The Replacements.

SSG R. Simmons

The truck hit the last stretch of broken pavement before the CP and lurched hard enough to rattle teeth, but Simmons just rode it out, one hand on the side rail, the other steadying his ruck between his boots. The canvas flap snapped in the cold wind, carrying diesel, mud, and something else underneath it—burnt metal. He noticed that. Didn’t say anything.

When the truck ground to a halt, he stepped down without waiting, boots landing solid like he’d never left, though he felt the difference immediately. The last week in Cluj-Napoca had noise—music, generators, people pretending the world wasn’t ending was a welcome break. NATO script spent too fast, cheap liquor, expensive mistakes, and women who understood timing better than soldiers ever did.

Now it was quiet in the wrong ways. He walked to the Alpha Company CP and there sat his personal bag sat waiting like unfinished business. The First Sergeant was there—of course he was—and Simmons closed the distance, stopping just short of anything formal.

Top.
A beat, He looks at his First Sergeant.
"Looks like I missed something." Cracking a smile
Not a question, just a statement, delivered flat. A gust of wind cuts across the CP, carrying that faint burnt smell again. Stronger this time.

1SG Joe Gates, spits out a stream of tobacco juice and says
"Brigade put the call out for volunteers for a LRP. Your platoon is over strength so I am volunteering you."
"Top, come on, second Platoon has more guys than first." Simmons said
"Yes, but a mission like this, you are needed. Not a couple of dirt bags"
Another beat.
Simmons nods once to himself.
"Figured I’d check in before you came looking for me."

"Good" 1SG Gates says with a slap on his back.

Simmons turned, grabbed his personal bag, cracked open his ruck, and shoved it down inside without ceremony, cinching the top tight. What mattered was coming with him. Everything else could break. He slung the weight onto his shoulders, checked his rifle out of habit, and moved.

The hangar was already full when he stepped through the doorway—cold air, oil, wet canvas, and too many people packed into a space that wasn’t built for comfort. Voices layered low, uncertain, waiting.

At the front of cots and bags and gear stood a lieutenant and a platoon sergeant—Thrace and McBride. Simmons’ eyes settled on the NCO for a fraction longer.
....McBride....He knew the name—heard it more than once around before the war and during, the kind that carried through rotations and after-action talk. Never worked with him. Never met him. But it meant something. The lieutenant was new to him. Didn’t matter.

He read them both anyway—the posture, the tone, the way they held the room. The moment. The MSG called out:

"…twenty volunteers," the lieutenant was saying. "Long-range patrol. Four days minimum. Operating forward of current lines—"

There was movement in the formation, subtle and telling—boots shifting, eyes sliding sideways, nobody stepping forward.

McBride watched them, measuring, waiting.

Simmons took it in for half a second.

That was enough.

He stepped fully from theSide doorway into the Hanger and spoke, voice cutting clean through the shuffle without needing volume.

You’ve got one. Staff Sergeant Simmons. Alpha Company. The sent me.

Not dramatic. Just fact. His gaze moved between Thrace and McBride—lingering just a fraction longer on McBride—then settled.

Point me where you need me.

He looks around to see who else is volunteering to see who he will be working with.

"Jason Black," Jason gave by way of introduction to fellow volunteers and anyone else in the hangar who might need it. He kept pomp and pageantry to a minimum.

People could tell simply by looking at him what he was and, in general, what he brought to the table. That usually was enough. He didn't feel he needed to speak much on it any more than the obvious uniform he was wearing that marked him as Special Forces. He lived by the Roosevelt maxim of speaking softly and carrying a big stick.

Black noticed the Staff Sergeant and nodded in his direction. "Simmons, good to see you here."

The mission, a LRRP, would be made all the better with a Ranger and a buddy involved in the process. Already Black was feeling better about the whole situation, and he knew morale was shaky after the ambush earlier that left wounded and dead that shattered an entire squad. With Simmons involved he had more confidence the mission would be executed with greater skill and ensure success, not to speak little of the other soldiers volunteering. He had faith in the troops of the 173rd, where he wondered if he had faith was, in all things was in himself.

Now that the time had come, real conflict and war, abd a real mission at the front lines, Jason questioned his ability to lead. On paper, and in training and previous service, he showed an ability to lead, but it wasn't anything like what this situation was. A full scale third world war with a for that was a peer and had every capability to take life away from those that looked to him for leadership and expertise. Quietly he hoped when it came to it, he'd be at least sufficient to carry the day when he was tested out in the field, but as his focus returned to the hangar, he turned to focus on others who would be introducing themselves and see what they brought to the table.

Anastasia Kharchenko

Anastasia sat quietly with her group and listened to the American talk, she didn't know who he was, didn't care much, but the other people in the hanger listened to him so she held out hopes that he wasn't a complete idiot. She cleaned her rifle with a practiced easy and translated what was being said and what was being asked of them into Russian for her comrades. The man seemed serious and he spoke like a man who knew what he was talking about but the question in her mind at that moment was, Is there a point?

By this point the war had dragged on for years, years past when it should have reasonably ended. When it was all done would there be anything left worth saving? Maybe some place quiet with a window overlooking the sea.

Anastasia stood up, she was of medium height for a woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes. She wore a long, dusty, blue grey military jacket that appeared to be surplus from the last war, or maybe one a few before that, jeans, a dark shirt and woollen sweater that probably belonged to some nation's navy a few decades back. Black boots were silent on the concrete as she move.

"Kharchenko," She said in a voice with a moderate slavic accent, "I will go with if you wish."

Justin had been sitting near Dr. Cristea and the other medics, offering what little help his untrained hands could manage. He did not want to volunteer. He wanted to go home, and he could not see how stepping forward would bring him any closer to it.

Then he heard Kharchenko speak.

The accent caught in him like a hook. His eyes dropped to the small harp resting at his side, and for a moment everything seemed to fall away. Before he quite realized what he was doing, he was on his feet.

"MacDonald... Justin MacDonald." His voice was quiet but steady. "I’ll go, if it helps."

At first David didn't stand from the makeshift bed he was sitting on when the military men and women came into the hangar. He stated seated on the bunk with his fist clenched. Somehow he already knew for what reason they came here. Jack taught him this to the point it became his second nature: the man at his position has to listen... carefully... and not only to the words, but also bodies movement, tones of voices or even light shake of hands. The man at his position has to know what is happening in his environment... especially between the people he is surrounded by.

"So the war has started for good... or rather I should say for worse." he thought to himself - "And I should rather know it already" - he continued his train of thought and taped the recently recovered knife wounds on his chest.

"I must get to know what is happening in my country and they don't say us anything! Joining this mission will be the best way to get my person some trust from those higher up. And move from here at least. Not waiting. So it it's decided..." - he concluded in his mind surprised even to himself how calm and logical his reasoning was... especially considering the situation he is in and the step he is about to make.

David stood up from the bunk and approached the group of standing people that was so far making a kind of wall separating him from the military men at the center of the hangar. Even so his posture wasn't big or menacing in any possible way (he was more "lean, but stingy type" - as they say) with some firm but delicate taps and deliberate pushes here and there he managed to make people moving aside providing him some space to move forward and go in front of them. The gathered people saw a man in his late twenties, but with still very young face. Standing there in a relaxed but determined pose. In not quite the military outfit, but good for traveling in current environment.

"I'll go too. I'm good at noticing... things and I heard that skill will be useful for this so called mission." - he said, intentionally not hiding his Romanian accent, but with fluent English. He wanted them to know that he is... informed. Even though he shouldn't be provided with those informations. Knows how to notice things... and gather info. How useful he can be.

"Name is David Szilágyi... but people from your country call me just Clank." - he ended. But stated there for formal confirmation, or even more so to read from them how they reacted to his introduction.

Dr Cristea had not moved when the first volunteers stepped forward. Just sat there on the edge of his bed with his medical bag between his boots. He watched the room sort itself - soldiers...would-be soldiers...and those too frightened to be either. "LRRP" - some sort of long range patrol he'd come to learn. Up in the mountains. Behind enemy lines.

He sighed. Not a dramatic sound, more like disappointment.

This was not what he wanted to be doing. Not afraid...not exactly. But he was old enough to recognise inevitability when he saw it. Some of them would die. That much was obvious. The only question was how many.

When the Romanian boy - "Clank", apparently - stepped forward, Cristea finally rose. He smoothed the front of his mismatched fatigues, adjusted the small pocket square at his breast, and picked up his bag. Stepped forward as well.

"Dr Octavian Cristea", he says in careful, precise English. "Psychiatrist. Physician when I have to be."

Looking from the rag-tag of soldiers and partisans to the officers, he sniffs - "I can carry my gear and keep my head, but as for standing my ground...I believe that is why you have soldiers."

Some of them might have taken offence. He doesn't notice.

"But I may be able to keep some of you alive a little longer..."

And that was as close to volunteering as he was prepared to get.

Simmons held his position for a moment after speaking, letting the room settle around him, eyes moving with quiet purpose as the first response came from the formation. Jason Black. The name registered before the face fully did, but once it clicked, Simmons gave a slight nod of recognition. He knew him in Ranger Batt, he last heard he went into SF. Carried himself like it. No wasted motion, no extra words. Simmons lifted a hand in a short, informal wave—the kind passed between men who didn’t need introductions to understand each other—then let it drop back to his rifle.

Good. That’s one I won’t have to worry about.

His attention shifted as the next voice stepped forward. Kharchenko. He took in the details automatically—the way she stood, the way she spoke, the gear, the calm. Not military in the way he was used to, but not soft either.

Seen that before. War makes its own soldiers.

MacDonald was next. Simmons’ eyes lingered a second longer there. The hesitation before the words, the quiet way he committed anyway.

Doesn’t want to be here… but stepped forward anyway. That counts.

Then Szilágyi—Clank. Simmons watched him push through the crowd more than he listened at first. The way people moved aside. The way he carried himself once he reached the front.

Observant. Knows it. Wants us to know it too.

A slight shift of weight under the ruck.

Could be useful… if he keeps it disciplined.

Dr. Cristea came last, and Simmons’ expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed just a fraction. Not in judgment—assessment. A doctor. Not a soldier. Said it plain.

Fair enough.

Simmons gave the smallest nod.

Every patrol needs one man who knows he’s not bulletproof.

The room had changed now. Not loud. Not motivated. But committed. That was enough.

Simmons’ gaze moved back to McBride, holding it for a second—steady, level—then he gave a single, deliberate nod. Ready, no words needed, he adjusted the strap on his ruck, settled the weight, and went still again, eyes forward, waiting for the next order.

Let’s see what kind of patrol this turns into.

Elvis waited as one set of boots and then another, and another, creaked as their occupants stood up. He was a mechanic, not a tip of the spear kinda guy. Better to let those with the right skills go before volunteering himself. He was more used to the sound of trucks backfiring than rifle shots, even after so long in the army.

When the last pair of boots stood up, the pause afterwards felt like eternity echoing. Still Elvis waited, almost to the point where to stand up now would be too overwhelming awkward to consider. He was no coward, just a man who knew where he was needed and where he wasn’t. Looking around at the men and women who had volunteered, he knew they needed him.

Well, he drawled in that particular way of Arkansans born and raised in the heart of the Ozarks, I reckon you’ll probably need someone to look after the trucks. Can get a might muddy goin up them ridges and such. Can’t afford to be breakin down without a mechanic, and I know them trucks better than anyone here.

Not to brag on myself that is, he added, a little red in the face.

Rust "Rooster" McCain had that perpetual stupid half-grin he was almost always wearing. He was hustling to the group of voluntolds full of swagger. He wasn't the tallest by any standard, but Rooster was immense, muscular, highly athletic frame, like Doug Furnas, only somehow more redneck. He was wearing Marine T Block pattern cammies and a pair of Oakley shades. Which somehow only seemed to further emphasize the dumb grin.

He snapped an extremely lazy salute to the captain. The kind of perfunctory salute that said he acknowledged his superior, but had been out of the wire so long he had grown accustomed to it.

"I been tole' this is where I wanna be if'm gonna kill me some ruskies." The lone marine drawled, in a deep, and gravelly baritone. He hadn't shaved in months, and there was fresh blood on his gloves, boots. As he closed in he smelled like the field, *that smell* diesel, gunpowder, lead, the musk coming off him was spicy, a bit like burning metal. At 6'1" and 250lbs, Lance Corporal McCain loomed thicker than most doorways, he moved with a fluid grace that did not match the immense frame.

"Cuz I been lookin' to kill me some more, Cap'n."

McCain carried what looked like a blackened piece of film with him and showed it to the captain like he expected him to know what it meant. He shifted on his feet, whatever he was holding in that hand seemed much heavier to him, even heavier than the AT-4, M60, and Pack of Rockets he was carrying. The Pig in particular told a story. There were countless fresh notches in the barrel, that even with the maintenance Rooster had performed had thick red oxides clinging to the upper. He had named it Hillary, obvious by the whiteout he had painted on its lower. A faded sticker of Hillary Clinton, barely recognizable over the belt feed. Along the barrel in white out it read "... put to the sword those that disagree." Amidst the scores upon scores of notches.

Wolfe had been awake for a good 30, eyes closed, motionless in his bunk as he listened to the men begin to stir. The images of transports exploding, of fireballs on the horizon played out behind his eyelids. No word since, nothing on the why or a plan or anything else to explain the reckless rush to get these men and women on site with enemy SAMs so close. It didn't make much sense to Wolfe but he'd stopped counting things the brass did that fell in that category a long, long time ago.

There was a sound of someone entering, he could hear the person trying to be quite as they slid between the bunks. Sure enough they were coming his way so Caleb cracked his left eye to see who it was. Corporal Walker stood at the foot of his bunk, waiting apparently for a sign, saluting when he saw the eye open, "Sergeant. Hope I didn't wake you."

Wolfe cracked a half smirked and stood, "All good, Walker. What can I do for you?"

"Harris thought you might want to know, Charlie 2/503's getting something big. Something real big. All the units are getting orders to ask for volunteers. Harris thought you might be interested in the Scout on the list."

Wolfe's eyes narrowed as he considered the news. 1SG Harris could have asked anyone in the platoon about this but she knew Caleb's brother Jimmy was in Charlie 2. Not normally the kind of thing his 1SG would do. She must know something about the mission, something to make her think it was worth offering Caleb the option to decide to be their volunteer.

"Thanks Walker. Let Harris know I'll fill the slot," Wolfe nodded to the Corporal.

"Harris said they're going to visit the replacements this morning," Walker shared, "You can probably meet them there."

"Appreciate it, Walker," Wolfe nodded.

An hour later, the door to the hanger opened and Wolfe entered the hanger, shouldering his equipment. The recruitment was well underway, a line of volunteers were stepping forward. Wolfe strode forward and stood next to SSG Simmons, offering the officers a customary salute. "Sirs, understand there's a call for a volunteer from Scout platoon. SFC Wolfe reporting."


Caleb didn't look for Jimmy, if he wasn't with the officers he probably was back with the rest of Charlie 2. He glanced to Simmons and nodded; another volunteer it seemed.

The officers and NCOs stood in the center of the Hanger, watching the replacements mull over the announcement. McBride acknowledged Black and said quietly, "I’m McBride. That’s LT Thrace." As he said this, they heard the hanger door slam open, then closed. The sound of boots came echoing behind them. They turned and saw SSG Simmons walking up.
"Good to have you, Simmons. Just hang here while we see who else decides to join our little foray," McBride says with a smirk.

---

Ana looked over the group in the center of the hanger as she approached. There was a face she recognized from her arrival. Standing back a step or two was Captain Lee Adams. Lee noted her as she walked up and volunteered. She saw his eyes follow her and when she said she’d go, he gave a single nod. Otherwise, he remained silent for now. McBride was the one who spoke. "Kharchenko, good to have you. Please step over here." He motions to an area just behind Simmons.

---

Thrace watched the situation with hawk-like intensity, but she let McBride do the talking for now. They had worked together for some time now and she knew he would get the right responses. McBride scanned the people gathered. He saw the struggle in some of them. And he saw some of those rise despite their internal conflict. He saw a young man look down at the small musical instrument, unusual for anyone in this day and age. He saw the young man rise and walk over. He noted the quiet accent when the young soldier introduced himself.

"MacDonald, welcome aboard." McBride motioned to the same area behind Simmons.

---

The next person McBride happened to notice was a young man wearing a mix of military and civilian attire moving through the gathered crowd with purpose. David Szilágyi... "Clank" was clearly not military and not partisan, but something different. McBride thought to himself, he’s young, but he’s trained. He also noted the young man’s accent. "You’re from around here, aren’t you Clank?" McBride asked. "Glad to have you join us. Please stand with the others for now."

---

Almost immediately, and in contrast to the others, an older man in mismatched uniforms appears before the group. He has the look of a survivor about him, not military, but professional to be sure. And he looks like the kind of man who goes where he is needed. Introducing himself as Dr Octavian Cristea, Psychiatrist and Physician. McBride noted his accent and said, "And you are not from around here, are you, Doctor. Either way, it is good to have you." McBride motions to the others.

---

There was a long pause after the Doctor. McBride looked back at the LT, then to Captain Adams, who gave a little shrug. Then he turned to scan the crowd again. Just when he was about to call them done, he sees a young man whose uniform is covered in grease stains stand and walk over. McBride noted the CPL stripes and the name, Bledsoe. He listened to the young man , whose voice said he was from Arkansas. "A good mechanic and a good medic are welcomed additions. Thanks for stepping up, Corporal." He lets the young man join the others.

---

The next thing that happened seemed a bit odd, but given the overall state of things, the oddness didn’t last as long as maybe the awkwardness of the moment did. As McBride was talking to Bledsoe, a Marine walked up and, saluting Captain Adams, begins discussing the killing of Russians and whether this was the right place for him. Adams looks him over and says, "You seem to have a solid skillset, Lance Corporal. Talk to the Staff Sergeant there and I am sure he will get you squared away."

McBride, hearing this, turns and looks over the Marine Machine Gunner standing in front of him. His nose crinkles slightly but briefly. "Marine, you’ve been in the field a long time, haven’t you? No matter. We will be able to use you. Please stand over with the rest."

---

Nobody heard the door open again, but McBride made note of the fresh breeze and was thankful that it had occurred when it did. He turned and saw SFC Wolfe walking toward them. A note of additional recognition hit him, but he put it aside. He knew the scout in passing, but had never really stopped to chat with him or anything. Standing next to Simmons, he reported. "Thanks for coming Sergeant. Glad to have you with us." McBride turned to the LT and nodded. These were the replacements they were going to take.

---

The LT stepped forward. "I am LT Thrace, Charlie Company, 3rd Platoon. This is my Platoon Sergeant, Staff Sergeant Randall McBride. We are leading this mission. We have less than a week for everyone to get to know each other and operate as a team."

SSG McBride continues where Thrace stopped. "This is a deep penetration, long duration reconnaissance patrol with specific objectives. We will be briefed on those specifics before we step off. Between now and then, we will be working on skills everyone will need to be able to execute. The next few days will be long."

Thrace continues, "We will get you billeted in the Charlie Company FOB today. Use the rest of the day to get your gear maintenanced, sorted and inventoried. We will go over any lost or unserviceable gear and have a general once over of your remaining gear at 1500 today so that we can get a list of replacement gear for issue first thing in the morning along with other necessary equipment each of you will need for this mission."

Captain Lee Adams steps forward now. "After evening chow, we will all meet for a more detailed mission briefing, in particular, how it relates to the training you will all need to undertake prior to mission start. Our timeframe is tight and there is very little flexibility in timing, so let’s make sure everyone is ready." He turns back to LT Thrace. "LT Thrace, I’ll see you and everyone else at the Charlie FOB at 1900." He looks over the volunteers. "I think you’ve got your work cut out for you." With that, he turns and heads back to the Replacement Company CP.

Thrace turns back to McBride and nods. McBride nods back and turns to the other gathered replacements. In a voice loud enough to ensure the crowd knows who he’s speaking to, he says, "That will be all the volunteers we are taking at this time. Thank you for your attention." Then he turns to the volunteers and says, "Grab your gear and don’t leave anything you don’t want to donate to someone else. You won’t be back here. Once you have everything, there are two trucks outside which will take us back to Charlie where you will get your bunks, a chance to wash the Replacement Company funk off and grab some hot chow. Move out!"

Rust followed the captains order immediately. Didn't wait to be formally dismissed, he sensed they were not standing on ceremony and the Captain's time would be better served by him moving quickly. So he did. Mosied straight to SSG Simmons and once again offered his big, dumb, grin.

"Yes, Staff Sar'nt..." Rooster was surprisingly quick as he glanced down read the name. "McBride pardon me not shakin' your hand - I'm hotter than a two dolla' pistol. Lance Corporal Rust McCain just arrived today, walked from the US Embassy." He tried to keep his distance knowing three months afield had a certain stench to it. Rust had the look of a man Who had not seen a friendly face in ages, his mannerisms were twitchy. "My buddy, well..." He looked at his bloody gloves and clenched his jaw. It was still fresh, the loss, the hot anger was barely contained by that stupid grin of his. "Any way. I won't be your problem for long." He extended the black film he had been carrying. A radiological dosimeter, it was almost pitch black, freshly developed. It said Rust was a dead man walking. "I'wanna do somethin' useful wit the time I got left. I won't do nothin' stupid, I just don't wanna die from *this*." He extended the dosimeter again emphasizing the reality of his situation. "Guessin' til my teeth start fallin' out my husk is yours. Say the word Baws."

Anastasia nodded and headed back to her bunk, having a clean bed had been a nice change for a bit. Not that her bunk on the boat had been bad but she wasn’t sharing this one with three other people.

Opening her trunk Anastasia began organizing what she had into neat piles to be packed into her bag. Pulling off her sweater she gave it a quick sniff before pulling a Metallica t-shirt on over her long sleeved pullover and then pulling the sweater back on over that. A couple more concert tees went in the bag followed by some thermal underwear and several pair of dry socks. When Anastasia finished packing and getting dressed she looked more like a refugee than a soldier. Only her Russian pattern webbing rifle hinted she might be something else.

It only took her a few moments to disassemble, clean and reassemble her rifle before standing up and indicating she was ready.

"I travels light." Anastasia remarked in an accent filled with Slavic inflection. "We can get food before we go, no?"

@emberskyes

After a long hot shower Rust returned to the group, he still hadn't introduced himself to anyone more than a curt nod. It was obvious that he had not been around people for a very long time, outside of the group of partisans he had attached to. He was bunker opposite from Anastasia and decided to break the ice.

He spoke Ukrainian, with a south Florida accent while his conjugation was that of a native speaker, his accent made him sound slow. "Привіт, красунє! Яка твоя улюблена пісня Metallica?"

He had dressed in MARPAT, with a booniehat even after a thorough cleaning and oiling Hillary was still quite oxidized. It had seen a lot of use in the last several months. The wooden stock had a suspicious stain and dent in it that cleaning only emphasized. Likewise his AT4 had a custom paint job now, a line of Tiewaz runes at its muzzle, something written in runic that formed a stave.

Something about *that smell* clung to him. Even after washing there was a hint of blood and burning metal on him. He had cleaned up his beard, still flouting the regulations. And cut his hair into a mullet, with a skin fade. No longer wearing his Oakleys he met Anastasia's eyes, with a pair of green-gold eyes. Hard living had aged his face, but his eyes still looked young, bright, late 20's. Though his face easily passed for mid-40's. With a gaze that looked through a person instead of at them.

Frowning unmistakably at the reference to him being "not from around here", Cristea mutters something bad temperedly under his breath. Then a little louder: 'Has no one here heard of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact?' A brief roll of the eyes as if he regards everyone who isn't him as an idiot.

The room begins to more around him. Gear unpacked and repacked. Weapons stripped and cleaned. Glancing over the black dosimeter his eyebrows rise, but he says nothing. There will be plenty of time to worry about that later.

Neglecting the old hunting rifle hanging from the end of his bed, he turns to the tools of his trade. Medical supplies first. Surgical instruments wrapped and secured. Pain relievers counted. Bandages checked. His few personal items followed: spare socks, folded shirt, razor, a clean pocket handkerchief.

Last comes an oilcloth which he unwraps carefully to reveal a well thumbed green textbook - the Merck Manual 16th edition - and on top of it a small, worn book in Russian, cover softened by years of handling. Chekhov. Short stories. He pauses over it for half a second, then tucks it into an inner pocket of his bag before folding over the cloth and placing it inside as well.

Finally he turns to the rifle. Perfunctorily checking it over. Ensuring it is unloaded, counting the ammunition with a quiet look of disapproval, and setting it beside the bag. 'Optimistic'. Letting out a too loud sigh he picks up both again. And with the air of a man accepting an appointment he never agreed to, Dr Cristea follows the others towards the trucks.

@Mephistophilis

"I know what a molotov is." Rust remarked with a knowing grin at the doctor's comment. He knew he was outclassed in terms of the mind, that didn't bother him any. He wore a knowing grin as he asked something he knew the Doc didn't know the answer to. "Hey Doc, why's the sky blue?" Rust raised his voice so everyone could hear.

"I saw them in Moscow at Tushino Airfield in 91," Anastasia says in english, "was a good concert. I likes Master of Puppets, Enter Sandman, Disposable Heroes, Orion. All good songs."

"You seen them?" She asks raising an eyebrow, "You strikes as more a Garth Brooks guy. Friends in Low Places you know?

Anastasia glances at Octavian, "Secret partition of Eastern Europe. Fascist, Communist, Totalitarian circle. I has heard of."

@emberskyes

Rust chuckled at that, she had him pegged wrong but he didn't mind. Florida men sounded like Georgia and Kentucky men, but had a wildly different energy. "In the Everglade we listen t'Death Metal. Nile, Amon Amarth, Death. Metallica was my daddy's favorite, I can play every song, solos too. Metal shares DNA with Blues Guitar which is m'forte." The way his face lit up when he talked about music, it was clearly his passion he made no attempts to hide it. His voice even softened a bit, the inflection suggested (I am a nice human.) Even if months of struggle and killing had proved he was also a very dangerous one. "I am Rust, Rust McCain, but call me Rooster."

He took a beat adding as an after thought.

"Say I ain't got no battle buddy, n'most o'these gentlemen n'me would be getting a bit too close for comfort in a foxhole. Keen on watching my six, n'I watch yowz?"

Cristea glances briefly at the Marine when the question is thrown across the room. The grin, the tone - the need for an audience. He chooses not to answer. Instead his attention shifts to Kharchenko. A small inclination of the head. 'Precisely.' He adjusts the strap on his bag, as if the matter is now settled. 'Moldovan', he adds after a moment, almost as an afterthought. 'The distinction is politics not language.'

He walks to the door, pausing for moment. 'As for the sky...' He glances once more at the Marine, expression unreadable. '...I presume that was not a serious question...' He looks at the man more intensely, remembering the dosimeter. 'But blue light scatters more in the atmosphere, it is the Rayleigh effect.' And with that, he moves on.

@Mephistophilis

"Thing about me doc, m'deadly serious." Rust replied and listened to the doc's explanation nodding, eventually he shook his head when the scientific understanding was shared. "Nah doc, that may be the technical reason. But the skys'blue cuz God fuckin' loves the infantry!" He said from deep in his chest with his stupid knowing grin again.

"Anastasia Kharchenko." Ana says to the Doctor and Rooster with a nod.

Wolfe regarded the odd group as Thrace, McBride and Adams conclude the recruitment, trying to maintain as nondescript composure as possible. As the meeting concluded he leaned to Simmons, asking, "What do you make of this group? Sounds like a pretty serious mission to pull together a volunteer crew on. Including civilians seems especially odd."

His tone is more matter-of-fact than judgmental. Caleb knew next to nothing of the men and women gathered here or what kind of vetting they might have already gone through to get here. If they'd been on the transports that arrived the other night then they'd already gone through a harrowing ordeal and the fact that some were willing to step up and volunteer for a mission like this said a lot. Still, he wondered if there was more to this.

"I'm going to see if McBride can shed some light," he nods before moving forward. He was recon and his entire job was obtaining info ahead of any action, this was no different really.

"Excuse me Sergeant, got a minute?" he catches McBride's attention, "Figure it's not a surprise to say this seems outside of most manuals. Mixing random civilians and military personnel on a mission like this feels desperate. Anything we should know about what's driving this and how confident we can be in this group?"

Outranked, outgunned, or both by just about everyone around him at the present moment, Elvis gathered his things with quiet efficiency. He knew enough not to get involved in unnecessary conversations with superiors until you knew what kind of person they were. It was better to listen first. A man learned an awful lot by just shutting his pie hole for a while.

As he listened he made a mental catalogue of all the parts their trucks used, setting out some tools and discarding others as he went. If he could bring a whole machine shop with him he would, but of course that wouldn’t do on patrol. Versatility was the name of the game.

The only extra weight he allowed himself was an anthologion and a komboskini which he shoved into his left pocket quickly, as if he would be embarrassed for anyone to see it.

@emberskyes

Rust took pause after a moments consideration of the name. He spoke slowly not wanting his accent to butcher the important question. "У тебе є брат, Олексій?"

Jason noticed the socializing among the irregulars and the marine and heard Caleb's concern. Given his own experience with war, and prior to the conflict, he figured he could add his own perspective.

"Irregulars can be a helpful asset many missions. I trained several cadres here and in other places. They know the landscape and localities the best, and their own people better. They often have a better connection and will to fight than foreigners for their own country at least."

He gave his equipment another one-over, even though he was fairly certain it was as good as it was going to get, he made certain it was in peak condition as a matter-of-fact, despite rough conditions. He made for the truck by way of Robert Simmons before he hopped on.

"Rob Simmons, it's good to see you around here, here for the same mission, no less. Hopefully life hasn't been too unfair to you."

Anastasia looks at Rust, " Чому ти хочеш знати?"

"Not that it matters Mr. Rust but my family is no more."

@Emberskyes

"Oleksiy Kharchenko gave me enough bread and meat to keep me alive for a week at the very beginning of all this." Rust stopped grinning when he heard that Oleksiy had perished. His expression grim. "He saved a lot more than just my life. Are you sure he is gone?" He couldn't believe that. Didn't want to.

"Ось це його Богородиця." Rust reached into his underarmor and produced a golden pectoral of the grace of St. Mary. He pulled another, a Buddha, which seemed quite similar with it."Бо Олексій сказав, що я на місії від Бога."

"I don't know who that guy was but he wasn't my brother." Anastasia says pulling her hair back into a ponytail.

Rooster shrugged then more seriously said. "My condolences for your family. C'mon looks like we're disembarkin'." Rust shouldered Hillary, double checked his AT4's harness, then started to sortie out joining the line behind Elvis Bledsoe.

SSG Robert Simmons shifts his weight, watching the last of the volunteers break formation, eyes tracking movement more than faces—habit, not curiosity. He leans slightly toward Caleb Wolfe, voice low, casual but measured.

"Hard to say, Sergeant. It’s not clean—that much is obvious. Civilians in the mix tells me this isn’t a straight-line mission. Either we’re short on bodies, short on time… or both."

He glances across the group again, picking out posture, gear, hesitation. "I’ve seen worse collections pull something off, and I’ve seen better fall apart. Irregulars can work if they’ve got a reason to be here. Question is—who’s actually in charge when it matters?"

A faint shrug follows. "But yeah… feels like something serious enough they’re not waiting on perfect conditions."

---

Simmons turns as Jason Black approaches, recognition hitting before the words do. The corner of his mouth pulls into a grin. "Jason Black… what the fuck are you doing here?" Sergeant Wolfe, let me introduce you to an old Ranger buddy of mine
He lets that hang half a second before continuing, grin widening.

"You’re too senior for this mess. Shouldn’t you be riding a desk somewhere as a First Shirt by now? Or did you screw something up bad enough they kicked you back down here to babysit us?" A quiet chuckle slips out—no heat behind it. He nods toward the forming-up volunteers.
"You’re not wrong, though. These irregulars—they’ve got skin in the game. That counts for something. Hell, I’m seeing less actual replacements and more civilians walking in ready to fight. That last batch we got from the States? Not up to snuff. Training was garbage. These civilians—at least they understand what’s at stake. Might make ’em more willing to close with the enemy."

A pause. "But… everything remains to be seen."

He glances toward the trucks staging up. "I’m ready to move to Charlie Company FOB. Get the hell out of this replacement company AO and get the repple depple stink off." He picks up his ruck sack and looks between the two of them. "Have either of you heard anything about the recce patrol objectives?"

---

As Wolfe peels off to ask SSG McBride about that very thing, Simmons watches him go, then shifts his attention back to Black, lowering his voice just a notch.

"Same old Army, huh? Different war, same chaos." He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "Gawd… I miss R&R already…"

Justin quietly gathered what gear he had left, listening to the others as they talked around him. Still, the words between Anastasia and Rooster kept drawing his attention back to them. The words sounded Russian to him but was sure it wasn't, was it? He almost asked but the words stuck in his throat.

Then Anastasia mentioned Moscow as if it were just another place. Justin found himself looking away, unsettled by how strange that felt. There was a time he would have heard something like that and known exactly what to think. Now he wasn’t sure of much at all.

"I've had to ask myself the same question some mornings," Jason replied to Simmons.

"Tell me about it, I'm nearly there, and you're about nearly on point with your conclusion and my luck. I ended up volunteering for my gig here when the 173rd came to town, when I...lost...something, let's say. It seems now as luck would have it, birds are dropping out of the sky, and now we've got this mission handed to us; details are sparse on that all I know is that it's long distance and long endurance. The type of thing we're trained for, so hopefully it won't be asking for too much."

Jason sighed.

"Same old, same old. This is why I'm not cut out for commission, I'd flip the script too wildly if I were in charge, and who knows what that would mean?"

Wolfe listened grimly before offering a curt nod, "That tracks. Will look forward to the briefing tonight."

"They all stepped up, even after everything they went through to get here," Caleb looked back to the group gathering their belongings and beginning to make their way to the waiting vehicles outside, "Good sign they won't give up when it gets even tougher. Spirits like that; we'll get it come together."

Taking his leave of McBride, Wolfe returned to Simmons and Black, "We'll find out more at the Captain's briefing tonight but McBride paints a grim picture of how the war's going. Gonna need to get this group integrated and working as a team and only a couple days to do it."

"I know you're right about Irregulars," he glanced to Black, "I've had limited experience with them in Romania so far but they were soild. By this point those are the only ones left fighting. They were already working with Romanian military, maybe some of these folks have that same experience. Going to be an adjustment on all sides I figure."

One eyebrow raised as he regarded Rooster while the scruffy Marine speaks with Anastasia. "Yeah definitely an adjustment," Wolfe shakes his head to the pair but there was a hint of a smile tugging a one cheek.

David was gathering his gear in silence engulfed in his own thoughts, but found the conversation between Anastasia, Dr Octavian and peculiar marine - Rooster - interesting. He even wanted to throw in his comments, but somehow didn't manage to think up anything that wouldn't seem out of place. When the Doctor was commenting about the scientific reason the sky is blue, it especially picked his interest: "A man of science. Maybe there would be someone to talk to." - he thought. He almost even added something to doctor's answer, but he managed to disappear behind the closing door, so Clank bit his tongue in last moment.

Clank looked visibly surprised at Anastasia's way of dressing... "for the coming mission"... but again... said nothing.

He decided to hasten himself and catch up on doctor to take place next to him in the truck. He threw everything that was left of his possessions into his backpack, not caring about proper placement, tied it and almost run after the doctor.

@Honor_Over_All

"Howdy Corp'ral." Rust said as he fished a pack of lucky strikes and offered Elvis a cigarette. "First time outta th'wire?" His tone brokered that he meant no offense. "Believe it o'not, I neva did see combat 'til Ivan shot up my embassy." Rust was trying to be friendly. "Rust McCain." he said and sparked up his cigarette.

SSG Simmons listens without interrupting, eyes moving between Caleb Wolfe and Jason Black, giving a slow nod as Wolfe lays it out.

"Yeah… that tracks."

He shifts his stance, watching the volunteers start drifting toward the trucks, gear clattering, small groups forming naturally.

"Couple days isn’t much, but it’s enough if we keep it simple. Set expectations early, keep ‘em tight, and make sure everybody knows who they’re listening to when things go sideways."

His gaze flicks over to the Marine Lance Corporal and Anastasia, the corner of his mouth pulling slightly. "And yeah… that Marine? He’ll either be a problem or exactly what we need. No middle ground there." A faint huff of amusement. "But I’ve seen that type before—they tend to show up when it counts."

Simmons looks around, then nods toward the trucks. "I’m gonna start herding cats before we lose the window." He gestures with his chin toward the group.

"I’ll grab CPL Bledsoe, the Marine, Private MacDonald, and those three Romanian civilians—get ‘em moving and on a truck headed to Charlie Company FOB. At least get some chow in ‘em and start acting like a unit instead of a pickup team."

He looks back to Wolfe and Black. "I suspect you two’ll either catch a ride up front or link in separately—either way, we’ll be there ahead of the briefing." He pauses a beat, then adds: "Sooner we get out of this AO and onto something that looks like a mission, the better."

---

Simmons steps off without waiting, closing the distance to the loose cluster forming near the trucks. His tone shifts—still calm, but more direct, meant to cut through the noise without trying to own the room.

"Alright—listen up a second." He stops just short of the group, eyes moving from face to face—quick assessments, nothing lingering.

"Staff Sergeant Robert Simmons." A short nod follows. "Just making sure I know who I’m working with."

He points lightly as he goes, matching names to faces. "Private MacDonald… Corporal Bledsoe… Lance Corporal McCain... Am I right?" His gaze shifts to the civilians. "Doctor Cristea… Szilagyi—‘Clank,’ right?… and Anastasia Kharchenko."

A brief pause—just long enough to let anyone correct him.

"Good. Appreciate it."

He nods once, more conversational now.

"Looks like we’re all getting pushed over to Charlie Company’s FOB. Figure we might as well roll over together—get some chow and stop standing around this AO." He glances toward the trucks, then back to the group. "If you’ve got gear that needs a hand, speak up. No sense making it harder than it needs to be—those trucks aren’t getting any closer." Simmons smiles at everyone.

"Let’s get your stuff loaded and grab a spot on that truck before it fills up. Stay together for now—easier to figure things out once we’re on the other end." He gives a small nod toward the vehicles. "The chow is getting cold, better to get it while it is still warm" He says with a smile.

With that Simmons will help anyone with their gear and bags. Simmons does not let go of his rifle in his right hand while hosting the bags in the back of the 2.5 ton truck bed. Helps everyone get aboard first and is the last out of the group (except for the senior non-coms) to get on the truck. He makes his way towards the front of the truck bed and takes a seat where ever there is a spot. He smiles at everyone.

"We can get food and armour here or at forward base?" Anastasia asks looking at Simmons.

When she stands her SMG disappears neatly beneath her great coat.

"Also, I would not argue with opportunity to obtain second weapon."

Simmons looks at the young Romanian woman (Anastasia);
"I would be guessing, but since they are getting us chow, I surmise that we can get food at Charlie Company's forward base. On other gear, body armor or weapon or even switching weapons, I am not so sure. If Charlie Company lost people"
Simmons does a quick Catholic crossing over his chest
"Then there should be a M16 or two there. At least in Alpha Company that was true for the replacements."
He quickly adds
"I am not from Charlie, and I know that is not helpful but when we get there I will help you"

Looking at Dr. Doctor Cristea and ‘Clank’
"And of course you two as well." he says matter of fact. "No promises, but lets see what we can do."
Looking back at Anastasia
"Good enough?"

"Pleased t'meetcha Staff Sar'nt. Locals call me Cocosúl or Roosta', I can sprint all day with what I got, but I ain't got but two belts left for Hillary here. Would mightily appreciate one o'them 16s. Hillary is one thirsty slut n'she be better off in reserve 'til we take some heat." Rust patted the stock of his M60 as he referred to Hillary. Obviously he had developed more than a bit of affection for it, though it wasn't uncommon for a marine.

He added a personal request to follow up, and resumed that stupid grin.

"I ain't seen head nor hide of one, but if you could keep a peep fo'a guitar I would be mightily obliged, suh."

Anastasia nods and offers up a smile, "I shall hold my horses."

Simmons looks over at LCPL McCain, eyes dropping briefly to the M60 before coming back up to the Marine’s face. There’s a pause—measured, not unimpressed, just taking the measure.

"Okay....."

He looks into McCain eyes judging the stress that the Marine went through

"But let’s get one thing straight, Lance Corporal—I’m an NCO. I work for a living. So you’ll keep that ‘Sur’ shit sounding like a request, not a negotiation, understood?"

There’s the faintest edge of a grin—professional, not unfriendly. He nods toward the weapon.

"Hillary’s a hungry girl, no argument there. I’ll push the word up when we get to Charlie—see if we can scrounge up some belted 7.62. No promises, but it’s a fair ask."

Simmons studies him another second, then tilts his head slightly. "You an O-Three-thirty-one? Or are you just a plain jane 0311 carrying something bigger than usual?"

A beat.

"Be good to know your card carrying graduate of SOI before we start leaning on you. Last thing I need is finding out you’re an O-one-eleven Admin Marine when things kick off."

He shifts his weight, thinking for a second, then adds: "How are you with a SAW? Just in case." It’s matter-of-fact—no judgment, just planning ahead.

His gaze drops briefly back to the M60, then back up. "You’ve been through it—I can see that. That counts. We’ll make it work."

A short nod toward the truck. "Now let’s get you and Hillary on that vehicle before someone else claims the space—and I’ll keep an ear out for your guitar, but ammo’s gonna win that fight every time."

@muns

"No disrespect intended Staff Sar'nt!" Rust snapped to as Muns dressed him down. "Merely attemptin' optimization. Previous MOS was 0321 where I cut my teeth in Mogadishu. 8156 now."

"Staff Sar'nt, I *might* be the strongest human who has ever lived. But I *have* been given the Divine Function of Killin'. Put any implement of violence in these hands, n'I will stack bodies like you neva'seen." He replied when asked how he was with a SAW. There was a special eagerness in McCain eyes. It was not just that he liked killing, there was a deeply personal reason why he had too. A hunger for it and a natural disposition towards violence. "Sho'is a pity I am already dead." Rust's grin twisted it wasn't that stupid country grin, but something wicked, the prospect of his impending death was actually funny to him.

@Jomsviking

You caught me, Elvis smiled. Names Elvis Bledsoe. I’m no stranger to getting my hands dirty, but only so far as gettin’ ‘em into engines. More grease than guts, you know? No stranger to guns though. I been huntin’ since I was old enough to keep up with my old man. I won’t slow you high speed fellers down, don’t you worry, he gave a friendly wink.

@Honor_Over_All

Rust tried his very best to sound motivational, but he was just too socially aggressive to come off as such. "Mobiks make good target practice. Sho'nuff I never killt noone 'til three months back. Now..." Rust nods to the scores of notches on the barrel. "Have not had a day I ain't killt a man since this all started. Maybe today? Got eight last night." Rooster scratched his beard thoughtfully. "You think Saint Peter eva gon'forgive me all that paperwork?" Rust was careful not to exhale in Elvis' direction as he puffed the cigarette.

What do I think? Elvis scratched the back of his neck. He figured the marine was being at least halfway facetious, but Elvis was too earnest not to give an honest answer. It was one of his many faults.

Well, mostly that I’m glad I ain’t in charge of St. Peter’s list I guess. But also that a lotta times they ain’t no good choice—kill or be killed, I think most people know which they’d choose. Ain’t nobody’s fault. Jes’ the way it is. I think so long as you keep your eyes on the cross you gonna be just fine.

Anastasia looks at the two American's talking about god, good and evil and shrugs. "I be sure to save you a seat by the fire."

With that she climbs into the back of the truck and waits to head out.

"Why thank you, Sugah." Rust replies looking Ana in the eyes. His gaze lingered taking the time to appreciate her form as she departed.

"Angels seem real enough..." Rust muttered under his breath.

He started a horse laugh when Elvis responded, not at Elvis' response but because of it. "You Awrite Bledsoe, but I'ma be a bit less subtle the next time I pull yo'leg." Rust stood up and followed after. He was also famished.

@Jomsviking

Simmons watches LCPL McCain through the whole reply without interrupting, expression flattening just a notch as the tone shifts from joking to something a little darker. "Yeah—no disrespect taken. Just making sure we’re speaking the same language."

He nods once at the mention of Marine Security Guard duty. "8156, got it. Embassy work—means you’ve dealt with people, pressure, and bad days that don’t come with warning. That tracks."

The rest of it—the grin, the edge in his voice—Simmons lets hang for a second before he answers. No reaction to the bravado, no challenge either. "Alright. We’ll put that ‘Divine Function’ to work when it’s time. Until then, you keep it controlled." His tone is even—firm, grounded.

Then he shifts gears, practical. "Let me ask you something more important—how much radiation exposure you’ve had recently?" His eyes narrow slightly, not suspicious—calculating. "Area we’re in, what you’ve probably come through… I don’t need anyone dropping from something we could’ve caught early."

He jerks his chin toward the direction of Charlie Company. "When we get there, you’re checking in with the Company medic. That’s not optional—it’s maintenance."

His gaze drops to the M60, studying it for a moment. "Hillary come through the same environment with you?"

A small pause. "Metal holds contamination. Dust gets in seams, feed trays, everywhere. If she’s been exposed, we need to know before we start feeding rounds through her and spreading it around."

He looks back up at McCain, tone steady. "We’ll get you ammo. But first—we make sure you, and that weapon, aren’t carrying something that’ll take you out before the fight does."

A short nod toward the truck. "Let’s move. We’ll sort the rest at Charlie."

@Honor_Over_All
Looking at CPL Bledsoe with a smile
"Time to get a move on Corporal. Make sure McDonald also gets on, I don't want to lose anymore personnel"

Once on the Deuce and a half, Simmons looks around and gets a headcount and once satisfied goes to the front and tap on the back cab window (or if there is no cab window just stick his head in to be heard)
"Were all accounted for and ready to go."

@muns

"Well, I s'pose I been MIA long enough to have lost my decorum. Rust pushed the dosimeter into Simmons hands. Trying on instinct to rid himself of the exposed film. It wasn't coal black, Rust might have survived if he had recieved immediate treatment. "I tripped the radiation alarm when I carried Kingfisher into the medbay last night. We uh... well anyway..." He very clearly did not want to talk about that.

But he did need to talk. He had been lost and alone for months. It showed, Rust alternated between far too much eye contact, and not enough. Not like shell shock, perhaps some kind of developmental disability that hadn't been diagnosed. He was actively listening to the conversations around him, seeing the environment, processing it all while speaking in depth.

"'Member, back a few weeks ago when the sky was glowin'? It rained really heavy that night n'me an the boys had no cover. One thing I am sure, Hillary, is clean, one o'the things I stocked up most on was action blasta', lube, sponges, n'wire brushes. Humped her allaway from Bucharest over these last three months. You are the first Americans I seen. That's fo'hundret sixty klicks through the Russian line. She didn't set off no sieverts when our bus pulled into yo'station. But Staff Sar'nt, when I said I was already dead, well the Ruskies done killt me. Doc here said ten months, maybe a year afore my teeth start fallin' out. Then... well it ain't gon be a pretty sight."

Rooster had a map, the one he had taken from Raven's corpse. It was shot through, and stained with Raven's blood but carried a good bit of intelligence on it. Codified, and written in Romanian. Rust circled Cluj with his index finger and traced along the route he had taken from the south tapping on a gulch some 30 klicks to the south by south east. "'Bout he'ya." He said indicating the where of the incident.

"Hopefully, you find me some other means. And I mean it, I don'wanna die that way. Y'got ample time wit my husk 'til the Devil calls me home, sho'nuff. Not much sense wastin' resources on a lost cause. Only the All-Mighty can save me now, thassa fact Staff Sergeant." He emphasized and enunciated the honorific. "I ain't lost it. Perfectly sane, sober, and still plenty strong."

Rust realized he had overspoken then and contemplated his navel. "Apologies Staff Sar'nt, I ain't had an ear to chew for, a good while."

As Simmons moved off to get the folks inside moving, Wolfe looked to Black and motioned with is thumb, "I'm going to help folks load up. See how quickly we can get on the road."

Caleb reached the first truck and threw his pack in the rear before climbing up and moving it out of the way. As the volunteers began to arrive the SFC caught the belongings passed up before offering a hand to climb aboard. This was where the teamwork started; sergeants set the example.

Amid Simmons' exchange with Rooster, Black focused on Wolfe.

"Irregulars, civilians masquerading as military, yes, a tradition since Vietnam. There, they did it well. Desperation has done amazing things here, too; just look at the resistance to the Ceaușescu Regime. That's been my line of work. Some of it has been by design, but as of recent, what we're doing, now is certainly part of the way the war has turned the way it has and is all part of the contingencies."

Jason also reached the truck and wasted no time in loading up and hopping in. Social hour could wait for later.

Cristea gives Anastasia a small nod of acknowledgement. It is not warm but respectful enough. Whether he hears Rooster's reply about God and the infantry is less clear- if he does, he offers no visible reaction. He climbs into the truck without ceremony, sets the medical bag carefully between his boots, and holds the rifle awkwardly beside him like it's some old umbrella someone insisted he bring. Then he sits back, folds his hands, and watches the others load in. When Clank catches up and takes a place near him, Cristea gives the young man a brief look that says his presence will be tolerated, provided he doesn't make himself tiresome.

He doesn't take out a book - that will just invite conversation. Instead he studies the others. Mentally sorting them - not for fitness in combat but likelihood he'll have to stop them dying. The Marine receives the longest look. Radiation. Overconfidence. Possibly even religious mania...possibly not. His expression remains composed, but there's the slightest pulsing of a vein in his forehead. There will be trouble with this one. Maybe soon.

Justin nodded to Staff Sergeant Simmons when his name was called, then went to collect his gear. As he trailed after the others toward the truck, he glanced at each of their faces, wondering how many of them would return, or if he would be left alone again.

He barely thought about dying himself. Not because he thought he would live through it, but because it had started to feel like his role was to survive and watch other people die.

As he climbed into the truck, his hand brushed the small harp hanging at his side, and he found himself wondering what it had brought him to.