Shit.

You’re on your back.

Eyes open.

Sky spinning.

There’s no sound at first, just a high, constant ringing, like the scream of something ancient in your skull. You blink, but your vision is smeared, the world bending in strange, sickening angles.

Dust fills your nose. Blood’s in your mouth. Your right ear is full of static. You’re trying to breathe, but it’s like sucking air through gravel.

You try to move. Pain says no.

You blink again. Shapes begin to return.

A roof collapses to your left in a spray of fire and shattered stone. A man runs past shirtless, bleeding, screaming something you can’t hear. Behind him, a child with a Kalashnikov drops to one knee and opens fire. Muzzle flashes light his tiny face like a strobe light from hell.

You try to remember where you were standing, how far you were thrown.

Your fingers twitch. Good. Hands work. You push yourself up, slow, like rising from the bottom of the sea. Your back is screaming. Your chest feels caved in.

You cough.

Blood.

The ringing fades just enough to hear the distant drumbeat of gunfire again. Closer than before. Too close.

Your head lolls. You see the line, your people. The Lions. Still holding. Some falling. Some charging. But still fighting.

You try to speak. To yell. But nothing comes out.

Just a whisper that you can’t even hear yourself.

Your fingers close around something cold. Steel.

Your rifle. Still with you.

You blink grit from your eyes, the ringing dulling just enough to make out footsteps, boots thudding past you.

Russian.

They don’t even see you, half-buried under rubble, dazed and bleeding into the dust.

They think you’re dead.

You aren’t.

Not yet.

You **** your arms under you, pushing up with a grunt of agony. Your legs protest but they hold. The battlefield sways around you.

You lift your rifle. Aim.

Fire.

The round hits a merc square in the back, and he drops like a stone. The other turns just in time for your second shot, straight through the face. Clean.

Click.

Click.

You look down, empty.

Your hands move to your chest rig by instinct.

Gone.

The blast tore your gear clean off. Your mags are somewhere in the rubble, probably smoking or shattered.

You spit blood, roll your shoulders, and draw your knife.

The steel glints in the dusty light. Familiar. Trustworthy. Intimate.

You move through the smoke like a shadow, catching a soldier near a wrecked transport, blade under his chin, twist, silence.

Another one hears the body hit dirt and turns, your knife sinks between his ribs before he can scream.

Then you’re on a third. A fourth.

You’re not fighting.

You’re butchering.

Crack.

A rifle butt catches the back of your skull.

You drop.

Hands clawing at air, lungs spasming.

They’re on you. Boots slamming into your side, your ribs, your back. Grunts. Russian voices shouting orders. One grabs your hair, yanks your head back. Another drives a fist into your stomach, then your face.

You try to swing the knife but your wrist is caught, twisted until the blade drops.

Another kick.

Then another.

You fall again, this time onto your side. Something in your shoulder pops. Pain flashes white behind your eyes.

Boots. Laughter. Spit.

But even as your vision starts to fade, your hand curls around a fistful of dirt and blood, and your teeth grit through the agony.

You’re not dead.

Not yet.

Everything inside you feels broken, bruised, or burning. But rage is a powerful anaesthetic.

You taste blood. Yours. Theirs. You can’t tell anymore. The Russian pinning your arm leans in with a sneer, just enough for you to headbutt him. You feel cartilage snap, his or yours it doesn’t matter, and he stumbles back, screaming.

You rip free.

You slam your elbow into another’s temple. Grab your dropped knife. Bury it in a thigh. Another tries to wrestle you down, you roll with him, straddle him, and stab again and again until his body stops jerking.

You’re breathing hard. Face to face with a merc too stunned to raise his weapon in time.

CRACK.

Pain explodes in your gut like a hammer made of fire. Your legs give out, the knife clattering from your hand.

You hit the ground hard.

Hands pressed to your stomach. Wet. Warm. Red.

The Russian steps over you, rifle levelled. No mask. Just dead eyes.

Your own gaze starts to fade, blurring, smearing, until all you see is the barrel.

BOOM.

The man's head detonates.

You flinch as brain and bone mist your chest. His body collapses beside you in a twitching heap.

You're still breathing.

You blink toward the rooftops. Toward the ridge.

A glint. A glimmer of glass.

You try to speak, but no words come.

A shadow drops beside you. Hands on your vest. Arms under your shoulders. Dragging you.

“Shh. Don’t move. I’ve got you.”

You blink through the blood and smoke.

Norah.

Her face is bruised, lip split, but her eyes are wild with fury and purpose.

You want to say something. Anything. But she shakes her head.

“Don’t waste breath. You're not dying here.”

She pulls you behind the ruined husk of a car, bullets peppering the frame just seconds later.