It had been a long time since Johnny had worn his dress-blues. Last time he had worn them, he had been young, agile, with smooth skin and big dreams. He had glistening emerald eyes full of anticipation and hope

Now he was feeble, ragged, with wrinkled leathery skin and crushed ambitions. His eyes the color of dull green swampwater, complete with fading vision and lost vigor.

In his cracked, arthritis-gnarled hands he held his white gloves, wondering if he could even get them on anymore. He remembered the wonderful feeling of slipping them on forty years ago, but now pain shot through his muscles as he tried desperately to fold his fingers to fit in the gloves. Groaning at his hands and forearms, feeling like they were being gnawed on by a shark, he howled in agony as he slipped the gloves to his wrists. Each finger that he fit into place was another victory for the former marine. He slipped his hat over his head, struggling every inch. Growling with contempt at the useless, aged veteran now staring at him in the mirror, Johnny longed for his youth.

He then looked over on his bed and saw his sword. Could he still wield her the same? In boot he was top of his class in drills. In Korea he had carried it regardless of it being for ceremonial purposes, finding it quite useful as a weapon when low on ammo. The men had begun telling stories of the private who carried his saber with ferocity and skill of a saber-cat. This led to his nickname, private Saber. He even adopted the name Johnny Saber, liking it very much.

Johnny loved the Marine Corps. He fought in Korea, Vietnam, and Desert Storm. He was the last marine who had a confirmed kill with a sword. Sure, he loved his rifle, but found a sort of spiritual connection with his sword, and, like all good marines, gave his weapon-of-choice a name: Brunhilda.

He picked her up and a few whips of pain shot through him. She was still in her sheath as he said to the sword, "Oh girl, the old days are far behind us. Bringers of death we are no more, heroes of legend forgotten to time." Johnny always was one to wax poetic.

Still, he fixed his sword to his hip and pulled on his hat with a lighting bolt of pain going through his hands. A wince and a curse later he was ready.

Nearly heading out of his bedroom he looked one more time at the letter: the call to action. Guard duty at a Toys-For-Tots warehouse. Thousands of donations had poured in this year, and with Christmas just a week away, they were looking for any and all former (and non-former) marines to heed the call. Ones that weren't away, or on duty, or who could be reached. Johnny was part of a few proud to answer. One night was all they needed him for. In the morning, he would be relieved by a special unit held for this kind of work. One night was all they needed. Those were his orders - one single, solitary night.

Dressed to impress, he left his bedroom and walked to his closet, wrangling his jacket. Though he lived in a small town in California, it was still cold and windy. The rains had started, but were taking a break today. Still, the wind howled outside as the sun set for Johnny's night mission. A bright sun-drenched blade lie across the horizon with rumbling, deep grey clouds rolling in from the Northeast.

Johnny did not pack his Colt .45 or his M-14 rifle. No need. All he needed was Brunhilda. Even though using his gun or rifle would be much easier, he was serious, he was ready for a fight, and he was not as good with his rifle or his handgun as he was with his saber. His guns had saved him in battle, his saber had saved him in war. A marine knew the difference. Grabbing his keys, his wallet, and other civi junk he had to carry around, he headed out the door.

Like a mortar concussion, the wind hit him. Only two steps out of his small apartment and the wind knocked him to his knees. This alone was enough to make him cry out in pain and turn his stomach with agony. His knees felt like they had been turned into broken glass and each piece stabbed him in the legs. He held onto Brunhilda like a lover in a gail. Grabbing onto a rail on his left, he "walked" on his knees towards his small car. Nearly there, he made the attempt to get back to his feet, standing over the teal vehicle, slamming into it, chest first, he groaned as his arms flopped on the roof. Brunhilda was still clutched tightly in his right hand.

Gritting his teeth, turning towards the blowing wind, standing on his own two feet, Johnny told the weather, "Hey, I'm still here," he yelled out. "I have a job to do tonight! Not you or Hell itself is going to stop me!"

Gripping the latch he threw open the door and that was when the rains came. A downpour of torrential proportions. He fell into his car, situated Brunhilda on the passenger side, and slammed his door shut.

Safe in his seat, he grimaced at the pain in his legs.

The rain sounded like pounding bullets from several machine guns all firing at once. Latching onto the steering wheel, Johnny closed his eyes and told himself over and over, "Rain. It's just rain." It was hard not to see the bright muzzle flashes, to hear the metal clicks of spent shell casings, to smell the burning metal from the overheating weapons.

When he opened his eyes, for a short time he was lost in Korean foliage, searching for the enemy. The feeling of the steering wheel had all but disappeared. The interior of his car gone, overtaken by vines, large jungle leaves, and oppressive heat. The only thing that gave him any comfort was that Brunhilda was right next to him. He grabbed her hilt and smiled, gripping her tightly. Car vents came back into view, snaking their way past the foliage. Soon he was back in his car, sitting in the driverseat with the heater blowing full-blast.

Holding his sword close, telling her, "They're getting worse, girl. I swear, one of these days I'll be lost in that jungle and I won't be coming back."

Johnny started the car and began to drive. The warehouse was about eight miles away. He would use this time to get his head right, taking a long, slow drive through the obscuring rain.