The world lurched. James tumbled into the empty abyss yawning below. He felt the static line hissing past his cheek, knowing another turn would’ve twisted his head off just so. But he was lucky. Always been told he was. His stomach floated, throat tightening, teeth clenched as he gave a squeezed yelp. A tugging pulled him straight as his parachute deployed. He started looking up, caught in the drill of it, but flinched as he stopped himself. There were more urgent things now than checking his chute.

He spun around, staring into the vast blackness of the night, the rattle and whistling of bullets all around. How many had already died? How many had he known? How many of his friends would reach the ground alive? A tearing scream pierced the night, terrible and skin-prickling before being so suddenly cut short.

James grimaced, pressing his eyes shut, blood surging through his ears. Had he known that man? Maybe. Could’ve been Butch, or Earless Jack, or Jolly Yuvens. The wind raged at his coat, piercing his flesh with a deadly chill. The guns kept barking, spitting lead in seeking sprays; searching him out as he descended. Were they close? Had they already ruined his chute and he just didn’t know? James could almost imagine the bullets nipping his skin, chipping it, blowing it apart like that pig’s carcass the Sergeant had shown them. Couldn’t think about that now. Needed to focus.

His eyes sprang open and he looked down below, peering through the dark. James barely saw the ground, and noticed it to be closing in. Fast. Some tracers zipped past him in a spraying line. Not good. He took the Para position, knees bent, chin tucked, elbows in, hissing a quick prayer through his gritted teeth.

They always talk about the landing as soft and calm. They were full of shit.

The earth crashed into him, barely executing his roll; legs flopping. His skull hit the soil and started ringing, his vision a blurry smear. Everything swayed and spun round and around, sharp screeching blocking all the noise. He tried getting up, but his limbs were tangled in the cords, obscured by the curtain of night. He grunted another curse as he snagged his arm free and twisted the other about.

The ringing faded and was replaced by the horrible thundering of war. Muzzle flashes blinking in the dark, cries and lamenting sounding so frightful of what was to come. Another spasm and his legs were free. Had him crawl to his knees, then fumbling with the Parachute’s buckles. They did not cooperate.

A bullet hit the soil and showered him in flecks of dirt and bits of stone. If he hadn’t retched in the plane, his meal would’ve left him then. Cringing, he flung himself at a pit in the soil, still struggling to get his chute loose. Those consigned to death crumbling all around him. Would he be next?

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The blue moon, Rohm, shed his iron coat of cloud and showed the battle clear. James saw the countless bodies litter the earth. Some still moving, some still crawling, some still. He didn’t like thinking about those last ones. Better ignore it for now.

The moon gleamed on the buckles and so he pried them off and wriggled free from his constraints. He took a calming breath, which didn’t work. So, he took an urging one to fill him with courage, which failed too. He wheezed, fighting for air while glancing over his earthen cover at the tree line ahead, gunfire flashing between the shrubs and stumps like mad eyes. Demon eyes, blinking in the dark with their infernal stare.

He pressed himself to the soil again, breath rasping through his pained lungs, staring up at the lower moon. They say Rohm rewards boldness, and James had always considered himself to be bold. Told all who cared enough to listen that Rohm watched over him in his crib. That he was blessed by Sihn’s older twin. James the Bold, the lucky, the blessed. Told them so often they actually believed him.

A shadow loomed over. The enemy, they were advancing. A creeping dawned on him. They had failed. He had failed them in not providing a foothold, in not disturbing the enemy lines. How many had died to get him here? On this field of death? How many had died in vain?

The shadow wasn’t some evil monster, just a lad not much older than him. But he looked a monster then, with the rifle pointing at James, wide eyes filled with fright staring through the sights.

James stretched out his hand, as if to block the bullet. The boy grimaced, pulled the trigger, and the rifle wreathed. Metal twisted, wood split and the boy let out a surprised cry as he dropped the ruined weaponry. He looked down at James, hissing his breath, now so horribly cold.

“A Relic...” The boy murmured, eyes brimming with wet. “Please, I only want to see my moth-” his words were cut short as James twisted his wrist and the lad’s head compressed. The sound reminisced of a wet sponge’s wringing. Eyes pooped from his deformed skull, puss and brain and blood oozing from a yawning split down the middle of his face before he sagged to the mud.

James was peppered with shards of bone and blobs of flesh, his breathing slowing still. He did not glance at the mutilated youth. Instead, he worked himself up and forced his eyes to look for a path to the enemy lines. Through the enemy lines. He was trained for this purpose. Get behind and spread havoc.

A dangerous job for only the craziest of men. A daring job for the bold. Rohm is said to reward boldness, and James was Bold indeed.

He sprang from cover, bullets soaring past him, near him, at him. But his Boldness deflected them, swatted the lead aside as if no more than persistent flies. As the enemy realized what he was, all fire focused on him. They might’ve just as well pelted him with grass clippings. Rohm had watched over him in his crib. He had no fear for cowards hiding in the woods. But they feared him greatly. And it was time to show them all why they should.