Sammy breathed in the crisp morning air. It smelled fresh and cool. That was an unusual treat in this city. O'Della laid next to him, his breathing shallow. He took his leather jacket off and laid it over O'Della as he turned in his sleep restlessly, then he turned his attention back to the tower, gazing at it through the rifle scope.

They were nearly half a mile away from the pavilion. He measured the angle of descent to the logo in the center, where his target should end up. It was roughly forty degrees. He stuck his finger in his mouth and held it up to the wind. Noting the windspeed of approximately five miles an hour, he adjusted the scope to accommodate. He did some quick trigonometry in his head, and adjusted it further.

They only had one shot at this, no actual way to zero since he couldn't fire off now, and this scope didn't have a range finder like he was used to. Good thing he was confident in his math.

If there was anything he excelled at as a Marine, it was shooting long-range. He had spent countless hours in the range and the field, scoping his target and squeezing the trigger. He let out a sigh and put the rifle down.

Grabbing a cigarette from the case O'Della had left out, he rolled it between his fingers. It was a disgusting habit to him, he never understood why O'Della loved these things so much. At least, he didn't until he had his first solo op. It crossed his mind vividly as he pulled his lighter out, flicking it open. The flame danced in the wind, he pulled in deeply and then exhaled, snapping the lighter shut.

That was when O'Della offered him a drink and a cigarette for the first time. He was only nineteen then, but the memory stuck with him. Nobody else wanted anything to do with him because he always had a piss-poor attitude. Not O'Della, though, he saw the value of a tight-knit squad.

'Look, if you go around being a know-it-all and a show-off, nobody's gonna help you in the field. Here, take this cigarette and calm the fuck down for once.' That was what O'Della had told him. Before beating the shit out of him for insubordination when he turned the cigarette down. He chuckled at the memory, gazing at O'Della.

Nobody had ever treated him like that before, except his dad. He had been so used to getting everything he wanted all the time. His dad had been an executive in the F.M.C. before the war broke out. His mom was a stay-at-home mom, who always gave him everything he asked for, much to his father's dismay. On his eighteenth birthday, his dad came home and told him he had a present for him. It was a bundle of military brochures, he told him, 'Sammy, if you want respect in life you gotta earn it yourself. No more bullshitting with Daddy's money, pick one and join up. That or you can get the hell out.'

At the time he was so angry that he ran away. Eventually, after living homeless and in the shit for a week, his dad found him, beat the crap out of him, and left him on the Marine recruiter's doorstep. After that, he ended up in O'Della's squad during basic. In hindsight, he wouldn't do a damn thing differently.

He took another long drag, watching the smoke twist and curl around his fingers as he blew it across his hand.

No, O'Della had shown him what it meant to be a good, strong man. A strong man doesn't tackle everything by himself, he takes any help he can get and makes sure everyone he loves is taken care of. O'Della was a strong man and he strived to be more like him every day.

He looked back at O'Della, his light brown skin was covered in sweat. That wasn't unusual, neither of them slept particularly well. His eyes drifted down to his mechanical legs, they were the same style as his arm. Molded to look like human legs but made of metal, with matte red accents. The jeans he wore hugged them tightly barely fitting around them.

O'Della turned over again muttering something about falling back. He wondered which battle O'Della was fighting in his mind. Was it Nebraska? Or maybe Wyoming. They had been deployed all over the front lines during the Civil War. Was he fighting the locals or Tempest, he thought idly. Another long puff on the cigarette.

He looked away going back to scrutinizing the guards below them. All this waiting was killing him, he wished that it was time to perform already. His fingers glided down the rifle, it was a beautiful gun just like the hologram had said. Long and sleek, its name 'The Peacemaker' was engraved into the barrel with golden lettering. He couldn't wait to feel its kick, smell its discharge, and watch the life leave his target.

He shook the thought away taking another drag on the cigarette before letting it fall to the ground. He stepped on it, putting the cherry out as he looked back to O'Della again, his face was contorting into a grimace.

Sighing heavily, he sat next to him with his head in his hands, must be a pretty bad one. Probably the cluster fuck in Oklahoma. He remembered that one like it was yesterday, they got separated early in the fight. O'Della went through hell there and still wouldn't talk about what happened. He started shaking as the memories flooded back to him.

O'Della tossed some more his hands grabbing at nothing. He wished he could do something for his friend, but there was nothing he could do. He silently cursed himself as O'Della fought phantoms in his head.

######

Ghastly howls of pain rang out across the large field. The sounds of boots slamming into the mud and explosions in the distance filled the air, drowning out the suffering of many men. A burst of gunshots rang out close by, cutting a scream short. The night sky flashed brightly, gunshots and explosions lighting it intensely. The smell of death and decay flitted about, teasing O'Della's nostrils, making him restless.

He crouched behind the lip of a crater waiting for a patrol to pass by. The men in front of him waved their flashlights and rifles about, analyzing the terrain around them. They were clad in black military garb and the Tempest logo was brazened upon their thick body armor. Many were equipped with night vision goggles, the green light they emitted piercing the thick night fog. He held his breath, slowing his heart rate as hid.

"Find any survivors, and put a bullet in their head!" A man in an exoskeleton at the front of the pack spun around, he pointed to three men in the twelve-man squad. "You, you, and you. Take the left flank and search the field. The rest of you spread out and search the craters!" He shouldered his rifle and began to talk rapidly into the comlink on his arm.

O'Della slank back into the shadows of the crater as they began to spread out. He turned and slowly motioned to the man behind him to follow. They both crawled up the opposite side of the crater and out towards the forested area behind them. Boots thudded all around them as the men began searching for survivors, searching for them. The two of them quietly crawled along in the dirt, debris, and blood. There were body parts and guts strewn all around them from the previous bombing run.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Tempest forces were everywhere, sweat trickled down O'Della's forehead. A mundane thought crossed his mind, 'This heat is un-fucking-bearable.' A flash of light swept past, narrowly avoiding revealing them. They continued crawling, about twenty feet apart, nearing the tree line. The man behind him gasped and stopped dead as the light ran over his face.

"No! No, pl-" He was cut short as a massive bang filled O'Della's ears. He didn't look back, just kept crawling as he grit his teeth.

"Found one over here, search the area!" A scratchy voice, about ten yards behind him, said. "Looks like he was headed to those woods!"

O'Della knew what was about to happen and picked himself up, breaking out into a full sprint. As he ran there were more cracks of gunfire, the bullets rained around him. He felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder, but he didn't stop. His arm went limp, the shoulder joint felt useless and floppy. Blood flowed down his arm as he continued pressing onward, passing the treeline. Wood exploded around him as bullets impacted the trees. Woodchips smacked at his face, he could feel his pursuers hot on his heels.

He ran for what seemed like forever. The sun started to come over the horizon as he stumbled through the woods. The trees and brush grew thicker hindering him more and more. He pulled out his combat knife with his good arm, slashing and hacking wildly at the greenery in front of him as he continued running. Eventually, he tumbled down a hill and came to rest at the bottom. Everything hurt. Panting trying to regain his composure he looked over at his shoulder for the first time.

There was a large gaping hole where it used to be and, as he sat up, his arm dangled limply from the remaining flesh of his armpit. He paused listening closely. No more boots, no more screaming, nothing except the sounds of the forest and explosions in the distance. He sat up, pulling out what little supplies he had. Some wire, gauze, a lighter, and his knife. He grimaced, knowing what he had to do. Shoving some gauze in his mouth, he slowly lifted the knife to his useless limb.

Grunts of pain and the sickening sawing of metal on flesh filled the woods around him. With a wet, squishy noise, his arm fell to the ground. He tightly wrapped the wire around the stub to help slow the bleeding and flicked the lighter open. Steeling his nerves and putting the flame up to the open wound, a faint scream escaped from around the gauze in his mouth. Moving the flame back and forth, the wound slowly cauterized and stopped bleeding completely.

He dropped the lighter, causing the flame to go out, and fell back, spitting the gauze out. He lay there for a long while, contemplating if it was worth getting back up.

Eventually, he sat back up, unwrapping the wire and wincing at the pain. He pulled out his compass and his communicator. Turning the dial on the top, he ran through the friendly frequencies. Almost all of them were static, the battle had gone very poorly for the US Marines in general it seemed, not just for his squad. Finally, he landed on one that was filled with chatter.

His voice came out weak and hoarse. "Raven to Nighthawk. Raven to Nighthawk. Mission... Mission failure."

A gruff voice came from the communicator. "Raven! This is Nighthawk, give me a sitrep, where is your squad?"

"Tuck's dead. Got separated from the rest at the beginning of the engagement. I... fuck, my arm. Nighthawk, my arm is gone." His voice cracked as the gravity of the situation finally broke through his training.

There was a moment of silence.

"Shit. Where are you, soldier? Are you in danger, did you close the wound?"

Slowly he regained his equanimity. "Yeah. Yeah, it's closed, cauterized it myself. Ran into the woods west of Chantry Field. Pinging now. Need immediate Medivac, dunno if I can make it very far on my own." He flicked a switch on the communicator.

There was a flurry of noise on the other end. Paper crinkled and indistinct voices yelled back and forth. Finally, the gruff voice came back. "Ok. Look, Raven, I need you to get a move on. I know it's hard, but we can't reach you there. According to your ping, there should be a clearing five miles to your north. That's pretty close to friendly territory."

He sucked in air through his teeth, pain filling his body as he stands. Looking at the compass he orients himself to the north. "Roger, Nighthawk. I'll be there within the hour."

"Good, we'll have a medical team on standby. Ping us again when you reach the clearing." With that, the channel went to static.

O'Della gazed in the direction he needed to head. He glanced back down at his arm on the ground, his stomach turned at the sight. Feeling the gurgling, he shifted away, throwing up into the closest bush. After a short minute, he wiped his mouth clean with his remaining arm, the vomit staining his green multi-scale camouflage uniform, and grabbed the knife and lighter from the ground next to the lost limb.

He staggered through the brush, haphazardly clearing the way with his blade, still slick from his blood. The morning light bounced off the foliage around him as he pitched back and forth. His head felt light and his vision was growing fainter by the minute. Unsure if he would make it, he checked the compass again. His survival instincts started kicking in and he felt his adrenaline rise. Thoughts rushed through his head. His wife's voice softly whispered in his mind, encouraging him to go on.

Eventually, he fell through a large bush rolling into the clearing. With what remained of his strength, he flipped the switch on his communicator. There was a long time of silence, nobody came to get him.

He couldn't stand it anymore, this was it. He was going to die here. Another long moment elapsed and he came to terms with this, his eyes closing.

There was loud incoherent shouting and the sound of helicopter blades chopping at the air. Three men ran up to him, two of them sliding him onto a stretcher. The third opened his eyes, flashing a light into them, and took his pulse.

"He's still breathing! Get him to the chopper, now!"

"Fuckin' Christ, look at his shoulder."

"Private, get that wound sanitized!"

Pain shot through his shoulder as something wet pressed against it. A needle pushed into his other shoulder and the pain faded, replaced by a faint throbbing.

"No way, he did that to himself? What a hardass."

"What the fuck did you just say, Copper?"

He felt himself getting lifted and the sound of the helicopter grew closer.

"Sorry, sir, it's just... Who the hell is this guy? I've never seen anyone do that to themselves and then walk five miles to Medivac."

"Just do your damn job, and leave the thinking to those capable of it."

The stretcher was set down and his consciousness faded away as the voices continued.

######

O'Della's eyes snapped open and he tossed the jacket off him. His hand frantically ran over his shoulder to make sure his arm was still there. All he received was a grim reminder as his fingers touched the cold metal. His shirt was drenched in sweat and he looked around wild-eyed.

Sammy stared over at him. "Oklahoma?"

The scars itched profusely and he could still feel the pain from his old wounds. He grabbed a cigarette, lighting it quickly with his arm. Just about the only damn good thing about it was he didn't need to carry a lighter anymore, just fluid. The hand snapped back, extinguishing the flame.

He pulled on the cigarette for a long while, and the cherry glowed brightly. Exhaling heavily, he looked at Sammy. There was a look of sorrow in his eyes, almost as if he wished he could have switched places with him back then.

"Yeah."