Join them

You swallow the last of the liquor, wipe your mouth and step toward the cracked door.

The girl’s eyes lock on you again, pleading. You **** your face into something hard and hungry. The same look you’ve seen on every other soldier tonight. You shove the door open with your shoulder.

The three men turn. Same New Republic patches on their sleeves as yours. Same mud and same blood.

“Hey, brothers,” you say, voice thick with fake lust. “Room for one more? I’ll take seconds.”

The closest one, thick neck with broken teeth, grins at first. Then his eyes narrow, flicking over your face and your uniform, the rusted knife still in your hand instead of a regulation knife.

“Wait… who the hell are you?” he asks.

You open your mouth to answer, to lie, to claim some platoon, some captain, anything. Then it hit you too late of what the hell are you thinking, stooping on their level. Your better than these people. They took your silence as admission of guilt. They didn't wait.

He moves first, knife flashes. You feel the blade slide between your ribs before you even register the pain. Hot, sudden and deep.

Another one grabs your collar and shoves you back against the wall. “We don’t know this guy,” he spits. “Never seen him.”

The third one laughs cold. “Probably some deserter wearing stolen colors. Or a spy.”

You try to speak, but blood fills your mouth. The knife twists and your legs buckle.

The girl screams once, high and useless.

They let you slide down the wall, boots kicking weakly. Your rusted knife clatters away across the floorboards.

Broken teeth crouches and wipes his blade on your sleeve. “Thanks for the offer, stranger,” he says. “But we don’t share with ghosts.”

The room tilts. The last thing you see is the girl’s face and your tears cutting clean lines through the dirt, as the three of them turn back to her.

Then darkness.

GAME OVER