The bar was dimly lit, a haze of smoke hanging in the air like a memory that wouldn’t clear. It was the kind of place where no one asked questions, where people came to disappear themselves from their woes. The smell of stale beer mixed with the sharp tang of whiskey hung in the air accompanied by the ambient chatter of patrons going about. At the far end of the battered wooden table, a lone figure hunched over the bar, his broad shoulders sagging under the weight of invisible burdens.
Gideon Vogt lifted the shot glass to his lips, the amber liquid swirling, reflecting the dim light in fractured patterns, much like the fragments of his mind. He downed the liquor in one smooth motion, feeling the burning sting to his eyes and nostrils before slamming the glass down hard against the counter.
Bang.
The echo reverberated in his ears like a gunshot, like the rifle blasts of a funerary salvo.
As the shot glass hit the wood, the sound wasn’t just a dull thud—it was a trigger. In that brief, silent moment after the glass hit, the world seemed to split. The murmur of voices around him faded, drowned out by the deafening crack of rifles, a memory he couldn’t escape.
He could hear them— soldiers of the Wachbataillon, their rifles firing in perfect, practiced unison adhering to the stern barks from their commanding officer. The blasts echoed like a memory carved in stone. The officer’s voice had been firm that day, as though the weight of it all was merely another routine for him. Even though the rifles were aimed at the sky and fired blank rounds, Gideon felt every shot.
Bang.
The shot glass hit the bar again, and the gunfire returned, louder, more insistent. Three shots, sharp and unforgiving, the final salute to his fallen brothers-in-arms. His hand trembled as he reached for the bottle, pouring another shot with an unsteady grip. The liquid sloshed over the rim, dripping onto his fingers but he didn’t care. He didn’t wipe it away. He lifted the glass, but as he brought it to his lips, the bar disappeared. For a split second, he was back in that damned forest— the smell of gunpowder thick in the air. His team was there, all of them—silent shadows, standing at attention in their uniforms. They waited for the order that never came. They waited for him.
Gideon blinked, hard, the glass shaking in his hand as the vision faded, replaced by the dimly lit bar. He swallowed the shot, feeling the burn as it traveled down his throat, trying to extinguish the fire in his chest. He slammed the glass down again.
Bang.
Another rifle shot echoed in his mind. He could see their coffins now—draped in the black, red, and gold stripes perfectly aligned, the fabric pulled tight with military precision. The black stripe was draped across the head, a shadow over what once was, while the gold reached down to the foot, as if it could offer some final piece of dignity. The flag meant nothing. Not anymore.
Bang.
Another shot. Another memory. Their faces blurred together, ghosts that haunted his every waking moment. He had watched them fall. He had watched them die. And now, every time he closed his eyes, it was their eyes staring back at him. Shot after shot, glass after glass. Each one a small death, each slam of the glass against the bar a reminder of his failure. The whiskey burned in his throat, but it was nothing compared to the burning in his chest. Gideon let the glass fall from his hand, his grip slackening. It clinked against the bar but didn’t shatter—just like him. Not broken yet, but far from whole. He blinked hard, trying to focus on the blurred shapes around him, but their faces slipped into his mind, uninvited and unrelenting. The drink should have dulled them, should have silenced the memories. But it never did.
The bartender shot him a look, but Gideon ignored it. He wasn’t here to be saved. Not when he can't save his soldiers, his friends - his found family.
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He could almost hear Elara’s voice first—the way she used to tease him, her sharp elven features softening only when she thought no one was looking. She always thought she knew better. Because she did. Centuries old yet appeared only in her late twenties, with eyes that had seen far more than his ever would, she had been the team’s silent guardian, always watching from the shadows with her sniper scope. Aside from her position in the squad as the sniper, she was their main counselor, mentor, and mother figure.
Elara had taught her team many things she picked up during the course of her life be it in military or civilian fields. For Gideon, one of their most cherished memories would be when Elara taught him how to make elven bread, honey, wine, and other such cuisines. Another was when he asked her to take his position as squad leader as his experience was nothing compared to hers, but the elf firmly yet gently rejected his proposal because she wanted him to learn about proper field leadership and assured him that she will be there to guide him and the others too.
But most importantly, she taught him how important it was to have a balanced life.
"Zu viel von allem ist für nichts gut." Elara's motherly voice cooed after Gideon poured too much water on his first ever batch of elven bread dough. Gideon knew the saying well. Too much of anything was good for nothing— a lesson he had learned the hard way.
Gideon let out a sad, hollow chuckle. She would undoubtedly yell his ears off if she were there at that bar seeing him drinking himself stupid. How he wished she would sweep in through the bar's double doors and do so.
Bang. The rifle echoed in his head again, but this time, it wasn’t the salute. It was the sound of her gun—her precision, the way she never missed. Except that time. Except when it had mattered most. On that day, Gideon remembered the calm in her voice as she called out enemy positions, her precision unmatched—until she spoke no more. When the firefight had subsided, Gideon had found her lifeless body still in position, her right eye was pierced by a bullet that went through her G25's scope, her finger hovering over the trigger as if ready to fire one last shot.
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Then came Kaz, with his crooked grin and the cocky confidence only a vampire could have. Kaz had always been too reckless, too sure of himself. But when it came down to the wire, there was no one else Gideon would have trusted to storm into a room full of enemies. In their downtime, Gideon and Kaz often sparred in both the ring and kill-house, both eager to get the drop on one another. Of course, this proved to be rather difficult for Gideon as he was dealing with a superhuman, shapeshifting entity which led to frequent visits to the medical wing (and a healthy amount of "sternly worded advise" from Elara and Lira). However, what didn't kill Gideon made him stronger and he actually managed to keep Kaz on his toes more because of Gideon's adaptation towards Kaz's tactics which in turn fostered mutual respect between them.
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“Der Tod wird dich heute nicht holen, Gideon.” Kaz said, flashing those sharp canines as if the thought of death was beneath him. It was a phrase Kaz used often. Death wouldn’t take him today. Maybe not tomorrow either, if Kaz had his way. Sliding a fresh magazine inside his MP5K before running and gunning down multiple opponents thanks to his supernatural speed and reflexes. But Kaz had died. Right there in that forsaken forest, blown apart by a barrage of 40mm grenades. There wasn't much of him to recover. But did it even matter? What was the point of immortality when betrayal could strike down even the strongest?
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Mira… God, Mira. She had been the only one to see him for who he really was, the one to understand the man behind the mission. She was the glue that had held them together—not just with her tech, but with her wit, her sharp mind. Her laugh echoed in his mind, sharp and short, always ready with a sarcastic comment. The youngest on the team, she was savvy in pop culture and often spoke with slangs and references barely understood by the squad's older members. But not Gideon, being the second youngest on the team, he was also in touch with her lingo and general hobbies. Although, maybe not as chronic. They shared a common love for video games, with the most recent being Helldivers 2. But their true passion lied in open world single player video games such as Skyrim, The Witcher series, and Cyberpunk 2077 because there were many lore to be unearthed, lots of new locations to explore, no intrusion from people in-game, and most importantly, they got to do it in their own paces because of the already limited downtime they had.
She had never let him drown in his own thoughts, not until the end. And now here he was, drowning without her, without her voice cutting through the silence.
"Wir werden nie dieses neue Update spielen, oder?" he murmured after taking another shot. They'd never get to play in that new update.
The last time he saw her, she had been pinned behind cover, her fingers flying over her tablet, trying to contact the extraction team that was never meant to come in the midst of communications jamming. Trying to fix what had already been broken. The last thing she said to him or rather screamed at him—he couldn’t even remember as a missile had obliterated her position. Gideon had been close, too close. He remembered the heat of the explosion, the way it blown him out of his own position. But when he had crawled to where Mira had been, fighting the pain of his broken body, there was nothing but twisted metal and scorched earth. He would never forgive himself for his inability to save her.
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He chuckled darkly, despite himself. Thorneck. The giant orc with a heart too big for his own good. People thought orcs were just muscle, just brute force—but not Thorneck. He had been the one who questioned everything, always pulling Gideon aside before and after a mission, asking if they were really doing the right thing.
“Gewalt ist einfach,” Thorneck had said once, his deep voice rumbling like thunder. “Aber Gerechtigkeit? Das ist schwerer.”
Violence was easy, Gideon knew. But righteousness? That was harder—just like Thorneck had said. Gideon had never really known what to say to that. He had always been the second most philosophical in the squad next to Elara, and when not sparring with Kaz or gaming with Mira or being mentored by Elara, Gideon would be exercising while discussing about all kinds of life aspects with Thorneck. Sometimes just the two of them, sometimes with more members of the squad present.
Thorneck had been their heavy hitter, their demolition expert. The one who could tear through a wall, breach bunkers without breaking a sweat, and mow down hostile personnel with his custom MG6. Yet he had been the one to question the mission the most. This was supposed to be their last mission before their early retirement to , maybe he should have taken his advice and just ditched this mission.
The memory of Thorneck’s body—massive and unmoving, the first to fell —wouldn’t leave him. They had called him indestructible, but in the end, he had fallen just like the rest of them. Gideon had watched him go down, a roaring mountain crumbling in the heat of battle - his minigun spat forth unrelenting hails of lead towards enemy position before he was ripped apart by bullets. He fell to his knees, and died protecting them as he always had.
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And Lira… the ethereal fae whose touch could heal wounds faster than a bullet could make them. She was more magic than human, her presence like a gentle breeze in the chaos of battle. Always so calm, so serene, no matter the carnage around her. Outside of combat situations, Lira had taught Gideon the art of nurturing life her magic infusing the world around her with vitality. The plants had always thrived under her care, and she had shown him how to coax life from even the most barren soil. How to care for animals both in health and in sickness, how she taught him to tend to countless city animals such as birds with broken wings and strays with broken legs or other ailments.
He remembered one particular moment after a mission when they had taken refuge in a cave somewhere in Siberia. A wounded East Siberian brown bear had limped into their camp, barely able to stand. Gideon had reached for his Saiga-12, but Lira had stopped him with a gentle touch.
“Sie kommen nicht immer, um uns zu verletzen, Gideon,” she had whispered, kneeling next to the bear. “Manchmal brauchen sie nur jemanden, der sie heilt.” Within minutes, the fox had been nuzzling her palm, its wounds closing as her magic wove through its body. After she made sure the bear would sleep through their stay, Lira had turned to him with that serene smile.
"Du brauchst keine Magie, um ihnen zu helfen. Du brauchst nur Geduld." Gideon remembered her words well. Even the most dangerous creatures do not always mean harm, sometimes they only wanted a little help and that he does not need magic to do so, just patience.
Gideon could still feel her magic, like the ghost of a touch, as she had tried to heal him, even as the world was burning down around them. She had struggled to save them all until the very last breath. But even magic had its limits. It wasn’t a bullet or explosion that took Lira’s life. Instead, it was her magic that gave out first. Gideon had watched as she knelt beside him, her hands glowing as she tried to heal a wound that was too severe. Her glow had flickered, then dimmed. Lira had looked up, and for the first time, there was fear in her eyes—a fear of fading. Her body didn’t bleed like theirs. Instead, her skin had begun to shimmer, like the last rays of sunlight filtering through mist. Her form became translucent, her edges blurring, until she was barely there at all. And then, in a whisper of wind, she was gone.
He had called for her, screamed her name into the smoke and fire after the carnage had subsided. But she was gone. All of them—gone. And he was still here.
He poured another drink, his hand steady this time. As he lifted the glass, he paused, staring at the reflection of his face in the liquor. It was distorted, warped—unrecognizable. Just like him.
He slammed the glass down again.
Bang.
The rifles rang out again, louder this time. But it wasn’t the funeral—no, this was the sound of gunfire, the sound of his team being cut down. The mission gone wrong. His commanding officer had given them orders, led them into the trap. Gideon had trusted him. He had believed in the mission.
And now his Wolfsrudel, his Wolfpack were dead. All of them, except him.
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In the silence that followed the last shot, the bar seemed to grow colder, heavier. He reached for the bottle, but his hand paused mid-air. His fingers twitched, hovering over the glass.
How many more shots? How many more bangs of the glass before he would finally feel something other than this crushing emptiness?
Or maybe it wasn’t emptiness. Maybe it was everything, all at once.
The glass stayed on the bar. He couldn’t lift it this time. He just stared at it, the sound of rifle shots still ringing in his ears.