I apologize immensely. But inspiration has been a bit nonexistent and I'd rather not give you something dull thanks to writers block

"Awareness is the enemy of sanity, for once you hear the screaming, it never stops."

― Emilie Autumn

November 10th, six years prior

The ride was anything but pleasant in many aspects; not only was it rough-the jeep seeming to aim for every bump and crater on the trail-the tension was heavy in the small space as silence continued to be the only thing exchanged. Desmond wished he had a way to break the space between him and his companions, but it felt inappropriate as they grew closer to their destination. The lightness that Clay had layed upon them was not in sight, the source of their good attitudes in his own cage of professional behavior, staring past Desmond in utter thought.

Jonas was also in a state of 'no more games' belief, the semi-rifle making the usually sweet boy look threatening in his combat gear.

Desmond didn't want to know how he looked; his lack of sleep starting to creep into his back and his dark eyes feeling heavy under the heat of the desert outside. The fears that had woken him cause him to tighten his grip on the weapon in his hands, lips pursing in an anxious motion. The possibilities of death were endless as soon as they stepped into the rampaged land, likeliness of never going home larger than defending a position.

It made him physically sick thinking of how he could die.

He was torn out of his thoughts when the jeep fell and jumped back out of a large crevice, making heads nearly slam into the roof of the vehicle. Jonas scrambles to readjust his helmet to conceal his eyes while Clay simply scoots back onto his rear end a bit. The small scare wears off and leaves the weight of situation in its place again. It's worrying that Clay isn't speaking-perhaps that's why Desmond felt so much anxiety. Even on their risky patrols the Major made conversation and cracked jokes, distracting his partners of the dead littered on their base or the burning of buildings. Maybe that wasn't very beneficial after all.

"There's our stop, boys." The blonde speaks after a good half hour of traveling, his head raised to see through the damage prepped window. Jonas doesn't respond except for a tip of his gun. Desmond refused to see the clone of the rest of the war zone, instead focusing on his sand dusted boots. He catches Clay straitening in his view, setting his own fire arms butt on the hard upholstery below his feet.

"Okay, the plan is too stop right at the entrance of the village, and split up from there to investigate. Stay in Radio contact and keep an eye out for survivors. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." The now automatic response came from the youths in unison. There was no time for the brotherly words Clay knew the duo needed. So he ran his tongue over his teeth before he moved to the driver.

"Get us at least a half a klick away from the location."

"Aye, sir. The coordinates are showing that right now we're about three-"But the veteran driver never finished his sentence; a single high caliber bullet piercing his head. Blood spattered all across the window, the dead body reeling from the force and taking the steering wheel with it.

"SHIT!" The outburst was the only warning Desmond and Jonas got before the single ton vehicle whirled onto its side, rolling downhill in a furious cycle of dust and glass. As embarrassing as it was, Desmond screamed, trying to control his body from giving to the abuse it was taking. Clay was trying to move in the constant rise and slam of the destroyed war truck, Jonas holding on for dear life as he too was pushed into the slowly destroyed sides of their transportation.

Clays' weight finally gets the best of him as he's almost rocketed into the busted side window of the jeep on its fifth-fourth?- tumble, giving a sharp cry of pain as glass cut into his exposed skin. Desmond is also victim of the dizzying movement, giving up on his fight and landing back first into Clay. Jonas still doesn't let go of the leverage he had gained, but he shouts in either pain or shock as glass scatters around him.

Then the jeep gives one more 'thump' landing belly side up as dust settle around it.

The three lie in shock as the last few loose pieces of glass fall to gravity, a whole new silence coming into space. It's obvious the car is totaled, the sides around the trio almost crushed into them. Clay is the first to move, carefully coaxing a shaken Desmond off of him, leaving blood on the boys' uniform from his cut hands. Jonas slowly loosens his grip on the window bar, his body twisted and bent from the throwing about. He too is coated in little nicks from the flying glass and shrapnel. Desmond moves next, his body aching from the impact to Clay and the utter pain in his left hand. He examines it, the trembling appendage bruised with little trickles of blood coming from fine gashes.

He only voices his fright when the three are out of the ruined war asset onto the gravelly sand of their trail, Clay having to use every ounce of strength he had to kick the door off its hinges. "W-What the hell just happened?!" His voice was raspy from the screams he had emitted earlier in the dangerous topple. Clay stands, his own body objecting to the use of his joints to peek over the exposed underside of the vehicle.

"Ambushed. They don't want us here, that much is obvious." Jonas rests on his knees as he checks his bag for medical supplies.

"Should we radio the base? Or run the rest of the way?" Clay shakes his head in contemplation, his adrenaline touched pupils spanning over the few to no hiding spots across. His eyes slit in focus on a speck a good few hundred feet away.

"I don't know…we're sitting ducks right now either way. The best thing right now is-FUCK!" Clay ducks when a bullet ricochets off the metal of the jeep just inches from his head. He comes back down to the ground with a hiss of relief. Desmond and Jonas hurry him to his knees- his injured hands coated in a mixture of sand and blood. So Desmond makes it his responsibility to treat his superior.

None have an idea what to do. Whoever harbors the sniper that took their drivers life was evidently patient, and ready to wait out the blistering sun with the targets. Desmond risk as well to get a look at their opponent, a bullet coming so close he could feel the afterglow of the force near his face.

The sick fuck across wants to keep them pinned like mice. But Clay doubts they have enough resources to play the waiting game. He watches Jonas help Desmond with a bandage, both of his men banged up and still recovering from the small disaster. He needs to get these boys home safe. He can't guarantee they'll be mentally stable in the end, or without their own scars. But they will get home to the ones that are waiting for them.

So Clay hesitantly cranes neck around the edge of the jeep, begging himself to catch sight of that speck again. It takes a moment, flinching at noises resembling gunshots, but his sharp blue eyes finally catch the dark silhouette sneaking about across the wasteland.

"Psst-one of you hand me my rifle." He whispers, closing his numb fingers around the hot weapon when the weight moved his hand. He ignores the twinge in his back due to his awkward position and aims, using the low key scope in a desperate attempt to nail the constant moving bastard.

It's a trial and failure process, having the target one moment and losing him the next due to a movement of Clay's arm or the frustrating shaking of his body. Both Desmond and Jonas stay perfectly still behind their authoritive officer, watching him raise and drop his gun.

After a painstakingly long wait, the killer grew lazy in his avoidance of sight, raising his head to see if the victims of his bullet were still there. Big mistake. "Gotcha." He slurs, pulling the trigger without any effort.

BANG

The bullet is in his throat before he hears it, dropping dead to the scorching ground as blood pools out of his wound. Clay drops his arms and sighs in relief as he moves out of the awful pose. "Okay…sniper's taken out. We can get a move on."

OoO

The trek is painfully long, the sun beating on their backs and draining what little energy the adrenaline from earlier had provided. But they push on until they're at the edge of the ruined village, homes nothing but rubble and the dirt below stained with blood and scorch marks. Fresh and aged bodies layed strewed where they fell, absolutely mutilated. It was an obvious war aftermath. It hurts Desmond to imagine the lives taken away just because of their space between two rivals. He trips over an abandoned makeshift doll, the face soiled by dried blood. Oh…god. Jonas must have had the same train of thought, the smaller stumbling on his feet in either pity or horror. Desmond jots out to catch him, and he feels the soft heaves coming from his friend.

This was far beyond what they saw on their patrols.

But Clay urges them into composition, showing them the first sign of tenderness since that morning in the mess hall. His busted hands rest on their stiff shoulders in encouragement, a brief but meaningful touch.

"We've got work to do here." He murmurs, putting distance between him and the no longer rookies. He heaves a breath before the face of a Major covers the Clay they knew.

"Okay, here's the plan; we split three ways to cover ground and gather up intel." He shows his partners their routes to take. If you come across any remainders of the other GC team, radio me. Is that clear?"

The two young men salute in the unison that was drilled in their heads, unknowling tugging at the heart strings of their supervisor.

"Yes, sir." Clay nodded, un-holstering his weapon he prepared to go his own route. Desmond hesitates before turning himself opposite of his commanding officer, leaving Jonas to do the same. He clicked on his radio strapped to his thigh and gets ready to cover the large wasteland-

"Des!" Jonas calls, probably the worst choice the fellow country boy has made since meeting him. Even knowing that he possibly blew their cover-if they had any to begin with-he turns to meet the soft green eyes of his friend, who suddenly seemed incredibly small in his battle gear and assault rifle in hand. That was quite a feat considering the other had gained a good amount of muscle during their vigorous training.

"I…in case we don't um…come back in one piece, Miles;" The struggle to not sound too emotional as he still nearly shouted across the few feet between them. "You're a great guy, a great friend and I hope I can always say 'are,' never 'was.'" Desmond feels a smile come across his lips for the first time in hours, cocking his hip as if he were not in the middle of an abandoned war zone.

"I'm flattered, Jo; I didn't know you swung that way." He knows he ruined the moment as Jonas' shoulders slack in expected humorous annoyance.

"Kill the mood, country boy." But the grin on the lads face is confirmation enough to know he understood what the less shut up male was saying. Then they spilt, Jonas going west with him going east towards the markets. He stops for a moment, a flutter in his stomach making him frown. The weight in his feet and shoulders was far too insistent to be ignored. He tosses on last glance at Jonas' retreating back, a dark cloud coming over his mind as he grew smaller. Something didn't feel right. Desmond could sense it.

OoO

Desmond had lost track of time as he surveyed every pile of rubble and what few standing buildings there were, boredom slowly replacing the paranoia and high anticipation from earlier. The heat had become awful within his time of searching; his helmet feeling fused to his forehead and his armory twice its weight on his back. He was careful with his canteen, only taking a small swallow of water every once in a while. He hadn't found a single source of water yet and he wasn't taking chances.

His legs were used to constant walking, so the steady tingle in his legs was not a problem in the least. His gloves soaked a good amount of the sweat collecting on the palms of his hands. But the distraction of that itching feeling in his chest-something he inherited from his father. He couldn't help the sense of trouble coming ahead, every noise earning his attention welcomed with the aim of his handgun. It ended being nothing at all every time.

The constant cycle would be maddening if there wasn't a tempting promise of a reunion with his squad, the brief updates from his radio doing nothing for his rising anxiety. It appears Clay encountered two fighters with two hostages and an injured member of the other team. He was going to call in a heli as soon as he met back up with them. Jonas admitted he had gotten lost for a few miles but was back on track. He kicks a rock to the side, listening to the clack it gave as is hit the edge of a home.

As fucked up as it was-the anxiety eating at his head and the never ending feeling of 'doom'- Desmond found peace in the silence surrounding him. Maybe because he had grown to be an introvert during his raising on the farm. It was always quiet, but never dead. It had been the sort of quiet that lulled you to sleep with the soft whish of the wind and the subtle creak of your bed when you shifted.

The silence around him now was not sleep inducing, but it was indeed better than the shout of enemies and the orders from his commanders. It was an off key taste of home. And he'd take it.

"Miles. Come in Miles. Over" Jonas' voice crackles onto his radio, breaking the silence Desmond savored.

"Miles here. Status on you location, over."

"Closing in on the rendezvous-I contacted Major K, he's almost there as well with his find."

"Roger. I'll contact you when I reach my next checkpoint."

"Understood." But as Jonas spoke, a dark figure flashed in the corner of Desmonds' eye, tearing his focus from the path ahead towards a beaten home barely standing. Suspicion pulls him closer, heart starting to notice the new stimulation. His boots crunch against greater amounts of gravel as he gets closer, pistol just above his hips in a defensive stance. The air is somehow thinner inside the dusty ruins, the anxiousness that had ate at Desmond all day amplifying the moment he stepped into the home.

The entire place was either charred or torn down, furniture in just as bad shape and the walls chipping from the force it was taking. It was just as sad a sight as the rest of the village.

There was nothing there; inside or under the cracked windows, or in the near crumbling closet. The place was as dead as the rest. Desmond feels foolish; his lack of sleep must be getting to him. He scoffs at his own actions and turns to leave the space-then something hard slams into the space between his shoulders. He stumbles to the floor, his bandaged hand give a throng of pain from the impact. He could already feel a soft throb forming into a bruise. A voice; angry and loud screams a language at him he knows is the enemy's, kicking out his balance when he tries to get up.

A faint trail of panic lines his body as he tries to maintain awareness of where the man was without looking up, the threat of another blow in the heated air. His heart is racing and his body is thrumming with more adrenaline than any patrol could conjure. Not even the incident from earlier can compare. The looming of death is there, waiting for him. So he takes a great risk

Desmond flips his body and reels his leg into the air, finding resistance when the edge of his boot meets the opponents' stomach. With a wicked thunk the air is taken from his lungs with one blow, the enemy dropping to his knees as he gives a forceful groan. Desmond doesn't take a chance, slamming the flat of the same foot into the man's face, making him fall into unconsciousness with a stream of blood gushing from his nose. The silence that follows is heavy, static like with fading tension.

Desmond heaves a breath after breath as the rush drains from his body, leaving him shaking in his uniform. He scrambles away from the limp body, the mans' back still rising and falling. Should he kill him? In case he wakes up and comes after him? No. No, Desmond. Just get to the rendezvous and finish this. On trembling legs he stands, bending down to retrieve the hand gun he had dropped.

The weight and of what just happened reminds him where he is. He is not at the camp playing cards with Jonas.

He is not out on patrol where Clay distracts him with stories.

He's in no man's land with vicious, relentless fighters that send their own into doom in hopes of taking out others. He suddenly feels sick, watching the blood from the man's nose finally stop. He wants to go home. He's tired of this place in every aspect of tired.

"Miles-come in. What the hell is going on?" It's Clay. He mechanically reaches for the radio as he continues to back away from the body and out of the room.

"Major I- I ran into an issue. It's taken care of now."

"Good. Hurry your ass up-I can practically see slim in the horizon."

"Yes sir." Desmond turns around, his focus coming to a charging figure giving a war cry just feet away. "WHA-"

The world goes black, the only thing Desmond hearing as his ears come to terms with his brain is Clay shouting his name in a desperate crackle.

CLIMAX!