His fingertips lightly danced along the aluminum material, feeling every letter of the engravings. The sheen had long since left the identification tags—in fact it had been replaced by a dull ruddy brown hue, evidence of the blood spilled by its original owner.

Booth's brown eyes gazed at the dog tags somberly, memories flooding his brain. His mind wandered to the past; something he'd done his best to avoid. But he was bemused now, his brain awash with uncertainty as he had flooded it with several servings of whiskey.

"Bravo One-Niner, Bravo One-Niner, this is Dark Side Six, be advised you have been given clearance to take the shot. I repeat, command has given you clearance to take the shot," a voice crackled over the handset of an AN/PRC-119 SINCGARS radio.

"There's the call we've been waiting for, Sergeant," a young Corporal quietly informed his partner, placing the radio handset on the ground beside him. He inched forward, pressing his eyes behind a telescopic spotting scope.

This young Corporal and his slightly older Sergeant was a pair of US Army Rangers from Alpha Company, 1st Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, an elite light infantry organization within the USSOCOM community. Beyond that, however, they were snipers—skilled soldiers trained to expert levels in marksmanship, surveillance, reconnaissance, and target acquisition.

Marksmanship was the skill set of particular importance on this operation, however. The pair had been sent on National Commander Authority to assassinate a man. This man was a senior ranking officer in the Serbian army and he had been responsible for a spat of ethnic cleansing operations launched by the Serb forces in the region. As a result, Sergeant Seeley Booth and Corporal Edward "Teddy" Parker had been selected to travel to likely locations where the General may reveal himself. They were just one team of many that were scattered throughout the countryside hoping to get a shot at the General.

While lying quietly in their location on a heavily wooded ridgeline where they had constructed their hide they observed countless atrocities in the valley below. Soldiers had been rounding up civilians from a nearby village, shooting them without provocation and then dumping them in mass graves. The campaign of terror had taken several days and the pair of snipers had observed the entire ordeal, helplessly forced to witness genocide from a front row seat.

It was particularly trying for Sergeant Booth, a Roman Catholic and a man of great faith. He found that faith was now in doubt as he watched men kill women and children, chiefly because of the God they chose to worship, or so it appeared to Booth. How could man excuse themselves for such atrocities?

Booth was a killer, he never tried to rationalize that fact. He was trained to be a precise assassin. A man that could be dropped miles from any friendlies, given an objective and then carry it out with complete and total dedication to the assigned task. He was a blunt object, a tool for his government to kill those they deemed deserving of Booth's bullet. It was an odd notion of himself given what he now watched; the needless and merciless slaying of people for no apparent reason—certainly not one that he found recognizable. These men were killers, too, but were they all the same? In the end taking a life is the same whether or not it's the horrid business these men took part in, or the government sanctioned so-called legal murder that Booth carried out; the very thing he was here to do.

These thoughts had raged through his mind through the chilly days and bone-freezing nights as he and Parker surveyed the bloodshed unfolding below them. They couldn't speak much between one another, but they were both disgusted and knew neither of them would be the same after witnessing such things.

After a few days their target finally presented himself. He was a portly fellow, dressed in a fine uniform befitting an officer and capped with a cover reminiscent of Soviet Russia which sat atop his balding pate.

Booth had watched him keenly through the telescopic sight of his M24 high-precision rifle. The white hue of his hawkish eyes peered ominously from the backdrop of his camouflaged face which was saturated with a multitude of colors; greens, browns and grays.

His face took on a harsh appearance as he now seemed possessed by the Grim Reaper himself. He was determined to put this man down, to end this General's string of horrid orders. Would it end the war? Would it stop the killing? No, he very much doubted that—but it was a small measure of retribution in a place inundated with death and horror. A man like this couldn't be allowed to continue breathing and Booth was a perfect instrument to ensure that would not happen.

The General paced along a formation of troops assembled before him for inspection. Smoke billowed from fires that burned unchecked in the village behind them. The dead that had not been collected still lay unattended in the streets, like trash so easily discarded by an uncaring litterer.

"Distance to target, eight hundred and eighty two meters…" Parker said quietly after quickly consulting the range card he had drawn in the days preceding the target's arrival. "Wind, half-value, three knots west—come two left." As the spotter it was Corporal Parker's job to estimate range and collaborate with the shooter to ensure a more accurate shot. If Booth missed, which was unlikely, Parker would observe the flight of the bullet and where it impacted then relay necessary adjustments in order for the shooter to find his mark.

"On target…" Booth muttered.

"Fire when ready."

Booth was calm, an eerie sort of serenity fell over him as he readied himself for the shot. He controlled his breathing, ensured the butt-stock of his rifle was firmly in place in the pocket of his shoulder and focused on the center mass of his target, the overweight General. Several seconds passed and Booth's finger lightly rested on the trigger of his weapon. Another moment went by; Booth exhaled and carefully pulled the trigger of the M24 to the rear.

The jolt from the recoil stung his shoulder only lightly and a slight vapor trail showed the path of the bullet. Its flight time was just over a second and Booth had struck his target.

The .308 round bore into the General's chest, eviscerating his rib cage and any internal organs it had impacted. Booth meanwhile cycled the bolt of his weapon, chambering another round and firing off a second shot just for good measure. After a second of flight time that round also found its target; which happened to be the head of the General. It pierced his skull with ease and showered the soldiers beyond with the contents of the man's head.

For a moment the soldiers were in a haze, unsure of what had just happened, but it didn't take long for them to figure it out. They began to fire madly all over the ridgeline that Booth and Parker were occupying. It was clear they didn't know where the two of them were, but they were firing wildly and at some point an errant round may strike the two of them. It was time to egress.

"We're moving!" Booth ordered. The duo collected their gear with haste and began to stalk their way up and over the ridgeline just as heavy machine gun rounds started to paint the area around them with lead death.

They moved briskly, as quickly as they could to avoid being detected—their ghillie suits did well to hide them from their aggressors. However, luck did not hold out forever and just as they were about to crest the ridgeline a heavy round managed to strike Corporal Parker. He stumbled forward, his carbine clattering along the ground before him.

Booth halted in place and turned immediately to give aide to his fallen spotter. The young Corporal was coughing up blood and it was immediately evident to Booth that he had a sucking chest wound. Under heavy fire he did what he could to treat the wound, which was serious, pressing a pressure dressing with the necessary plastic lining over the wound. He made sure to leave one flap of the plastic covering open so that air could escape. He heaved Parker onto his back with some difficulty and the Corporal cried out as he did so.

Under a serious hail of gunfire Booth sprinted over the ridgeline and down the opposite end of the hill. He ran as fast as he could and as far as he could before finally slowing down when he reached a heavily wooded area. It was fifteen klicks to the extraction site and he would have to carry Corporal Parker the whole way, but he would. It wasn't a matter of duty or responsibility, this man was his protégé, his friend—a brother even.

As he hoofed the difficult route to the location of where a helicopter was waiting Booth did his best to assure his friend of his safety and recovery, telling him that things would be okay, that they would see a Flyers game when they returned home just as they had talked about. He told Parker that before he knew it he'd be fit and trim with a purple heart pinned on his chest and the affection of all the ladies back at the bars near Fort Bragg. After some time, Parker's moaning fell silent, but Booth continued to explain their future plans together and how well Parker had performed during their mission.

When they reached the site the helicopter was in fact still waiting, but just barely. A team of soldiers ran to assist Booth and the group boarded the CH-47 Chinook, which lifted off from the valley floor and into the cloudy afternoon sky.

Booth frantically explained the wound which had affected his friend to the medic aboard the helicopter.

"I got a dressing on there fast. I think—I think he should be good," Booth exclaimed with exhaustion. He was covered in the blood of his friend; sweat glistened upon his face where the camouflaged paint was now beginning to wear off. He was dehydrated and almost in a daze.

The medic worked furiously for a few moments, but then seemed to give up with a sort reluctance.

"What are you doing, Doc?" Booth asked, frenzied.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant," the medic replied ruefully.

"Sorry? What—no, no—don't say that, don't you tell me that!" Booth snapped, stepping forward shakily. "Fix him damn it, he's fine. I put a dressing on him… I controlled the bleeding, fix him!"

"He lost too much blood, Sergeant. By the looks of him I'd say he's been dead about an hour or so, he's too far gone," the Medic told him with remorse.

Booth dropped down beside his friend. His eyes were open still, but they were vacant of any signs of life. Blood had dried upon his face where the young man had coughed it up over Booth's long march to the extraction site.

Booth's heart sank, his mouth was agape and a stinging lump in his throat formed. His eyes began to water, but no tear formed, no drop rolled down his haggard visage. He closed his eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head endlessly as if this entire situation was just a dream. It had to be, he had fallen asleep on the ridgeline behind the scope of his rifle and any second Parker would wake him up and chide him for it. But his eyes opened and he was still inside the noisy helicopter, still surrounded by solemn troops who felt terribly for him.

Parker… Parker…

A loud and repeated knocking sound upon the door of Booth's apartment broke him from his reverie. He shook his head and rubbed his face methodically before rising from his couch and crossing the wood floor to the door which he swung open with little effort.

Dr. Temperance Brennan stood on the other side.

"Booth I thought we could discuss the=" she paused, noticing the look of despair that seemed to inhabit his eyes. "Are you okay?" she questioned hesitantly.

"Yeah… yeah I'm good Bones. Listen, you think we can save this for another time?" he asked hesitantly.

"Certainly, I only thought you'd want to know about what Hodgins found, but if you're busy then I understand," she said. She stood on her tip-toes in an attempt to see behind Booth and into his apartment. She noticed the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the table in front of Booth's couch.

"Yeah, tomorrow would just be better," Booth agreed, rubbing his eyes.

"Booth…" Brennan began. "Have you been drinking?" she asked, almost surprised at the idea of it.

"What? No. No, no why—why would I be drinking?" he asked incredulously. She looked at him expectantly, clearly disbelieving. "Okay yes, I had a couple of drinks."

Brennan uncharacteristically pushed her way into his apartment after his awkward admission. She wasn't a people person, everyone that knew her was well aware of that. It was Booth's sphere, what he knew and what he did best. He was the humanist that complimented her brilliance in science and that's what made them such a successful pairing. Despite her lack of talent in the human sphere she could tell something was wrong with her partner. His face was constrained, the rims around his eyes red and almost puffy. She had never seen him like this.

"What's wrong Booth?" she asked, turning around and addressing him. Her blue eyes studying him as if her skill with anthropology could somehow define his issues into something she could understand.

"Nothing, Bones, c'mon, nothing is wrong. Look, I'm as happy as a clam!" he exclaimed, pointing at his face and forcing a broad smile. She didn't buy it.

She walked over to the table and sat down upon his couch. There was a shot glass beside the bottle but it didn't appear to have been used. He must've just drunk straight from the bottle. She poured herself a shot and then downed it, grimacing from the taste of the fiery liquid.

"What are you doing?" he questioned her with some confusion.

"Ick, this stuff isn't very good," she winced.

"Well not everyone is rich enough to afford the top shelf stuff, Bones," he commented, joking about her wealth that she'd accumulated thanks to her work as an author. The thoughts of his past began to fade. "So what are you doing here?" he pressed.

"I told you. I was going to tell you what Hodgins found, but you don't seem to be in the mood for work," she explained.

"So?"

"So, there's obviously something on your mind. Why don't you tell me?" she insisted.

"Look Bones, there's nothing on my mind, okay? It's just stuff from a long time ago, it's really not a big deal," he maintained his barrier. It was true that the two of them had grown far closer in their years of working with one another. In fact, Booth found himself believing Bones was probably the most important person in his life after his son. He'd do anything for her, but there were still some things he just didn't want her to know. To her, he was a happy almost carefree man who had skeletons in his closet but knew how to control them and didn't let them affect him. He had a handle on his past; at least he wanted her to think that. He certainly didn't want her to know about his time taking lives. She knew it was who he had been, but she didn't know much.

"Okay, fine," she accepted his response. Booth was stubborn, that was something she'd learned very early on about him. She wouldn't press the question any further—it would only antagonize him and she didn't want that. However, she didn't want him to be alone, didn't want him to continue down whatever sad path he was carrying himself before she arrived. She was naïve, but not that naïve. Booth had a sordid career and a life with many varying experiences. Some of them were bound to haunt him.

Brennan didn't know how to comfort him; she didn't know how to comfort anyone. But maybe if she stayed, maybe if she spent some time with him then she could take his mind off whatever it was that was troubling him.

"Oh!" she began excitedly, snatching up the tv remote. "Its hockey season isn't it? I think the Pittsburgh Flyers are playing right now!"

"Bones…" Booth began, shaking his head. "It's the Pittsburgh Penguins, not the Pittsburgh Flyers. The Flyers are from Philadelphia." A small smirk crept onto his face.

"Well this team in red is playing the one in orange and white," she observed, motioning to the television. "So, why don't we watch it?"

Booth sighed with a false show of exasperation. "All right Bones, let's watch the game."

He walked over to the couch beside her and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. She inched a bit closer to him, almost unnoticeably so, but Booth could sense the shift of weight on the sofa cushion. A minor grin appeared upon his face as he watched her attempt to look as if she was interested in the hockey game. His arm reached up on the sofa and rested across the top just behind her slender shoulders and his troubled thoughts soon disappeared…