The rush of a battlefield was enough to get any soldier delirious, be it with the morbid and selfish satisfaction of staying alive and harvesting other lives, or with the dreadfully ever-present possibility of being robbed of yours.
Yet he had never thought he would experience the latter when he accepted the contract. Prior to it, he had already been condemned to death, captured by the tyrants he had enraged and opposed when he disobeyed clear orders. It had come simply as an alternative - to have a cruel death at the hand of those inhuman rulers and go against every single thing he'd stood for, or to accept RED's proposition and join a group of death row soldiers who would fight each other to the death defending the honour of their hirers.
He was a broken shell of a man, a remnant and a reminder of what once had been. They had taken the fight away from him, the only viable option was accepting the proposition.
He had been as good as dead, one way or another. And naturally, the dead didn't feel fear.
But the nagging reality of his condition had been quick to sink into his stubborn mind once the deal was struck. In his younger years, he'd had very basic military training, he knew how to fire a weapon if he had to - yet in the end, he was merely a trauma surgeon who was looking for a way to avoid his fate.
The first time he'd turned his head to find the muzzle of a sniper rifle turned in his direction, he found his blood utterly frozen in his veins, his throat clenched in absolute despair. As shocking as it was unforgiving, the prospect of death had all but horrified him.
And so the dead man took his first real breath after years of mental dormancy. A sharp, barely audible gasp of pure, unabashed fear.
Given the real importance of their war against the opposing team however, their contractors had acquired something even the most intelligent mercenaries among the team couldn't begin to comprehend - they had made some modification to their bodies, something minuscule that made all the difference in the world.
In here, death was not an option.
Death was but a blackout in this battlefield, assailed with different visions, terrifyingly close to something as mundane as a dream. After a couple of seconds passed, the former dead would return as if no bullet had grazed them, as if no flames had scorched their bodies down to rotten pieces.
They would just come back. Over, and over, and over, and over. The pieces had to be moved again. The game had to be played.
It made some of them feel empowered - without the imminent danger of real death, physical boundaries meant little, and scourge was resolved into courage. Others felt simply tired of this never-ending game they could never win.
So even when he found himself alone in enemy territory after a failed push, even when he ran as fast as his legs could carry him, jumping and tripping at the impact of nearby rockets and bombs, his white coat torn from the ruthless explosions, there was no fear of dying in his mind.
As he felt the telltale laser of the enemy rifle on his neck, the insanely familiar beepin of a nearby sentry, the mocking laughter of an enemy that was much faster than him, he didn't falter.
As he looked back, icy blue eyes wide, sweat trailing down his features, syringes flying from his weapon in vain, he never stopped running.
In here, he wasn't allowed to die.
And that is what truly terrified him.