straight through his soul, sharing the pain.

Finally, when the hurt is acknowledged, understood; When the sorrow of the moment has been etched upon your heart in silent memorial; you close your eyes, and nod.

Once, slowly. Silent respect paid to the dead, to Brains, to the part of you and Lead which has just died. A goodbye.

And Lead, heaving a shuddering breath, closes his eyes and does the same. Your heads touching gently.


Then it is over. The dead departed and the living yet in danger, you both lean out and give each other adamant looks, steel will, to survive and ensure the team's survival, reflected upon your steely features.

You will not die. You refuse to. And you'll be damned before you give up on this team. Things went south, but you'll make the best of it. The night is darkest before dawn, or some shit like that.


Lead's already plotting your next move, you can see it on his face. And so you wait, prepared to follow orders, and get shit done.

Maintain situational awareness Otherwise just kinda wait for him to come up with a course of action I guess.

Yeah this, but check your ammo and inventory.

See if you were given dud gear.

You take a breath, and order your thoughts; most pressing is the urge to check your gear. Taking a knee, you make a mental list as you inspect the items individually. Struck with a pang of paranoia, you double check that each item is fully functional.

You lost your rifle, you don't really remember when through the haze, but it's gone. That leaves your secondary as your only firearm, a custom Matt-black M1911 SOCOM with night sights, holstered at your hip, it's fully functional, has two extra 7-round magazines aside from the one loaded. Then there's your knife, a shaving-sharp Ka-Bar with a plastic handle, sheathed upside-down in front of your left shoulder. A Leatherman multi-tool in a vest pocket. Two fragmentation grenades strapped to your vest. A small medkit, everything intact. Your radio, a broad-band self-encrypting handheld, fully functional, clipped on your back behind your left shoulder. A watch, electronic, upside down on your left wrist. Your cellphone, totally broken. Your body armor, a light ceramic plate-carrier, front and back protection. And lastly, a razorblade duct-taped to the bottom of your watch, which you sincerely hope you'll never have to use.

Everything except the cellphone is functional; there's a few rips in the plate carrier, and some dust fond it's way into the 1911's chamber, but they still function. A small miracle.


Your paranoia somewhat abated, the next matter is location; yours currently being what looks like an abandoned electronics shop, based on the various ancient TV's and decades-old phones on shelves and in display cases. The team splayed about the room, engaged in various self-care or post-battle activities.

So you're in an electronics shop, but where? Instinctively you reach for your phone, only to be reminded that it is just as broken as it was ten seconds ago. It's GPS isn't much use. Someone else has to have a functional device.


Crunch is sitting on top of an old box TV in a corner, staring attentively at at the floor, holding his chin thoughtfully, and swaying gently back and forth. You can't tell if he's deep in thought or having a silent emotional breakdown. Maybe both. Either way, he seems the least busy of your team members, and so you bother him first, "Crunch, where are we?" Your tone is deadpan, almost callous. Normally, you might try to sound supportive or empathetic, but you're far too close to an emotional breakdown yourself to be worried about others right now.

"An electronics store." His answer comes immediately and without emotion. He doesn't bother to stop swaying, or to look at you, he doesn't even blink. And for a moment, you think you might have imagined him speaking at all.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, "Thank you, captain obvious. Astute and helpful as always, the fuck would we do without you?" You hiss sardonically.

"Bleed to death."

You sigh, "Let me see your phone."

Still holding his chin, still not looking at you, still rocking gently, he retrieves his phone with his free hand and extends it to you, slowly.

You grab it somewhat impatiently and start to turn and walk away, but Crunch grabs your forearm, gently, almost pleadingly. When he looks up from the floor his eyes are searching, lost. "Do you blame him?" His voice is soft, tentative, like he doesn't really expect an answer. Or like he doesn't want one.

When the response comes, your tone is soft, "No. No I don't."

Crunch keeps staring, his eyes searching your features for some kind of answer. "Do you think he deserved it?"

Your tone becomes harsh, and your expression hardens, "No one deserves it, that's why this job is so fucking hard." You close your eyes and release a small sigh, "But I think he wanted it, deep down."

A pause, then, wordlessly and never breaking eye contact, Crunch slowly lets go of your arm. So slowly, as if that touch was the only thing between him and the abyss.

His gaze shifts off of you, and down to his hands, which he holds before his face, trembling. "Do no harm." He mutters to himself, so quietly you barely catch it. Then he looks back up at you, "I think we might deserve it, Karma. I think deep down, we all want it."

You don't know what to say to that, so you hold the silence. But even the silence is deafening. Accusing.

You're done with this conversation.


Crunch's device is straightforward: a PDA, some years outdated, but running all the essential modern applications. Among them military GPS software.

You open the program, and are immediately greeted with a "no signal" message.

That doesn't make any sense, you're familiar with this program, you've used it in ass-end spots all over the world; you were told that multiple satellites were orbiting over the AO, connection should be perfect.

Something isn't right.

You check the local signal: no discrepancies. Either the Russians have a magical new jammer up and running, or they're not interfering.

In fact, there are several routers within range, one in particular appears to be the local Communications Hub for the Russians. You could try hacking into it; not only would it allow you to connect to the Internet and find your location, but you might also collect valuable Intel, it is a Communications Hub after all, and this is your area of expertise.

But it would be risky, if they caught on they might trace the hack and find you.

Maybe you should consult Lead. But then again, maybe you shouldn't. This is your area of expertise, not his.

Tell Lead ASAP. But also put 'sending an SOS to the Russians' on the table. Obviously an international incident will @#$% things up even more, but at this point, you adversary has a higher level than you; either they have the tech / intel / luck to blackout military-grade hardware, or there's a mole in Mission Control. Or worse. Teaming up to uncover a conspiracy earns brownie points for the troops on both sides, so they have incentive to help.

>>942599
ask lead why/how GPS might be down and if you should try hacking the russian comms hub to get some functionally back, remember though your phone is dead and you would not be using your hardwear

Something's severely fucked, something gnawing at you. Staring you in the face, just beyond view. Like a song who's name you've forgotten, stuck in your head, or a dream that you can't remember, phantoms in the periphery. Something you know, something you should know. But like a handful of sand it always slips between your fingers.

It's fucking bugging you.


You fill Lead in on the tech situation, and he reacts about how you expected; "Are you sure? Sat link should be clean and steady. Are you positive it's not working?"

He never could accept it when Top Brass fucked up, always trying to find some way to explain it off, to make it the fault of somebody below him. He's the first to admit when he's fucked up, and the last to accept he's been fucked over. "Positive. Lead, this is my job. I know when tech's fucked."

He shakes his head in frustration, hissing an angry little growl. "Shit. And what about this Russian Comms Hub?"

"It's a router for all digital and long-distance radio communications in the area. If I tap into it I can use it to access the Internet, and more importantly, piggyback off Russian satellites to triangulate our location. I might also collect valuable information if I listen in on Comms channels. But, if they caught on there's a chance they could manage to trace the hack and find us." You explain it using grand gestures and as few big, techie words as possible. It's not that Lead is unintelligent, it's that his tech skills are stuck in the Gulf War.

Lead gets that look, a dangerous look: his eyes narrow and he seems to gaze off into the distance, his scowl deepening. It's a look that means he's thinking, evaluating, planing: weighing battle ability, the objective, and human lives with a cold, practiced disconnection.

Finally, he looks up from his thoughts with a look somewhere between steely conviction, and the zeal of insanity: "The mission isn't over yet," he says through teeth gritted in determination, "Hack the Comms Hub, quickly. Focuse on finding our location, then Chekov's. Get what you can on Russian troop movements and fighting force, then we move. Chekov is still the target, we find him, and end this."

You grit your teeth right back at him, your eyes fly open with a mixture of rage and disbelief, "Lead, the mission, is, over!" You practically spit. "Brains is KIA, the ambush was a fucking trap; this mission was fucked sideways before it began!" You hiss through your teeth, straining to keep your voice low as it rises with fury, "We need to call exfil and get the fuck out while we still can!"

He scowls deeper, and you see it behind his eyes: his mind focusing in on the objective, the plan cementing itself.

There's no stopping him now, no reasoning with him.


He's crazy! This whole fucking thing is crazy! He's diving headlong into a suicide mission and pulling us down with him, FUCK!

There's nothing I can do! Nothing! He has command authority, that fucking idiot, and the others would follow him before me! I'm powerless! Think, fucking think!


God fucking damnit! This... What a fucking shit show. And my arm is hurting worse than fucking ever!

Fuck. FUCK!

"LEAD WE DON'T EVEN KNOW IF THERE WAS EVER A MISSION IN THE FIRST PLACE."
>WHAT. The mission parameters were @#$%ing clear. Chekov is the target-
"No he isn't. No he @#$%ing isn't. He's the scapegoat. Face it, Lead: this mission was compromised from the start, we were intentionally fed faulty intel by our comms. Do you really think the Brass would be STUPID enough to throw us into this mess when our 'state-of-the-art' comms are jammed? Hell, how long have they been hacked? Enough to send in the mission briefing?"
>... Why risk the reasonable chance that we could kill Chekov?
"The name should have given it away, sir. Chekov's likely an incompetent fop, or possibly a political threat to whichever Russian official's behind this. They want Smirnov promoted and they want him promoted now, that's why our orders were to specifically leave him alone. They probably tipped the terrorists off to our location so we'd be too pissed from combat to think, and if we somehow got wiped, they could just as easily blame the assassination on the terrorists skilled enough to wipe a spec-ops unit. Morton's fork at its finest, sir."

>>943971
I don't have anything better to add here.

You grit your teeth against the pain in your arm, and again force your thoughts into order. Pushing your anger deep enough that you can think straight.

Something clicks.

That thing that you couldn't place, finally it makes sense. And now that you see it, it's fucking ugly.

Your thoughts, before writhing and swirling like a maelstrom of uncertainty and fear, now are completely still. Deathly stillness.

When words finally come, they are devoid of emotion. Your tone is deadpan and your eyes go cold, "Lead, shut the fuck up and listen to me."

He seems taken aback at first, then irate at your blatant disrespect. But he holds his tongue; even as his eyes blaze with fury. For that much, you have to give him credit.

Emotions boil just behind your eyes, and you struggle to restrain the torrent.

You continue in a deadpan, not a flicker of your turbulent thoughts reflecting on your features. "We've been had. From the very fucking beginning." You turn away as if slapped, seething quietly at the sharp sting of reality. "The Russians played us like a damn fiddle."

Dread. Like an oily darkness it wells up, and threatens to consume you.

Lead finally bursts; "The hell are you talking about?" His eyes narrow with anger, and his lips form a thin line.

You lock eyes with him, your features hardening with pain from your injuries, and anger at your own fucking stupidity. "Chekov is a pawn, we are a pawn. There was never a mission, Lead, think about it; what the hell would killing Chokov actually accomplish? Nothing. Not for the US, at least. But for the Russians, they'd be getting rid of an incompatant Leader. You saw the report, you know how many soldiers he's lost the Russians, how much they want him gone. And replacing him? That's where Smirnov comes in. Why do you think we were told to avoid the meeting place, when we could have taken out two birds with one stone? Because they wanted Smirnov alive, because the Russians planned this whole fucking thing. And if we failed? If we were killed? Then the U.S. loses an elite team of operators, and can't do fuck all about it because that would be admitting to a deniable op.” You scowl. “Morton's fork: damned if you do, damned if you don't."

The anger drains from Lead's face, along with the color. His features flash confusion, then fear, then denial, then indignation. "Not possible. I was given the orders for this mission, in person! A face to face conversation with General Wall! And he told me..." Lead trails off, and genuine fear etches his features.

"He told you there would be no support for this mission, despite how dangerous it is. He told you not to use Comms unless absolutely necessary. And you wanna know why? Because the Comms are fucking useless. Because the whole chain of command is compromised! Because Wall sent us on a God-damned suicide mission just like the Russians told him to. They tricked him, they tricked us; and now you're scared, Lead, scared because the Russians control the whole God-damned Army, and you don't know who you can trust if not the Top Brass.”

You battle that sense of dread, that resignation to doom. Fight it back and crush it beneath the iron will they drilled into you in training. ‘Cause you’re not dead yet, and you’ve got a couple of bullets left before you’ll accept defeat.

Your tone becomes fervent. “But you can trust us, Lead. You can trust your team.”

Lead doesn’t meet your eyes. “But can you trust me?” The way he says it... its not a question.

You’re taken aback. In all the time you’ve known him he’s never acted like this.

It’s too much. And you fucking snap.

You scowl, your eyes harden, and any safety or solace that might have been found in your features disappears. “On your fucking feet.” Your tone is even, measured. But not calm. No, no it couldn’t be called calm.

Lead meets your stare, but does not speak. His eyes are cold.

Your temper flashes. “On... Your… Fucking... Feet!” Your tone becomes harsh, punitive, a barely-restrained shout hissed through grit teeth and punctuated with a violently thrust finger.

Lead’s expression does not change, but he hauls himself to his feet and heaves a forlorn sigh.

By now, both Crunch and Niceguy are watching with morbid interest. Dead expressions telling of how they too have given up. Let them watch.


You grab Lead by the collar of his shirt and slam him against the wall, hot fury showing in your every move. That gets a rise out off him.

For a moment, he’s too shocked to speak, then it seems anger binds his tongue. You press on with a force. “ARE YOU A FUCKING SOLDIER?” You shout. Whispering be damned! You hope the fucking Russians hear you, would save the trouble of finding them yourself.

Lead’s anger is now boiling, you can see it in his eyes, but he doesn’t speak past his gritted teeth.

You slam him against the wall once more. “I SAID. ARE YOU A FUCKING SOLDIER? ANSWER ME!”

He grinds out a “yes” with more malice behind it than you thought was possible. He looks like he’s inclined to kill you himself.

You really couldn’t give a shit.

“BULLSHIT. SOLDIERS FIGHT, SOLDIERS KILL, SOLDIERS DO THEIR FUCKING JOB! YOU’RE NOT A SOLDIER. YOU’RE NOT EVEN A FUCKING CIVILIAN, YOU LOW, SCUMMY PIECE OF SHIT! IF YOU CAN’T DO YOUR JOB, YOU’RE PUTTING US ALL IN DANGER, MOTHERFUCKER! AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MAKES YOU?” You’re close enough to his face now that if your noses were longer they’d be touching.

He silently glares bloody murder.

“IT MAKES YOU A FUCKING TRAITOR. I KILL TRAITORS. ARE YOU A FUCKING TRAITOR?” Your spit is collecting on his face.

“No.” His tone loses some of its dangerous edge, sadness overpowering even his rage. Fuck that, you’re even more pissed.

“THEN DO YOUR FUCKING JOB.” You punch him. Hard. Right in the gut. He doubles over and you step away, fury still radiating from every taught, straining muscle in your body. The others are too shocked to react.

He stands up straight, slowly, and adjusts his shirt. His face is unreadable. “I intend to.” His tone carries a new, grim conviction. The lines of his face set with something fiery, but it’s not quite anger.

No, it’s duty.

He turns to a still-stunned Crunch. “What’s everyone’s physical status?” His voice is calculated and clear, like a soldier’s, like a leader’s.

It takes Crunch a moment to process that he is being spoken to. “Eh- K- Karma’s arm is injured, Sir, she should be kept away from heavy fighting.”

Lead scans you over quickly with analytical eyes. “She looks fine to me. Give her a Stim. And Niceguy?”

“A few scrapes, nothing serious.”

“Good enough. Help Karma then get ready to move.” He turns back to you. “Karma, gain access to the Comms Hub and contact this region’s Commanding Officer. Involve as few middle men as possible, give only as much information as is necessary to secure exfiltration.” He leans in to whisper. “And thanks for the pep talk, drill instructor.” His tone is almost humorous, and as he leans away, you catch the tiniest suggestion of a smile playing across his lips.

Something must be terribly, terribly wrong with him. Maybe you punched him harder than you thought.

But despite it all, you catch yourself smiling right back.

Holy shit, nicely done. Now do the comms thing.

You got orders now, and lacking more pressing matters; execute them.

“No, no I can’t just give you a message. This is fucking important, I need to speak with the General in person- Ow, fuck!” You struggle to make yourself understood between the shitty connection, and Crunch jabbing a needle into your injured arm. The jaded Medic is a great many things, but gentle isn’t one of them.

Thankfully, the Radio Operator you’ve managed to contact is also a great many things, among them mildly stupid and hard of hearing, but also exceedingly patient. Which is more than you can say about yourself. “What? Is it an emergency? The General is very busy, and only has time to talk if it’s urgent.” Says the dim Lance Corporal who’s name you’ve already forgotten.

“Yes it’s a Goddamn emergency! I need to speak with the General immediately. Not whenever you’re done getting the crayons out of your nose!” You half-shout.

The Lance Corporal manages to sound offended without actually saying anything. It’s a very offended silence. “I’ll need you to give me a verification code.”

This is the fourth fucking time he’s asked for that Goddamn code.

“Whiskey alpha zero nine delta tango tango hotel zero zero six three.” You repeat, as clear as possible.

You hear the scratch of a pen on paper, then the screech of a chair and footsteps that fade gradually.

The motherfucker left. That son of a bitch!


It’s a solid three minutes of waiting; Lead, Crunch, and Niceguy all moving around you with purpose, you yourself sitting with a thumb up your ass and a scowl on your face, before Lance Corporal Whoever-the-fuck returns.

There’s a shuffling of feet, a screech of a chair, and again your ears are assaulted by the voice of the Radio-Operator. “Uh, the- Uh, General wants to speak with you.” His voice is halting and fearful, like someone just gave him a good chewing-out.

“Well I want to talk with her. So that just sorts that, fucking doesn’t it?” You say sardonically.

There’s an awkward pause. “I’ll, uh, patch you through.”

“No shit. And here I thought I’d get to listen to your wonderful voice for even longer.” You’re really questioning how much farther this guy can test your patience before you do something stupid. Though you don’t know what exactly that would be.


Thankfully, you’ll never know. The audio from his end cuts out, replaced by the fuzzy whine of radio interference. Slowly, the shadow of a voice forms from the screeching static. It repeats several times before you finally make out the words. “Hello? Hello? Please copy. This is Chief petty officer Yu of the USS Ridgeback, Over.”

“Solid copy. This is Sergeant Chloe Lynch, callsign “Karma”.” You respond, with a renewed sense of hope.

“Copy. I’m putting you through to General Amanda Miller, she wants to speak with you personally.” Says Yu.

A new voice cuts in over the channel, female, commanding, harsh; if it weren’t for the last name you’d half suspect her of being Lead’s wife. “This is General Miller, commander of this region’s US Army combat forces. You are Sergeant Chloe Lynch, technical specialist within Delta Force, correct?”

“Correct, ma’am.”

“Good. Give me a sitrep, and spare no detail. I need to know what the hell is happening out there.”

You hesitate.

You want to trust her, god you want to trust her. But after all the shit that’s happened, paranoia practically goes without saying. Why did she need to speak with you directly? It’s fishy. Not to mention Lead’s instruction to give as little information as possible.

You opt for a modified version of the truth. No lies, but rather a version of the story with numerous omissions, filled in with over-detailed descriptions to prevent it from sounding too short.

You tell of the ambush, how it was like they knew you were going to be there, of your injury (though you play it down), of the firefight; but with Brains’ death, you say only that he was shot, KIA, no mention of Lead’s decision.

You tell of malfunctioning tech, how you couldn’t contact command at first. But you neglect to mention anything about the Russian sabotage, or how you’re speaking to her through a Russian comm network.

You weave a tail tight enough to hold water, and given that Lead, Niceguy, and Crunch all give the same story when questioned (you’ll make sure they do) no one will ever be able to question it.


You finish the report, and General Miller sighs. “Soldier, I’ve got some bad news for you.” Her tone is grim.

You suck in a breath.

“I never gave the order for your mission.” She says it like it should come as some huge surprise.

Wow. Fucking jaw-dropping. Con-fucking-gratulations, Sherlock. Real god-damn helpful. Maybe this would have come as more of a shock if I hadn’t figured it out my damn self. Thanks General. You deserve a medal. Was it before, or after you never gave that order that you realized you hadn’t given the order? Either way, your powers of deduction are simply fucking breathtaking. I’m speechless, which is good because I’ve got a lot of words ready I definitely shouldn’t say to your face. Jesus.

You’re not exactly sure if her long-ass pause is to for effect, or if she’s waiting for you to speak first. You decide to play it safe. “What?” You feign surprise, trying not to let your irritation affect your tone.

The General of melodrama sighs. “I never gave the go-ahead for the mission you’ve been sent on. In fact, until twenty minutes ago, I thought you and your team were still at base. And you’re not the only ones. Dozens of teams have all been deployed on similar missions, all ambushes. Yours is one of only five teams still alive, that we know of.”

That one does actually come as a surprise, you can’t think up a single response to this. All your thoughts screech to a halt as realization sets in.

Dozens. Oh god.

The General continues. “They were all deployed simultaneously, all of them to death traps like yours across Afghanistan. Every base I’ve contacted said they got the orders from me, directly: orders I never sent.” Her voice drops to a severe hiss. “And that means that someone has sabotaged our entire command chain. I’m willing to bet that someone is the Russians. This is why I’m speaking to you directly, Sergeant, I can’t trust the system anymore.”

You rally and from a response. “Ma’am, we need exfil here, the Russians are crawling across this whole city, I doubt we’ll survive the night.”

She sounds exhausted when she speaks. “I know, Sergeant, I know. And that’s exactly why I can’t send exfil. The whole city is just too damn hot right now. A bird would be shot down before it could land.”

“What about extraction by land? The city isn’t that tightly patrolled. Send in a vehicle to the city outskirts, we’ll move to rendezvous.” You press.

“Kabul is situated in a Valley, the only ways in or out by car are guarded.” She quickly shoots your idea down.

And idea strikes you. It’s terrible and stupid but it’s the only one you can think up. “What if we take out their air defense? They have radar that can track aircraft but what if we punch a hole in their surveillance?”

“Just what are you suggesting?” Asks the General, her tone harsh.

“Our team takes out an AA battery and create a dead spot in their surveillance big enough for a stealth VTOL to slip in, pick us up, and extract under the cover of darkness.” You continue, hopeful.

The General is silent, in contemplation. When she finally speaks she sounds extremely apprehensive. “And you think you can pull this off? AA batteries are no joke.”

“Better ideas?” You ask dryly.

“No.”

“Then we have no choice but to pull this off.” You reply with grim resolve.

>"I was given the orders for this mission, in person! A face to face conversation with General Wall!"
>"I never gave the order for your mission."
Welp, time for General Miller to ensure General Wall never makes it across the border.

>Fifteen elite squads dead, five teams or less remaining
"Ma'am, requesting permission to screw the Geneva Convention six ways to Sunday and shoot to kill whoever masterminded this slaughter. And then shoot some more. We're not taking any chances against this maniac; if they're willing to kill 20 black ops teams in a single day, they're suicidal."

“Phooooh...” You sigh.

Logistics are fucking everything.

Timing, numbers, location, info, guesswork; all of it necessary for a functioning plan, all of it pivotal in your team’s survival.

And still you can’t help but feel exhausted by the fifteen-minute conversation you’ve just had with General Miller.

Mentally exhausted, that is. By the way Lead is gesturing to spin-up, you figure physical exhaustion isn’t far behind.



Clap, clap, clap, four pairs of boots sound against the aging stone of Old Town, as the team makes its way through backstreets too small and crowded to accommodate cars. Here the buildings feature more traditional construction, as well as far more occupants.

Before, it was like the entire city was deserted; but now it’s obvious that it’s residents all moved closer to the city center, and away from the unprotected outskirts.

Which isn’t exactly helpful to your team’s movements. Seems like you can’t walk three feet without bumping into a civilian, even in the backstreets. At this point it’s less “Hope no one sees us.” and more “Hope no one recognizes US insignia.” The deniability of the op is fairly fucked at this point but you really couldn’t care, considering it was from the start.


You’re about a half klick away from the AA battery. After your talk with General Miller you finally managed to get a GPS working, and are now navigating towards the objective.

There’s been shockingly little resistance so far, and now you’ve fucking jinxed yourself. But you might think an occupied city would have more, don’t know, occupation?


You’re all moving down a small backstreet, buildings on both sides sport colorful facades and merchant’s stalls crowd the sidewalk; rugs, spices, used clothes, mystery meat and bootleg electronics, myriad wares, all abandoned. The buildings are either boarded up, or shot up. And occasionally some sound will betray human occupants, but an eerie silence prevails. It’s the quiet of fear, the uneasy calm that follows death and destruction. And you really, really don’t like it.

The taping of your boots, the slightest shifting of clothes, a stray cough, hell breathing; all of it sounds painfully loud in the deafening silence.

Then a sudden hand gesture from Lead interrupts your thoughts, and confirms that you fucking jinxed it; he signals for everyone to stop.

Slowly, the deafening silence recedes as a faint sound grows louder. Voices, getting closer, still too quiet to make out the words, but they’re speaking Russian.

You bring your pistol up and strain to keep your breathing under control. Several voices, three or four, some distance up the street, coming from around a bend. Judging by the footsteps they’ll round it in less then a minute, and you’ll be in in the middle of the street like an idiot.

Lead signals for everyone to get low. “Under the stalls, I wanna scope ‘em.” He whispers.

All four operators crawl behind the merchant stalls, hidden from view.

Stress mounts as the voices become more audible, you focus on keeping still and quiet.

A light becomes visible, and soon afterwards the flashlight producing it, and its user.

Four Russian soldiers, clad in light body armor and desert fatigues, bearing AK-12s, chatting about something, some officer they all hate. You really couldn’t care.

They walk at a leisurely pace, chat casually, but you can see the tension in their movements, hear it in their voices: they’re all on edge. Makes sense; it’s war after all. But they’re jumpy, and armed with automatic weapons; that makes them dangerous. You clutch your gun a little tighter.

The soldiers move closer, closer, until they’re right in front of you, feet away, and for a moment you could swear one of the soldiers is looking at you, no, he is looking at you. You tense and prepare to spring from cover, but he stares you straight in the eye, and shakes his head. One of the other soldiers speaks to him, asks him what he’s looking at, he just looks away, “Nothing” he says.

They pass. And just keep on walking, not once looking back. The deafening silence slowly sets back in.

You’re not sure what just happened, but you’re pretty sure you owe that soldier a solid.

Lead’s voice makes you jump, and you’re really glad you had your finger off the trigger. “Clear, everyone up.” He says softly.

Slowly, everyone comes out of hiding. Niceguy’s livid, looks ready to run after those soldiers and gun them down, maybe he blames them for Brains’ death, you don’t. Crunch looks about as shaken as you are. Lead is totally impassive, unreadable expression, not really sure if that’s good or bad; you’ve seen rocks more expressive.

The stone-faced bastard just gives a quick “move out.” And starts walking.



At some point, Lead veered off the street and into the convoluted back alleys that run around and between the buildings; a maze of footpaths, shady back-doors, and garbage. It’s all in a state of terrible disrepair, but whether that happened before the war you couldn’t say.

You don’t see a single person. Maybe because no one’s fool enough to wander the back-alleys of Kabul after dark, especially during a war. No one but your team.


Then, just because the universe loves proving you wrong, Lead throws up a hand and signals the team stop.

You take quick stock of your surroundings: small courtyard, behind what looks like a sketchy speakeasy. It’s open to the air, and rooftops surround you on every side. Your mind races with all the angles ambushes could come from.

Lead slowly inches forward, gun trained on an overflowing dumpster to the side of a small alleyway. The sound of scraping and shallow, ragged breathing comes from behind it.

Lead nears, and the scraping stops. Lead says something quietly in Pashto, you’re not fluent but it sounded like “come out slowly”.

A kid, young boy starved half to death, tears streaming down his eyes, crawls out from behind the dumpster. He keeps saying the same thing over and over again. He’s sobbing pretty hard, so you’re not sure, but it sounds like “Don’t shoot!”.

For a moment, you almost let your guard down, almost. But then you realize the kid is hiding his right hand behind his back. There’s something in it.

Lead says something gently, it’s too soft for you to make out but you guess he’s telling the kid to show his hands.

The kid just keeps crying, saying the same thing over and over again “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” He keeps his hand hidden.

Now he’s started moving closer, shuffling on unsteady feet.

Lead holds out a hand, “Stop!” He commands in Pashto.

The kid’s shaking his head, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

He’s getting closer.

Everyone aims at the kid.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

“Stop!” Lead is practically shouting.

He’s an arms length away from Lead, his hand comes out from behind.

“DON’T SHOOT!” The kid is screaming.

Lead plants his foot on the Kid’s chest and kicks hard, sending him flying. He levelshis rifle and prepares for retaliation. It never comes.

The kid’s head cracked against the wall, hard. A small trickle of blood streams from his nose. He was screaming on the way down, now he’s silent.

There’s a grenade in his right hand, the pin is gone, his dead fingers are keeping the handle depressed.

No one says a word.


At some point, Lead just starts walking.

Everyone follows.

You... don’t want to think about that right now. You don’t have time to think about it right now.

>Russian grunt ignored you
He's not getting paid enough to die to black-ops, and you both know it.

>Suicide bombing kid
The worst part is, you'll never know his motive. But at least you were ruthless instead of dead stupid.

>Grenade
That should work as a distraction when it eventually goes off, but place a red flag or something. You do not want that going off in front of concerned citizens, especially if it ensures survival of the scumbags like you but without discipline training.

grim as it is there is still a mission to do, what is done is done, dwelling can happen later.

You were young, then. Still are. In some sense. Don’t feel that way, though. Feel far too old.

It’s heavy, that burden, and you’ll always carry it. But you’re almost glad it’s there, the pain reminds of the loss. Without it, loss is meaningless.

The harder you deny that shit the harder it fucks you up, that doesn’t mean anyone else needs to hear it.

But this guy wants the truth. Unadulterated. He’s pushing you for it. So a truth you’ll give him, your version of it, even if it’s a brutal one.



“So, your team was engaged in a firefight, your sniper was... shot, you received an injury to the arm-” Dunmire begins.

“Wanna see the scar?” You interject, smirking wryly.

“I’ll take your word for it.” He adjusts his glasses and continues. “After the firefight, you contacted command with difficulty, and discovered beyond doubt the mission was an orchestrated failure, and that you were not alone in the deception. You then made a plan to secure extraction and headed to destroy an AA radar, along the way there was an... incident with a child soldier.” He says without looking up from the documents he’s gradually buried the table in.

“Soldier is a strong word.” You reply absentmindedly. You’re currently busy gently massaging your broken ribs, checking every thirty seconds or so to make sure they haven’t miraculously healed. Nope, still busted as fuck. But if you’re being honest, that’s not the first thing on your mind either. It’s less painful to focus on, though.

Dunmire pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “This is a humanitarian nightmare. Not to mention the light it frames the US military in.”

You scoff disdainfully. “Story’s not over. And don’t feel too sorry for yourself, now. It might sound bad but living through it is was something else entirely.”

Dunmire looks up at you with weary eyes. “You’re right. Of course. I’m sorry. Sorry to make you relive all this; but I’m just following orders. Even if I’d rather not.”

You smile sarcastically. “Just following orders? Well, so was I.” Your smile fades to a rueful frown. “And it’s not me you should feel sorry for.”

more plz i need to know

You gonna chokehold your interrogator now?

Your mind wanders. And after what you’ve experienced, and your current situation. That’s not good. At all.

You can’t get it out of your head. That kid, lying there, dead. What was he even fighting for? And Lead killed him. You can’t blame your leader, but his face... stone cold. Like he’d just spilled his drink, only slightly inconvenienced.

You wonder if he’s even human.

Then you start asking yourself questions, a terrible idea. You might as well kill yourself now before the answers do.

What are you really fighting for? Killing for? It’s not for America, not for the dream of freedom and liberty, or the illusion. It’s not for the Army, you never really had much respect for its creeds or duty. It’s not even for your friends or family, as if you have much of either in the first place.

When it really comes down to it, you’re just fighting for yourself.

That kills you to realize, just a little bit. That every bloodstain on your soul, every corpse in your past, all of it was just you fending for yourself.

You take a shuddering breath. You feel like you should be crying, or at least feeling guilt, but all you feel is a profound numbness. Somehow, that makes it so much worse.

27 people. You’ve killed 27 people in your life. The first was your battle buddy, tried to rape you in basic. Bashed his face in with your foot, not an open casket funeral to put it simply. You were seventeen then. You felt no remorse.

The rest all just blur together.

The second was a man in Brazil, he was holding a gun, but you’re a better shot. Killed seven in Myanmar, incident you’re still not supposed to talk about. Two in Alaska, you needed the sled dogs and they wanted more money than you had. One in Russia, didn’t mean to, he was all talk and a weak heart.

You struggle to remember the next one, but you must have drunken yourself close enough to death to forget after it happened.

That’s funny. Like salt in a wound. ‘Don’t even care enough to remember you’. Heh he...

Crunch is tapping his fingers against the wall, a slow staccato rhythm that sounds off beat. At first it annoys you, then you find yourself humming along, simply because it’s a sound. Simply because it’s not the silence of death.


“Karma, eyes up.” Lead whispers harshly. As much a reprimand as an order.

Your attention immediately snaps upwards. You give a small ‘I’m not shell-shocked’ nod. It’s only then you realize you’ve been staring at the floor blankly for the last ten minutes.

Lead gives the tiniest of nods back before turning to address the team, who have taken positions all across the abandoned hotel room you’re currently calling a hideout.

“Alright everyone, listen up.” He begins in as loud a tone as anyone would dare given proximity to the enemy. “Just across the street from this hell-hole is the Russian AA battery. It is also the local command center for Russian forces, so security is tight. The plan is to sneak in, find the main generator, and sabotage it. In the case that they have a backup, we’ll find and disable that one as well. For this plan to work, we’re going to need the location of the Generator; Karma, Niceguy, head to the roof and scout it out. Questions?”

No one answers.

“Good.” He glances in your direction, then Niceguy’s. “You two, head out. Use your radio sparingly, they could pick up on it.”

A shared nod with your gunner, and you’re off.



It’s not a very efficient building, the hotel. Only three stories tall, and possessing few rooms considering its size. It’s sprawling expanse is stylized like some sort of palace, meant to attract tourists who don’t know any better. Serves your team well enough.

The roof is hard to access owing to strange architecture, but once on top of it, it proves a good scout post with plenty of cover behind its decorative facade.

You take a kneeling position alongside Niceguy, and both of you get to work scoping out the Russian camp below.


A large area fenced off with razor-wire-topped chainlink. It appears it used to be a collection of small, single story shops and houses. Densely-packed buildings repurposed for military use: barracks, canteen, CO’s office, and there’s the radar... shit, no cables hooked up to it; it’s a self-sufficient model.

As if that was the good news, your eyes stray further into camp and you catch sight of a motor pool.

Heavy armor and APC’s kinda motor pool.

You slump behind cover and massage your eyes with the backs of your hands, cursing as loud as you dare in a violent string of profanity that targets everything from the Russians to your still-throbbing injuries.

Niceguy doesn’t take his eyes off the enemy, but gives a good-natured chuckle. “You sound tired, Karma. How about you send Crunch up and catch a couple minutes shut-eye? No one will blame you for tapping-out a minute.”

“I’ll blame myself. He’s more tired than I am. I’ll rest when we’re out of this sandy wasteland.” There’s no humor in your tone, morbid focus affecting a hard edge. You attempt to turn it around with a joke, “Besides, you really want Crunch to be spotting with you?” It ends up sounding as forced as it is.

Niceguy still gives a breathy laugh, and he’s better at faking than you are. “Point. Still, something’s bothering you, wanna talk about it? No bullshit allowed?”

That gets a genuine chuckle from you. “Not really, but damn if you don’t sound like you mean it. later, promise.”

He smiles, and finally takes his eyes off the camp. “Now, you know I’m gonna hold you to that. Last chance to take it back.” He raises an eyebrow for emphasis.

“I mean it. We’ll have a good ol’ heart to heart, tete-a-tete, touchy-feely talk about feelings once we’re not in immediate danger of being shot. Pinky swear.” You wiggle your little finger.

He eyes you with hyperbolic suspicion and a knowing look. “You better mean it too.”

You probably don’t.


Bigger problems though, just how the hell are you going to deal with the AA radar? Your focus returns to the task at hand, and you get back to scouting.


You look at the camp from every angle, and it seems almost perfectly defended, but finally you find a blindspot where the chainlink fence meets a section of old stucco wall, and dry grass grows along the ground, providing cover and concealment. It’s away from any lights, so concealed in shadow. It’s a great approach. But you need a plan.

Main strategy is, get in quietly, build multiple exit routes while you're inside, then blow the AA tower with remote charges as best you can and scamper for the nearest exit route that's still active.

You'll need to act fast and knock a few heads (don't just haphazardly kill them, try forcing beer down their throats until they're too drunk to think), but if you cause enough chaos you can get through the rest of the base without firing a shot.

“Who’s fucking plan was this?” Whispers lead harshly.

You’re not deigning to respond to that. He knows the answer anyway.

And it’s a good plan. He knows it. He’s just bitching.

The reality of four soldiers low crawling through grass to reach a wall which may or may not be heavily guarded on its other side is less then glamorous though.

There are floodlights around the perimeter of the camp, and every forty seconds or so a spotlight sweeps over your head. It’s all you can do to get low and hold still when it does. Then darkness closes back in and it’s a return to the crawl.

Every second that passes might be the second a soldier sees you, every stalk of grass that snaps under your weight might be the snap too loud, every footstep you hear on the other side of that fence might be the footsteps of the one that finally offs you.

It’s not really fun, in short. So maybe Lead’s bitching is justified.

But it’s necessary, and it’s not the worst thing you’ve had to do by any stretch.


It feels like hours before you finally reach the wall, and hours more before the anticipated gap in patrols; so probably like fifteen minutes.

Lead takes one furtive glance around before motioning you and Crunch to move. You put your back up against the wall and hold your hands out, bracing yourself. Crunch does the same. Lead places his foot in your hands and you Step-boost him up to the edge of the wall, which he heaves himself on top of. He then reaches down and grasps your hand, pulling you over the wall as well. Crunch and Niceguy are preforming a similar maneuver.

Over the wall, drop down on the other side, trying to make as little noise as possible. You’re in partial shadow, and it takes your eyes only a moment to adjust.

No soldiers immediately around. Seems you got lucky. The area you’ve entered appears to be storage: several shipping containers sit on a cement patch that seems to have been cleared for this specific purpose, it’s open to the air, no covers. The area is separated from the rest of the camp by yet another layer of fencing and a locked, man-sized gate next to the vehicle-sized gate. Beyond the fence, several temporary buildings -barracks by the look- are set up.

Using the containers as cover, the team advances. It’s smooth. With solid cover and more wits about you, avoiding the spotlight and enemies in general is far easier.

You make short work of the locked gate, Niceguy effortlessly jimmies the flimsy lock with a pry bar. The noise is negligible.

Through the gate. No guards immediately in sight, but the spotlight is coming. Lead gives a single, quick hand gesture, and the team squeezes between the tight-packed buildings. It’s an uncomfortably tight fit, and it’s all you can do to prevent your gear from making noise against the walls. You hear the occasional sound through a wall; some soldier coughing, an errant thud, your nerves are wracked each time and it’s all you can do not to physically jump.

Lead holds up a hand: Stop. Looking around him, you see the issue; nearest cover beyond the barracks is a large truck around twenty feet away. Once there, it’s smooth sailing, the trucks are parked in spaces one after another in front of what looks like the CO’s building, and around the other side of that building is the AA Radar. you’ll be able to crawl under the trucks, then sneak around back. But to get there you’ll have to move across a large, completely open road. Several Russian soldiers around the area. No cover. No chance of making it unseen. Your first thought is to backtrack, but a second idea pops up. It might work if you can stay out of direct light. You roll with it just for the sake of continuing the trend of terrible ideas.

“Lead.” Your whisper could barely even be called that, you almost didn’t hear yourself. But Lead must have heard it as he immediately locks eyes with searing intensity. “How similar do you think our uniforms are to the Russian’s?”

His whisper is only slightly louder, but contains a staggering level of dismissal. “No. Absolutely not. Not similar enough.”

“But at a distance? Low-visibility?”

He pauses for a second, another ‘No’ on the tip of his tongue. But a mental conflict halts his immediate denial. You kinda wish he’d save the thinking for when you weren’t sandwiched between barracks full of death. After a moment, he curses to himself silently, then looks back at the team. “Everyone, listen carefully. When I call it we’re gonna walk calmly, and casually over to those trucks, then drop down and crawl under them. Clear?”

Three heads nod in agreement with their probable demise.

He peeks around each direction, waits what seem an arbitrary two seconds and change, then utters a single, dreadful word: “Go.”

Your heart starts hammering. Lead steps out, casually sauntering forward like he hasn’t a care in the world.

Your feet move of their own volition, your face sets in an impassive stare; you’re stepping out into the light, Crunch is right behind you but feels an eternity away, you stare at one spot on Lead’s back, and focus on it as if nothing else in the world existed.

Then a voice comes from your left, outside of your vision. “Чем ты там занимался?” The voice is calm, slightly suspicious but not accusatory, only mildly interested. For all your nerves care he might as well have been screaming ‘intruder’.

Lead tenses like he’s about to talk, but this guy continues. “А почему так напряжен? Я видел шомполы более расслабленными.” He jokes, and a bit of humor enters his tone.

You turn to face him. You don’t quite know why, and for a second you question if it’s even happening at all. Yep, you’re turning to face the man who holds the lives of your entire team in his hands. He’s leaning against the front of the barracks, smoking a cigarette. His face is calm, but there’s a strange sorrow or resignation behind his eyes.

You speak, without really meaning to. “Просто немного поболтать.” You give a wry smile. “И, может быть, немного алкоголя. Почему, ты хочешь немного?” Joking, sarcastic. And where you mustered the courage for it you’ll never know.

He gives a genuine laugh. “Но позвольте мне быть честным с вами.” Then his voice turns serious, and he leans closer, whispering. “Ты никого не обманешь, American.”

You’ve been had.

Fuck fuck fuck. Adrenaline kicks in and you instinctually reach for the gun at your hip, but are stopped when he puts up his hands in a show of peace and his voice takes on a nervous tone. “Нет, я не хочу драться, я не буду никого предупреждать.” He looks sincere, sounds sincere. Maybe... he really isn’t out to get you. “Я не должен был тебя останавливать. Я не хочу неприятностей. Давай просто ... Этого никогда не было. Я никогда не видел тебя.” He leans back against the wall and continues smoking. His eyes dart nervously yet he’s looking away from you pointedly.

Fuck. Fuck. He says he won’t rat you out, says he doesn’t want trouble. Seems like it might be a common theme among these soldiers. But you’re not sure you can risk leaving him alive, he could just run off to the nearest alarm as soon as your back is turned.

You’ve got your knife, you could end him silently, hide his body between the barracks. You’re fast, no one would see.

But maybe he’s telling the truth, maybe you can just live and let live.

Lead’s eyeing him like a corpse that doesn’t know he’s dead yet.

Niceguy looks around quickly. “C’mon, we need to move.” He whispers.

He’s right, the spotlight is about fifteen seconds away from sweeping over you, and you’re pretty sure the darkness is the only reason a dozen 5.45mm rounds haven’t ripped into your chest.

Fifteen seconds. Three seconds to make a decision, twelve to either kill this guy, stow the corpse and slip away, or just leave him and find some shadows.

You’re moving regardless. Only question is if you’re gonna leave a corpse or a confidant behind.

Let the guy live. He may have seen you, but he's the only one who has seen you. He won't know exactly where you're going or what you're doing.

No need to take more lives than necessary on a fucked mission that shouldn't have happened. If you have a moment to look back and you see him not running or whatever and looking at you give him a little sharp nod of appreciation (if culturally appropriate)

(google translate of the Russian)
>Then a voice comes from your left, outside of your vision. “Чем ты там занимался?” The voice is calm, slightly suspicious but not accusatory, only mildly interested. For all your nerves care he might as well have been screaming ‘intruder’.
What are you doing there?

>Lead tenses like he’s about to talk, but this guy continues. “А почему так напряжен? Я видел шомполы более расслабленными.” He jokes, and a bit of humor enters his tone.
Why so tense? I've seen ramrods more relaxed.

>You speak, without really meaning to. “Просто немного поболтать.” You give a wry smile. “И, может быть, немного алкоголя. Почему, ты хочешь немного?” Joking, sarcastic. And where you mustered the courage for it you’ll never know.
Just a little chat. something about this feels lost by google translate, can't think of a way that sounds natural in english
And maybe some alcohol. Why, do you want some?

>He gives a genuine laugh. “Но позвольте мне быть честным с вами.” Then his voice turns serious, and he leans closer, whispering. “Ты никого не обманешь, American.”
But, let me be honest with you,
you are not fooling anyone, American.

>Fuck fuck fuck. Adrenaline kicks in and you instinctually reach for the gun at your hip, but are stopped when he puts up his hands in a show of peace and his voice takes on a nervous tone. “Нет, я не хочу драться, я не буду никого предупреждать.” He looks sincere, sounds sincere. Maybe... he really isn’t out to get you. “Я не должен был тебя останавливать. Я не хочу неприятностей. Давай просто ... Этого никогда не было. Я никогда не видел тебя.” He leans back against the wall and continues smoking. His eyes dart nervously yet he’s looking away from you pointedly.
No, I do not wish to fight, I will not warn anyone.
I shouldn't have stopped you. I do not want trouble. Let's just... This never happened. I have never seen you.

Seconds hesitation, hand falters. You don’t want to kill him, but then again, sometimes spilt blood is unavoidable.

No, not this time. He lives.

Too late either way, searchlight’s almost on you.

Heart’s still hammering. Lead taps you on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

You give him one last look before slipping away. And out of the corner of your eye, you catch a tiny glimmer of something playing across his features, but it fades and you turn away, and just like that, a spark of respect between two soldiers flashes.



Maybe you’ll never know what was going through that soldier’s head. And maybe in that moment you had bigger problems.

Asphalt bites into your elbows, and your left arm stings like a bitch under the strain.

The reality of four soldiers low-crawling under trucks to avoid enemy soldiers is less then glamorous, but you’ve done this job long enough to know that it’s never glamorous.


Ten minutes and two bloody elbows later, you’re under the last truck in the lineup, and so close to the objective a strange sense of hope is blooming.

Then you seen the AA Radar, and the punchline to the sick fucking joke that is this infiltration kills your hope thoroughly.

Russians, thirty at least, all gathered in front of the CO’s building: some are patrolling, several have overwatch positions on the rooftops, group of several behind sandbags. They’re all guarding something, and it only takes a minute to figure out what; a large canvas tent, perhaps fifteen-by-thirty feet, stands erected in front of the CO’s building, buttoned up tight, a center of attention for all the guards. You have no idea what’s inside, but they cared enough to station a whole fucking platoon to guard it.

That’d be none of your fucking business, except they’re all in full view of the AA Radar. All you can do is pray no one spots you under the truck.

Shit. God really does hate me. You think to yourself. Suddenly, the nickname Karma has a whole new level of irony.

“What’a we do, Lead?” Whispers Niceguy.

Lead is silent. He takes a deep breath, thinking. He turns to you, “Karma, contact General Miller. Ask her... Ask for standing orders.”

Not good.


Twenty seconds and you’ve got her on a secure line over the radio. Whispering, just hoping no one can hear. “General, we have positive eyes-on mission objective. Heavily guarded. Frontal assault is suicide, stealth sabotage non-viable. Please advise.”

There’s a long silence over the line. “How well guarded?” Miller’s question has a strange tone to it, like she already knows the answer.

“At least thirty surrounding the objective, more nearby, and they have access to heavy armor.”

You hear a muffled “Damn it” over the line, then silence. A minute or so later, there’s shuffling, and Miller comes back over the line at full volume. “Still with me Karma?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. New objective, get away from the Russian camp, once clear, radio in. I’m sending in support to destroy the AA Radar. Questions?” The way she asked that, she obviously doesn’t want to answer any questions.

“......No, ma’am.”

“Good. And Karma? Haul ass. Either get far away, or underground before you call in. Over and out.” The line returns to blank static.

“.....Over.”

None of that, none of that, bodes well.
But... there’s no real choice here.

You relay it all to Lead, including the part about “ Support” whatever the fuck that means. You’re used to the mushroom treatment, long used to it, but it still pisses you off.

Lead doesn’t look happy either, then again, he never does. And who could blame him? Mission was fucked sideways, now it’s fucked sideways and ass backwards. Christ, at a certain point it sounds easier to just surrender to the Russians.

“Easy”, though, has never been your forte. Because “Easy” is for scrubs, the Air Force, and Operators who take the bullet express to retirement.

Fitting none of the criteria, you suppose easy just isn’t in the cards.

Time to go I guess.
It would be nice if there was a safe way to let only Russian coolguy know that he should probably vacate the area too, but we are already stretching risk by haveing not directly killed him (still the right choice)
War is hell.

Leave a few messages for the smarter mooks, like "desert or die".

Go underground. It's not nearly safe, but you need to move under cover.

You peer out of a basement window, level with the ground, out at the Russian’s camp across the street. The cold night air blows dust in from the road, makes you squint, your eyes water. The others are there too, sitting around with that sour combination of exhaustion and anticipation, hair away from falling asleep, just as ready to fight.

“We’re clear of the camp, send it,” you speak into the radio. Five seconds, ten, just dead air. You look to Lead for some guidance you know he doesn’t have, and he stares back with that helplessness you’ve gotten used to. So you wait.

The Camp is quiet, if they know anything they’re doing a good job hiding it. You run your tongue along the back of your teeth, staring out without really seeing. Maybe it’s a lack of sleep, or maybe there’s something gnawing at you. Guilt, maybe regret, that you’re leaving that soldier who spared you. Calling death down on top of him. You wanted to leave some kind of warning, had the emergency chalk in your hand and was ready to write when Lead grabbed you by the arm and said no time. Maybe you should have left something, maybe it would’ve spared someone.

No. There’s nothing you could do. You just keep telling yourself that.

Nothing you could do.


You hear it before you see it.

The whistling of a mortar shell. How many times you’ve heard it before, like a trumpet call to announce the death about to hit the ground. It makes you cringe. You don’t know what you were expecting, but you suppose mortars work well enough. The Russians on the ground are scrambling, they know the sound too. The hairs on your neck rise. Something is off.

You shield your eyes, a blinding white flash shines through the windowsill, “Fuck!” There’s a bang, louder than a gun, too quiet for a bomb. You hear a hissing, then screaming. To your sides your teammates are reading weapons, or frozen listening to the sounds.

You drop your arm, but the camp is gone, all you see is hell. Russians are scattering, taking cover or trying vainly to call support. That’s the lucky couple still walking. The others are rolling on the ground, clawing at themselves madly trying to pull the burning flecks of hell from their flesh. Screaming, ragged sobbing. There are charred holes in buildings, vehicles, the cement. The tent they were all guarding was hit hard, a hundred black holes melted into the plastic cover. The screaming from the tent is the worst, probably a barracks. Used to be a barracks. New job as a mass grave.

“Phosphorus,” you hiss through clenched teeth, as if the others couldn’t see it. Maybe you’re just trying to believe it yourself. You stand there staring as a second shell hits, feel the heat on your face. “Those fucking bastards,” you hiss, voice croaking out.

“I’ve seen enough,” Lead’s voice is almost a whisper, tired but cold, like he’s beyond caring. You couldn’t blame him. “Karma, call in the bird.” He turns away and heads for the stairs, the others following behind. Niceguy gives you a sympathetic look, lingers for a second in the doorway, like he’s going to say something, then you’re left alone, staring out of that little dirty window with bloodshot eyes as the screaming just gets louder.

You’re expecting Miller on the line, but a voice you haven’t heard before picks up, gravely and devoid of emotion, “This is Seal Team Echo, we are providing active support with an indirect fire system. Please confirm destruction of target.”

You bite your tongue, bite down hard on the hundred curses you want to throw at this piece of shit. If he was standing next to you you’d slice his fucking gut open. But he’s not, and this is war, and your petty shit is going to get you killed. “Target Is confirmed destroyed.” You try to keep your voice even.

“Copy. Pickup is delayed. You have new orders. You are to proceed into the enemy camp and locate the Command Center, inside, near the Comms, you’ll find a dossier stamped US Army, we lost it when they invaded. Find it and destroy it along with any copies that may have been made. Will advise on your pickup once the file is destroyed. Understood?”

You clench your teeth and shut your eyes, try to breath. You feel like vomiting. “Orders confirmed. Will comply.”

Demand grunt reinforcements; if command is going to delay the evac of dozens of special forces to eliminate enemy intel, you'd better have reassurance that this isn't an Uriah Gambit.

(And totally keep the dossier for yourselves.)

>>980850
Kome makes a good point about the Uriah gambit, though keeping the doss is probably too much, giving it a quick look through on the other hand, whos to know.

You come up the basement stairwell, eyes hard and distant, thoughts playing out. The building used to be a convenience store, most of the goods still on their shelves; you grab a liter of water as you go, throwing the cap to the ground and chugging it. Your own canteen leaked empty after some shrapnel caught it.

Lead is sitting on a box by the front windows, rifle braced in the frame among the broken glass, watching the camp with his weathered eyes. But there’s no movement, all the shouting and screaming has died out. Worried the charred corpses are going to attack you guess. You pat him on the shoulder, some of the blood seeping through your bandage drips on his vest. He twists away from his gun to lock eyes with you. “What’s the word on exfil?”

“On hold.” Your voice is blank, tired. It’s been awhile since you’ve felt exhaustion like this. “Some bullshit, Objective of Opportunity. They want us to go into that camp, grab a document. Destroy it. US Army document,” you add with emphasis. The thought of stomping through barbecued bodies has bile coming back up your throat, but you keep your expression even, wash it down with more water.

“Who’s orders?” His face scrunches up, mouth twisting with bemusement.

“I don’t fucking know. Seal Team passed it down. Guys that dropped the phosphorus.” Keeping the contempt from your voice is a losing battle, you end up spitting the words more than saying them.

“Let me see the radio.”

He turns back towards the window, waiting for the other side to pick up. “This is Iceman, please confirm new priority orders.”

His brows furrow at whatever response he gets, “who the hell is this? Let me speak with Miller.” He’s obviously talking over the person on the other side, “gone? Gone where? Find her and... No, you listen son, I’m over here—...” he suddenly goes very quiet, face falling. “Understood. Signing off.” He holds the radio out over his shoulder, and you snatch it back with maybe more force than you intended.

“What the fuck did they say?”

Lead locks eyes with you. “That was one of Miller’s officers. She’s gone, somewhere. He has command.”

“Fuck,” you say, looking off.

He stands, taking a deep breath. “We’re getting the document.”

You shake your head. “Got no idea how long til the Russians send a team to check on this camp. Maybe we’ve got thirty minutes, maybe three. We need support. Get those Seals over here, or drop some troops in the hole we made in Russian surveillance, we’re—“

“Doing it alone. Orders were clear. We move fast and hope we’re not there when reinforcements roll up.” The words are final, but the tone doesn’t speak of any conviction. He walks off to rally the others, stops, says it quiet and without facing you: “Just a little further Karma.”

You watch him go over your plastic bottle, little streams of water cutting through the black soot on your face. You wonder how much further you could possibly go with one foot in the grave.


The lights are all out. The street, the camp, the buildings around you: dark. Keeping in tight diamond formation, four guns sticking out at angles like the broken shafts of arrows; your team moves like a wounded predator, limping off to check it’s kill. The camp is quiet. In the distance you hear gunfire, the rumble of explosions; some last desperate fight the Afghans are putting up. Lucky, it means the Russians are distracted. In your pocket of the city, a sad, tense quiet has taken over. Just faint echoes in the streets, rubble settling, and the soft sound of fires dying. The smell of burning is everywhere: burning metal, burning plastic, burning skin. You cross through the front gate, and the broken remains of the camp come into full view.

The Russian flag is whipping gently in the wind up above, blackened at the edges, holes burned through the center. You’ve seen artillery strikes, bombing runs; you’ve walked through the rubble and turned up the mangled carcasses after a strike. But this is different. This is hell, bottled and dropped on the enemy. You swallow bitter spit.

Bodies are everywhere, grouped up where they thought they could find shelter: smoking, charred remains. The front of the command building is streaked with black scars down its facade, glass windows are molten down the wall. Four pairs of boots roll through piles of ash and still-burning debris; you curse and stomp as a fleck of phosphorus burns straight through the sole and stings your foot before flickering out. Smoke is heavy in the air, twisting and rising in the wind, a sick chemical tang that makes your eyes water and lungs burn. You struggle just to keep from choking.

Niceguy steps over a smoldering corpse, looking around at the destruction. “Really gave ‘em hell,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Lock it up,” lead commands, letting the nauseating quiet crush back in.

You pass a sandbag barricade with smoke rising from behind, peering over it you find a Russian that tried to hide there, his fatigues melted into his skin, little black holes all along his back where the flesh and bone burned away. His hands are held over his head, the skin pocked and fried, the hair melting into them. The smell... You turn away, cursing under your breathe.

A truck from the motor pool is crashed rear-first into the front of one of the barracks, burning intensely: some panicking soldier that tried to outrun the fire, backed straight into his buddies then burned in his own metal coffin. The truck’s tires are melted into the ground, the engine block is burned-out. The windshield is fractured but not broken, like he tried to break free when the door heated shut. Poor fuck.


You become aware of a soft sobbing, a broken voice like someone who would be screaming if his voice wasn’t too ragged for it. Your team’s four guns train on the direction of the sound. Rounding a truck you find them: a Russian soldier speaking softly, comforting words, hunched over the crying figure on the ground in the lee of the truck. Rendering aid, by the look of it. A half-dozen smoking corpses are strewn around them.

Niceguy and Crunch spread out to cover different angles, turning to watch for contact from anywhere else in camp while this is dealt with. “Slowly, your hands where I can see them,” Lead speaks quietly in Russian, muzzle pointed at the soldier’s back.

Karma 2020/12/01(Tue)19:39 No. 982641 ID: e66308
File 160688036719.jpg - (235.73KB , 1080x1115 , Hesitation is Death.jpg )

He startles, looking over his shoulder at you. Young face, couldn’t be older than seventeen. He has his hands pressed to the wounded, doesn’t move them. He says something about his injured friend, can’t remove pressure. He’s shaking his head, repeating the words. You notice one of his hands creeping towards his belt. The pistol at his waist. Your sights line up over his head and you feel your finger tightening on the trigger without really thinking about it. You’re not sure you want to kill him. You’re not sure you see a choice.

Fire a warning shot and demand he surrender. If he goes for his gun, shoot his limbs until he can't move.

>>982641
Any closer to that gun of yours and I shoot you. Move up and disarm.

Lead is slipping, it’s obvious he doesn’t have a handle on the situation. You need to take action.

Your face twists and you shout in short, commanding Russian, “Hands off the fucking gun!”

The kid cringes at the sudden outburst, your voice echoes off the still buildings and you feel your team shifting uncomfortably. The boy soldier turns away from you, but his hand keeps moving, shaking as it brushes the grip of his pistol. His breathing, the tension in his back; the intent is written over every inch of him, fucking idiot.

You breath out, squeeze just as your lungs hit empty, right about as his fingers are around the pistol and he’s turning towards you. You’re not keen to kill two kids in one night. The round tears into his shoulder, jerking his body. His pistol clatters across the cement, he falls backwards, on top of his charred friend. First there’s a pained gasp, that pause, when the shock’s still wearing off.

Then he screams, shrill, ragged. It devolves into a loud sob, words you can’t understand, choking on his own snot and tears as he clutches his hand to the hole seeping blood, rolls lamely off the guy he was busy patching up thirty seconds ago. Niceguy moves to secure the weapon. You’re just hoping there weren’t any hostiles heard that gunshot. In the face of fear you feel nothing for him. Son of a bitch should’ve known better.

You glance over your shoulder. You heard voices, movement inside the command building. Just barely over the kid crying. Then it’s gone. You don’t like it, smells like an ambush. Hard to tell exactly where it came from: maybe behind the front door not ten feet away, or maybe one of the broken windows looming above you. All the possible angles leave you in the same position: exposed, royally fucked.

Lead must’ve heard it too, speaks low and quickly, “Karma, Niceguy, sweep it. Check that sound, then find the file. Crunch, render aid to the wounded, and shut his damn mouth. Get’m to that tent, I’ll cover you.”

Crunch issues some threat vile enough to shut him up, sets to hauling the writhing young soldier by his armpits, and Niceguy is set to breach the building, gesturing for you to stack up. Lead stops you: “Karma, take my rifle. Just to be safe,” he holds it out to you, and gives you a meaningful look along with it, “watch yourself.” You grab the weapon from his hands, adjust to the pain it sends up your left arm just holding it. Old M16. He never did like the new issue rifles. Twenty-to-one odds there’s a round in the chamber, but that little bit of doubt and old habits leads you to cycle the bolt. An unspent round pings against the cement.

Lead draws his pistol and gives you a nod. You find yourself giving one back as he turns away. There’s a certain kind of certainty that comes when the enemy is pissing distance.


The front doors to the command building are melted shut. Niceguy is set to breach with a crowbar jammed between them. There’s the exchange, the handshake, familiar as breathing.

“Set.” You say.
“Breaching.” He replies.
“Breach.”

The lock busts open, and you Breach. Twisting around cover, you hear shouting, you see movement: two tangoes. Sweeping into the dark room rifle-first, lungs emptying, your muzzle flashes twice, the first one, behind cover, takes hot lead to the chest and head. Sprays the wall. The second kill is messier, but just as fast, one catches his leg as he bolts for cover, second through his ribs, ruptured lung. He falls to the ground leaking. You take a breath, there’s more sounds coming from the floor above you. Antsy footsteps, muffled voices.

“Room is clear, but I hear more up above.”

Your heart is pounding, ears are ringing. Niceguy sweeps in after you and forms the other half of your pitiful formation. “Not much of a welcome... I can hear ‘em up there. I’ll take point,” he whispers from behind his rifle’s sights, moving to the front. You slink after.

A gust of wind blows in past your quietly moving boots, loose papers on the ground shift and scuttle in with you. A square of light cuts into the shadows of the hallway from the gaping doorframe, casting you both in two long shadows. There’s a receptionist’s desk straight ahead, stacked up with sand-bags in front of it to form some kind of cover. All spattered with blood now, one big splat of red on on the wall. Boxes of food and supplies are cluttered around the entrance. Rifle raised and body tense, you creep inwards, bloodshot eyes flicking this way and that as the shadows dance in your peripherals.


The hallways are empty. The lights are all out, and it’s almost pitch dark. Doors with cloudy windows pass you on either side as you move, but you don’t have the time or frankly the nerve to sweep them properly. The whole place feels unused, like it was only a skeleton crew inside. You stumble on a power cable crossing the floor and nearly pitch onto your face, righting yourself and cursing silently. “I can’t see shit, keep an extra eye out,” you whisper to Niceguy, lucky sucker’s NVG’s are still working by some miracle. Makes you wonder if god really does look out for the nice ones.

You come up to a staircase, nice wide linoleum steps that switchback in the middle, a big window sitting over them. Niceguy looks back at you, and you give him a nod. He creaks up them, twisting backwards to watch the top of the stairs as he goes. Then he freezes. There’s a shout, Russian. You startle as two loud bangs echo down the hall, Niceguy’s rifle lights up the walls, “Contact!” Niceguy is pushing up the stairs and you follow close behind. There’s a gurgling cry from up above, probably the receiving end of his fire, and you hear frantic shouting in Russian. Couple hostiles, at least two, scrambling judging by the erratic footsteps.

A burst of automatic fire flies over your head and shatters the window behind you. Battle-temper allows you to keep your cool, breath. You inch up the steps and get an angle over the top, bead in on the source of the muzzle flash. You fire off a couple shots into the dark. More shouting. It’s hard to tell what the room up here looks like in the dark, but there’s a window behind the hostiles. You see a silhouette in it, moving towards you, looks like it’s holding a gun. That’s hostile enough. You fire at his chest, sending up a spray of red mist. Put another round in the general direction the body slumped.

Niceguy has reached the top of the stairs and you vaguely see him move forward into some kind of cover. You’re really missing those NVG’s about now. There’s a shout from somewhere in the room, sounds desperate. A long burst of gunfire flashes from the dark not ten feet away, sends you ducking down into cover, shielding your face as glass is powdered by the rounds. You hear a sharp tap from Niceguy’s rifle, a thud. Then the poor fuck that just got clipped starts screaming. You peak up the stairwell, just barely see him in the gloom; clutching his thigh and rocking on the floor.

“More?” You hiss as you you reload, realize a couple of your mag pouches tore off your vest at some point, only one full spare left.

“Don’t see ‘em.”

You both wait. The soldier’s screaming turns to muffled sobbing. No one responds. Quiet.

You inch up the steps, eyes on a swivel behind the sights of your rifle. Then stop. The wounded guy is rocking softly at your feet, bleeding from the femoral artery judging by the pool of blood, no hope for that. You press the muzzle of your rifle against his temple, and finish it.


Five bodies. The room turned out to be a hall, as your eyes adjust. They fought peaking out of doorways and behind overturned tables. You crouch down next to one, a body behind an office desk. Wriggle a finger in one of the little holes where your round went straight through into the defender.

“These guys had no fucking clue what they were doing. You hear ‘em panicking when you dropped that first guy?” You think that might be funny, hard to tell, you’re still high-strung from the fight.

Niceguy turns one of the corpses over, “old gear too, last generation rifle, Soviet-era helmet. Unit patch here, they’re from a reserve element.”

“Yeah. Reserves on the front lines... Something stinks,” you bring your weapon up to a low-ready as you stand, “whatever unit they were they’re dead.”

“What’s this? Found it on the Officer.” Niceguy is holding what looks kinda like a radio. He tosses it too you.

“Radio distress beacon. When the comm tower went down he must have activated it,” you turn it off then crush it under your boot, “fuck me. We got less time than I thought. Haul ass.”


The room at the end of the hall turns out the Comm Room. There’s computers set up along a wall, tied into the radio relay on the roof. Most of that stuff is fried, phosphorus rained in through the windows. That’s any digital copies taken care of. There’s a table set up in the center of the room, a flashlight sitting on top illuminates maps, papers, files spread out over the top. Used for planning, by the look of things. It only takes you a second to find it, a dossier stamped “U.S. ARMY”. Niceguy comes up behind you, sweeping with his rifle.

“Orders are to torch it.”

“Yeah,” you say, flicking your lighter open. The flame hovers a couple inches from its surface, reflecting in the glossy paper. You know what you’re supposed to do, you’re not sure if you should.

“Feels off Karma,” he shakes his head, “no, fuck it. Orders don’t say anything about not taking pictures first. If we’re quick. Your call.”

It stinks, and part of you wants to know what the hell is going on. This might have answers. Other part of you knows sticking your nose in it is asking for trouble. Two bad decisions, but your salt says following blindly is gonna walk you straight into a noose.

You flip through the pages, using your PDA to take pictures. No time to read it right now, but it might matter latter. You also snag some pics of the maps and papers on the war table. Then you set it all on fire.

You back up slowly, watching the fire spread. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Get to a secure location and make a silent call for evac. Stay silent and out of view, wait for them to speak. Give the impression that you're all incapacitated or MIA, see if they're dumb enough to give orders to the dead or laugh about how disposable you are.

>>983778
If this is supposed to be a suicide mission, best let them think it is working (better than it really is anyway) plus this gives the impression that: no you can't do any more 'little things' staying in place with no hostiles present is hard enough, thanks
If they ask you to wait there after you give your location, don't wait there, wait somewhere in sight of there

Smoke and orange light is billowing from the broken windows of the command building by the time you and Niceguy walk out the front door. Heads still on a swivel, weapons clutched tight. The sound of gunfire ringing faintly in your ears.

You find Crunch and Lead setup outside the large tent. The medic is finishing a patch job on the shot kid, and Lead is just sitting on a pile of sandbags, staring at the ground. You don’t have time for their moody shit. “Crunch, we need to go. Just dump the kid in here.” You move for the tent.

“Don’t,” Lead says half-heartedly.

You pull the tent flap open. Vomit washes up the back of your throat at the sight, the smell. “Oh fuck!” you cover your mouth and nose with a hand as you twist your face away. You feel sick.

Bodies. You were expecting bodies, but...

The tent is full. Charred corpses, piled in together. There must be more that forty. No weapons, they’re all civilians. Men, women by their jewelry, the skin is too far gone to tell, their children. Some of them are still smoking, faces frozen with whatever agony they died in, scrabbling over each other to reach the exit. None of them made it.

Niceguy stands in the entrance to the tent. Just stands there, staring in. He slowly lets the tent flap fall. “Look what they did...”

“Seal Team Three, Second Squad,” Lead looks up from the dirt, “I checked over the radio. They’ll be tried at The Hague when we get back.” He turns to you, “the file?”

You heave a shaky breath, “yeah, we found it. Torched the—“

“We just gonna ignore this? Look away? They fucking shake-and-baked a relief center!” Niceguy snaps. Lead looks at him with empty eyes, Crunch is shaking his head. No one has the heart, so you guess it’s your job to fake it.

“What’re we gonna do about it?” You ask, flopping your arms in defeat, “we can’t afford this shit right now, Nice, we—“

“Did you even look in the tent? Dozens—“

Something snaps. You grab him by his vest and yank him close, “I know what happened, Nice. I guided the mortars in, I gave the go-ahead to fire,” you shake him once bodily, the anger drains from his face, “so don’t think you need to fucking tell me what the tent looks like! I am doing my best right now, I wanna see us walk away from this. Pull it the fuck together,” you let go of him, seating your rifle against your shoulder, “and let’s just goddamn leave. You can kill yourself in a shitter when we get back.”

There’s a pause, and he looks you right in the eye. You almost think you see sympathy there. You don’t want it. He gives a nod, goes and sets up behind some sandbags with his LMG to secure the area. You stare after him, feel Lead rest a hand on your shoulder, “stay strong, just a little longer.”

Your face twists into an ugly grimace. You jerk your shoulder away, “get your fucking hand off me,” you press your eyes shut against tears, “just, get us somewhere safe. Away.”

He gives you a blank look, like he wants to say something but won’t. Then he just nods, gets ready to leave. It’s about then, as the quiet settles back in, that you hear it. A vehicle. Big one by the sound of the engine, low rumble that echoes from the buildings. Maybe a couple blocks away, moving *fast* by how quick it’s getting louder. Dead Russian’s buddies finally showing up.

“Shit,” you hiss, motioning for Niceguy to rejoin the group, and throwing Lead’s rifle back to him, “Time to go. Crunch, leave the kid.”

The medic stays kneeling on the ground, staring at the Russian he’s just patched up. Kid looks like he’ll be fine, the doc doesn’t. “Go. I’m not coming.”

“Your tantrum can wait. Move!” You grab him by the shoulder of his jacket to haul him up, but he slaps your hand away roughly.

The doctor draws his pistol and racks the slide, voice shaking, “do no harm.” He puts it in his mouth, shuts his eyes tight, and pulls the trigger.

“No!” Lead screams, half a second too late. Crunch flops backwards onto the ground, a dark pool of blood spreading under his slack face. The vehicle is a rolling roar, sounds less than a block away.

You yank at Lead by the elbow as you break into a dead sprint towards the gates, “C’MON!” Niceguy is running with you, you hear Lead’s footfalls a second later but your eyes are straight forward. Wind whips at your ears, the chemical air burns your lungs. You bolt down the parking lot, hurtling over charred corpses and ruptured sand-bags, your boots clapping against the blacktop as you fly through the front gates. Headlights round the corner down the road. The street is bathed in blinding white light, then the vehicle screeches to a stop maybe thirty feet away, you hear doors opening, shouting in Russian.

You make it across the road into an alley. Niceguy is right there, barrels into the passage and sprawls out on the ground as he tries to stop, Russian fire hot on his ass. The shots rip into the mortar of the buildings, tear chincks out of your cover, send dust up into your eyes. Lead is way behind. And the road looks pretty wide with Russian guns on it, pot holes and loose rubble casting long black shadows in the flood of white light. Killzone. You know he’s gonna get cut down if he tries to cross. He knows it too, slams down into cover by the gate, behind some sandbags. Shots flying over his head.

You need to act, one way or another. The Russians won’t stay dumb forever; they’ll flank you, throw a grenade, at worst reinforcements might arrive. There’s four to six of them right now, more than you want to get in a straight fight with when all you’ve got is a pistol. You could try to suppress them with Nice’s Pig, you might try a flanking movement of your own. Fuck. You need to think of something.

You look across at Lead, and the thought crosses your mind to just leave him. It’s an ugly thought. Some part of you still wants to pretend you’re the hero. But you might not have that luxury anymore.

Disclaimer: I am legendarily bad at tactics.

With inferior firepower, seemingly our only option is to secure a better position. Set up our own flanking maneuver.

These are grunts, not commandos. Simulate a sniper picking them off. Flank into obscure cover, then aim carefully and take just one out. Keep moving, don't worry about being professional.

You turn to Niceguy, just gotten himself to his feet, and try to make yourself heard over the gunfire, “Give me your backup, I’m flanking upwards. Suppress them while I transition.”

Nice nods, hands you his backup carbine and one spare mag. You press yourself backwards against the rough cement wall, cycle the bolt and take a breath as incoming rounds scatter gravel and powder cement. “Go.”

Nice drops into prone, peaks around the corner and his SAW explodes to life, spiting hot lead and spent cases, brass and links bouncing off the wall. You hear the enemy shout in surprise, panic, maybe pain.

You sling your rifle over a shoulder and scramble up a bundle of wires running down the side of the building. Telephone wires or some shit, they manage to hold your weight. and so does your arm, even though the pain has it trembling. On the rooftop, you sprint to the far corner and sink into prone, find yourself just behind and above the enemy. From the vantage you can see four still functional, one is on the ground dead or close enough, and another is clutching at his chest, dying. The fighters are in cover around the vehicle, just bunkered down trying not to get hit by Nice’ fire. Fucking amateurs.

You lean over the lip of the roof and thumb your rifle into single-shot, let your lungs empty and one eye squint as you hug the trigger. You see one in the far back, on the radio. His helmet can’t stop a round dead-on, and he slumps sideways against the truck, radio slack in his hand. You were worried the flash would give away your position, but the other tangoes didn’t even seem to notice. Just panicking, blind, like chickens.

You see two in cover together, and line one up. The round goes through his neck, and you send a second one through his chest as he flails. His buddy gets wise, and turns to fire on you. He stands up to do it, and is instantly torn three new holes by Nice’ fire. One left.

Bullets rip into the facade just bellow you, throw up dust and rubble. You flinch back into cover, shielding your head with a hand. Didn’t see the shooter, must be the last guy. After the first burst it’s quiet. Long enough and you peak up over cover: the last guy is standing there. And Lead’s Ka-Bar is getting drug through his throat, your CO baring his teeth as he forces the dying Russian to the ground. That’s done. You scan the vehicle for hostiles, then the street. It looks clear. As ringing in your ears fades, your hearing comes back and in the distance, you hear more engines coming your way. Fast. These were just the forward scouts.

“Go, go!” Lead shouts, turning and sprinting for the alley with Nice. You push yourself up to standing, injured arm buckles but you grit through the pain. Flying across the rooftop you leap down into the alley.

The fall is longer than you were ready for. Your heart goes up your throat as you plummet in the cramped space between buildings, your left foot catches the lip of a dumpster, you feel the ankle wrench. What should have been a smooth landing and a roll becomes you flailing backwards, crashing against the cement. The impact shakes your body, you struggle to take in air that’s been knocked out of you. Roll limply on a pile of debris, wheezing, black spots swimming in your vision.

Lead shoots out of a passage a couple feet off and bolts away in the other direction, Nice rounds the corner a second later and you try to call out, empty lungs rasping and straining. You hear the enemy vehicles getting closer, maybe fifty meters away, panic is rising in your stomach. You slap your free hand against the cement, hard, till you feel the bones shake. The noise is just enough to catch Nice’ attention, calls for Lead to stop.

“Karma,” he stoops over your hurting body, snakes his free arm under your shoulder, and lifts, grunting. Supports you as you start to walk, “we gotta go. C’mon! Push!”

Your ankle buckles, screams with pain when you try to put weight on it, even with Nice supporting you. You bite down on your tongue till your mouth turns warm and metallic. But you fucking push, you push with everything your tired, failing body has. And you move. You hear the Russian trucks stop where you had your shootout, hear loud voices calling out, probably found the bodies. But by then, you’re gone.


You’re not sure how far you walk. It feels like miles, so probably closer to a couple hundred meters. You’re having trouble staying in motion, and Nice must be hurting as well, hauling your ass like he is.

Lead stops in front of you suddenly, holding up a flat hand. “Listen.”

The street you’re moving down is empty, dust and trash blowing across the deserted lanes. The buildings are mostly two-story, blown-out and shot-up, stacked one after another with electrical cables crossing between them, wires all tangled above the street like a spider’s web. You saw a couple civilians; watching you from half-collapsed buildings, darting between alleys, moving in the rubble. But no sign of the enemy. Then you hear it.

A low screeching sound, like a dart whistling through the air. Getting slowly louder. “Fast mover,” Lead whispers, half to himself.

“Russian?” you grunt.

“No, that sound. It’s an F-41 Fighter, that’s US,” he stares up at the night sky, “we can signal him him. Maybe communicate an SOS.”

The screaming is getting louder, and Lead is pulling a strobe signal from his pack. You brake away from Nice’ support and limp over to him, “Lead, look, I don’t like this. Lets just get under cover, leave this shit alone.”

He’s not listening. He pops the strobe on, and waves it over his head. Voice is cold, resolute. “I need to get you two out of here.”

Nice speaks up, “Lead, Karma is right. Something is wrong, we can’t trust command right now. Let’s just get inside somewhere and call in, we can play it safe, get medical evac on our terms.”

“I tried.” Lead sounds hollow, his blank face is cast in stark shifting shadows by the waving strobe, his eyes are fixed on the sky, unblinking. “It’s just dead air, static. I don’t know what happened to command. We’re alone. This is our chance.”

The sound of the fighter becomes a screech, echoing off the buildings as they flash with the blare of the strobe, shadows dancing and pulsing behind cars and debris in a sea of white light. “Lead, we’ll find a way out of the city, we’ll be fine. Just turn the fucking blinker off!”

You try to grab it from him, and he pushes you backwards easily, sends you crashing to the pavement, “stand down,” he mutters.

Nice rushes to grab you under your shoulders, he’s furiously trying to drag you to your feet as the jet screams over, it’s silver belly shimmering above you in the light of the strobe, the wake of it’s engines a deafening boom that hurts your skull. And Lead’s just standing there, waving his light. You can feel it, he doesn’t really want to walk away.

Something splits your head, takes your vision, bathes your ears in screaming silence. You’re thrown, feel yourself slam into something. Then it all just, slips away from you.

The air is full of dust. You feel it falling on your face.

Somewhere a car alarm is wailing. It sounds far away, or under water. Hard to hear past the ringing. Your bloodshot eyes crack open under a crust of cement powder, you cough, mouth dry and rough.

You stand up slowly, grunting, pieces of debris shifting and falling off of you. It’s hard to see, dark out, shapes fade into a grey sea of dust past around fifteen feet out. The road is gone, everything is a maze of rubble. You struggle to get your eyes to focus.

There’s a pounding at the back of your skull, you hiss, feeling around the spot there’s a stinging pain and the fingers come away damp with blood. You’re confused, disoriented. Numb, you can’t feel the old injuries, but you know they’re there. Ankle is weak, like a limb you’ve sat on and all the blood’s gone, and the hand on your wounded arm doesn’t flex right. You pat yourself down, no new holes, no bones twisted. Plate carrier is hanging on by a thread, rifle is still clipped to it, but the barrel is bent almost sideways, it’s fucked. Still have your pistol though. And your knife, so you guess if you have to open any MREs you’re set.

You start walking, more of a staggering limp; almost blind, feeling your way across a field of wreckage. Wires, splintered wooden poles, pieces of building all sticking out from piles of rubble. Can hardly see your hand in front of you, the night air is a dense blanket of dust. Some lights are still alive, the headlamps on a moped, a dropped flashlight, beacons in the murky dark, beams of light cut into the particles in the air. A little ways off you see a bright flash, lighting up the facade of a half-collapsed apartment building. Lead’s strobe.

You pass civilians dusted in powder, stumbling around the debris, unfocused eyes that stare right past you. Shell-shock. Some of them are digging through the rubble. You wonder why, till you see an arm sticking out from under a stone, realize there are bodies half-buried. Some of them still move. That car alarm is getting louder, other sounds are leaking in. You hear explosions in the distance, more fast-movers you guess. That pain in your skull is getting worse as you move, other injuries will be almost unbearable soon.

Lead’s beacon is at your feat, the light almost blinding to your burning eyes. You pick it up and click it off, looking around dumbly for your squadmates. “Nice! ...Lead!” you shout blindly, trying to blink the grit from your eyes as your ragged vocal chords rasp. “Nice—“ your voice dies and you get low fast as you hear movement in the dark. Fear pushing some of the numbness from your brain.

A dying streetlight flickers: there are figures in the cloud of dust, rifles in their hands. Searching, pulling civilians from the rubble. Talking in Russian, low voices, something about American soldiers. The streetlight goes dead and you’re plunged back into darkness, lying there in the dust. You tell yourself you have to move, you have to get up and move. Training manages to outweigh how sheerly fucked up you are. You move.

You try to stay low and crawl through debris to break up your outline, tell yourself that it’s perfectly fine you’re alone and injured in the dark being hunted by Russians. Tell yourself it’s perfectly fine your unit is all dead. You’re spec ops, this is your environment. You even manage not to laugh at those utter fucking lies.

You’re crawling under a fallen electrical post when you think you hear something out there. You freeze. In the stillness you hear the crunch of stones under someone’s feet. A figure appears out of the dust about ten feet away, moving slowly over the debris, scanning with his rifle. Then another, following the first and keeping his eyes up. Both moving towards you from the left, it dawns on you that backing away would make too much noise. And so almost a decade of training and a million years of evolution tell you there’s only one thing to do: stay very quiet and very still.

You feel the blood rush in your ears, press your face down to the ground, trying not to choke in the powder.

One of the soldiers whispers something to the other as another bomb sounds in the distance. You don’t catch it past your heart pounding. The first one passes right by you, steeping inches from your head. Then the second one’s foot rolls over your injured arm, a tiny squeak escapes your gritted teeth. Your stomach sinks. You know what happens next. The second one looks down, and then doubles over as your pistol cracks, falling backwards onto the cement with blood welling from his chest. You turn to the first one and pull the trigger, and nothing happens. You realize the pistol’s slide is stuck open as the Russian turns towards you. You scramble to get up and end up stumbling forward into a tackle, slamming into the enemy’s waist and sending both of you tumbling to the ground. End up on top of him. You feel your head jerk as his AK’s magazine slams into your jaw and scrapes against your teeth, fumble until you find a hold on the enemy’s rifle. You hiss, jerk back and forth as you try to yank the rifle from him. But he’s fighting hard. You spit blood into his eyes and rear up, then smash down with all your weight. There’s a crunch as the Russian’s nose breaks under his rifle, he screams as the protruding charging handle digs into his eye socket, struggles weakly, pushing a bloody hand up against your face, trying you get you off him. Some part of the hand finds it’s way into your mouth, maybe a finger, you bite down on it as hard as you can, and he screams even louder. You feel around your vest, fingers close on the handle of your Ka-Bar and you rip it from it’s sheath, howl as you slam it down, then drive it in again and again, the Russian’s scream dies into a bloody gurgle as you tear into his throat, gouge at his face with the sharp steel. You feel your own hand get cut more than once but you hardly care. By the time you get your head back the Russian is more cold-cuts than person. You hurry to jam the knife back into it’s sheath, start searching the ground for your pistol. You hear shouts not too far away, you’re sure the mutilated one’s buddies are gonna show up soon.

The pistol is sitting in the dust, you holster it. Then you grab the bloodied AK and just fucking run. You trip and wipe out more than once, tearing the skin on your palms and elbows to shit. You don’t really feel it. Just scrambling through the rubble trying to escape the voices and footfalls you hear behind you, waiting for a rifle round to rip between your shoulder blades.

Heart hammering you find a mostly-intact building and dash in through the first door you see. Fuck clearing procedure. You’re in some kind of lounge, full of cushions and heavy curtains, and...

Lead is slouched against the far wall, staring across at you with grim eyes. He’s sitting in a pool of blood.

You sigh and slide down a wall, coming to rest on the decorative carpet. You’d take a cushion but you don’t want to deal with lice on top of everything.

“Fuck,” you say at nothing particular. More a lot of things, you’d kinda been keeping it bottled up. Still are.

“Your face. Okay?” Lead rasps. He sounds bad, blood bubbling from his mouth as he speaks.

You feel along your cheek: you can touch the teeth through the skin. It’s all a bloody pulp, must look terrible. “Got in a fight with some Russians. Killed them, I’ll be fine. What’s your excuse lookin like hammered shit?” You pull a water bottle you saved from one of the mag pouches on your vest.

Lead stares longingly at the water, even past his pain. With your face the way it is it tastes more like blood than anything. “Don’t know. Haven’t taken the vest off, not going to. Something swimming in my gut, I can feel it. The bomb, Cratering Charge, not meant to kill. That’s why we’re alive.”

There’s a long silence as you finish the water. You chuck the empty bottle and take your pistol out, start trying to fix it.

“Did you see Niceguy?” Lead chokes out.

“No. I did see a lot of civilians though: men, women, children. Corpses, I mean. And a couple living ones, mostly digging the dead out of the rubble.” You stare at him with pure hatred, should have killed him after Brains, “And Nice, he might be out there too, pancake under a slab of concrete. So can go fuck yourself.”

He swallows a lump in his throat and nods, tears welling up in his eyes, “yeah,” he seems like he’s on the verge of crying but knows that would just make his wounds worse. Just makes a kind of strangled whine, “yeah.”

The pistol is fine now. Was just a bad cartridge, fouled up on the feed ramp. You clear the action of sand and test the slide a few times.

Lead seems to be regaining his bearing. He clears his throat with difficulty, “I got through on the radio, emergency channel. US is invading, those explosions outside are the fast-movers clearing out strongpoints. Rangers gonna be dropped in the city, Marine ground force,” he takes a pained breath, “I don’t wanna be here when the arrive.”

“Somewhere you gotta be?” You say that, but you know that’s not what he means.

“I’m done. I’ve done too much. I don’t wanna bleed to death, Karma. This hurts. Just end it, please.” Tears are streaming silently down his face, cutting paths in the dust on his cheeks. He stares straight into your eyes.

You cock the hammer. Part of you wants to give him this, for all the years you served under him, for all the missions he saw you through. Part of you wants to leave this fucker to bleed after what he’s done.

"You know what your problem is, Lead? You think these people don't matter. You loved us more than you will ever regret the lives we've raped and ruined just to prop ourselves up as heroes, and I hate you for it."
Pull this idiot out of the wreckage and apply Triage; don't let him die unless you find someone else worth saving.

You squeeze the pistol tight, feel the checkered grip bite into your skinned palm. You want to pull the trigger, you tell yourself you’re ready to. Looking into Lead’s eyes, the only feeling you’ve got left is hate.

You click the safety on and let your arm fall. Not enough hate to watch him die. Cursing violently you holster the gun and cross the room, begin ripping Lead’s layers off to access the wound.

His eyes are getting hazy, but he looks up at you with bemusement as you tear his shirt open and check the damage, “why?”

“You know what your problem is, Lead?” you scowl as you tear open a bag of styptic and pack it into the wound, spurting blood turning to black jelly, “‘they’re not people. They’re just pieces on the board. They’re just part of the mission.’ You try to tell yourself you believe that. AND IT GETS THEM FUCKING KILLED!” You scream in his face.

He cringes away, half from your rage and half from the pain. You get the entry wounds stabilized and pull him away from the wall, flipping him over and finding no exit wounds. You wrap him in bandages as tight as you can. He’s passed out when you’re finished, barely breathing, but he’s still in there. He might make it.

You hear gunfire in the distance. The clatter of AK’s, and the familiar, sharp bark of M4’s. Occasionally the bang of a grenade. No mortars or artillery. Makes sense; too many civilians.

You make your way to the roof and wait. Sitting with your legs dangling over the side of the building, feet kicking absently. AC-130’s thunder over head, and you occasionally catch a glimpse of a Ranger’s chute reflecting street light as they come down. The gunfire is getting louder, it’s coming from all sides now. Sometimes you’ll see the front of a building light up with the flash of an MG. You can hear Russians screaming, and occasionally a short command in English. Must be the Marines, they do their talking with rifles.

When they’re getting close you draw your pistol and fire three shots into the air. Thirty seconds later another three. Universal emergency code. You’d do another but you’re out of ammo. An APC rolls around a corner about a block away, big flood lights wash down the ruined street and you squint against the light as you put your hands in the air. You’re not sure if they’re gonna save you or execute you, and you’re not sure which you’re hoping for. But you want to be over and done with.

The Marines train their guns on you, for a second you’re expecting to be blown apart like a melon by the APC’s main gun, but then you hear one shout over the vehicle’s engine, “Texas!”

“Cowboys!” You reply with a hoarse throat. They lower their weapons, and you have trouble remembering the rest.


You were shoved in the back of an APC, Lead was stuffed in another. Someone told you they’d been sent to rescue you, and some other things, but you weren’t really listening cause another guy handed you a cold Gatorade, a red one. In that moment he was the best human being you’d ever met. And you were having trouble thinking about anything beyond how good a cold drink tasted. Made you cry. The ride was cramped, and rough. You took small arms fire but your abused ears barely even noticed the rounds pinging off the armor.

You could barely move when the APC came to a stop, exhaustion had set into every part of you, a Marine Captain braced you under a shoulder and helped you out of the armored can into the powdery sand. When you looked up from your boots you almost vomited.

You were just outside the city, a staging camp. And all there was to see was the bodies. In bags, white ones. Rows, and rows of body bags lying in the sand. Soldiers moved among them, tagging the bags, like worker ants. You squinted against the fine dust whipping everywhere, tried to scrape it from your eyes. Birds hammered overhead, the intermittent screech of fast-movers drowned out the shouts of Soldiers and Marines. Grim ones going into the city; beaten, bloody ones coming out. You asked the Captain where Lead was, never heard the response.

They put you on a helicopter, there were two bodies sitting back there with you. And one living Marine, arms stained in blood up to the elbows. The plastic bags waved and flapped in the wind, the Marine stared hollowly out the open door, face slack. You followed his gaze.

The sun was bleeding over the mountains in the distance, the desert sand was stained amber. Light was dawning on Kabul. The night was over.

“And then I fell asleep.”

“In a helicopter, with the doors open?”

“Well I clipped the straps on but yeah. Slept for eighteen hours straight, woke up in an Army staging base in the UAE,” you’re sprawled out over the back of your chair, neck craned backwards in a way that would make any Chiropractor cringe. The ceiling isn’t very interesting, but memories dance just beyond it, and you find it very hard to break your stare. “And that’s it.”

“That’s it,” Dunmire echoes you softly from across the table, staring down at his tablet with bloodshot eyes. He took off his suit-coat a long time since, his papers and dossiers strewn out around him like the blast of a grenade. It occurs to you how much time has past; it’s pitch dark outside the ship’s windows. He must be tired, but you’re not. Not in any way that rest can fix. “And what about your teammates: Lead, and Niceguy? Do you know how they ended up?”

“Turns out Nice survived that bomb, lost a leg. Lucky motherfucker. Silver Star, Purple Heart, Honorable Discharge. All the noise. Went back home. Living with his kids in Pennsylvania. Lead survived too, and went on living, for a while. He commit suicide. Kinda funny way he did it too: one round through his chest, one through his head. From a .338 Lapua Magnum sniper rifle,” you lift your head up to give Dunmire a meaningful look.

He nods solemnly, and sighs. “I’ll be honest with you, Karma. A lot of your story doesn’t add up. It doesn’t match reports, it conflicts with itself, and it’s missing several very important pieces of information,” he looks you straight in the eye, face slack and weary, “you’re lying to me. And I don’t know why. There’s a lot of reasons you might, they only get worse. So just tell me:” he leans forward over the table, “do I want to know why?”

Whatever humor you had all drains from your face, you feel your mask slip away, shatter into a hundred pieces as the ugly, misshapen thing that never really left Afghanistan comes screaming and thrashing to the front of your mind. The ringing in your ears, the one that’s never once stopped since that bomb dropped, it’s a screech in your skull, just getting louder. You taste blood and realize you’ve bit off part of your tongue.

Of course you lied, you’ve been lying for years. You hardly know what’s real anymore and you don’t really want to. It’s your last order, the only duty you have left. Keep it under raps, die before you tell anyone.

But you consider telling him the real story. Telling him that Lead and Nice and Crunch were all made up names, telling him what you really did. It’s bad. You don’t want to relive it, you’d rather hammer nails through your hands with your teeth. But maybe you owe it to your team. To the ones that you left behind, and the ones that you shot in the back. Maybe they deserve to have their stories straight. Maybe you don’t deserve the comfortable lie.

You stare hollowly, drumming your fingers on the table.

... Enough theater. Crush his ego with the truth.
[Use Active Power]