"If you are far from the enemy, make them believe you are near."

~Unknown

[Game Over]

[Day 36 - 16:12:17]

[Restrictive Door, Altay Mountains, Russia]

[Lt. James 'Echo' Gibben]

[22nd SAS Regiment]

So, he'd gotten shot. Twice actually, although one of those could hardly be classified as a shot. One had impacted his shoulder but had been largely deflected by his tactical gear. It hadn't penetrated the skin, and nothing serious had happened. He'd have a nasty bruise there, but hey ho, better than a through and through. The other shot though, well, that one was slightly worse.

Not life-threatening, not mission threatening, but an annoyance all the same. It had gone through just below his hip, skewering through his flank with ease, the bullet still lodged in there. He could feel the bullet lodged between flesh and bone, embedded deep within, a burning pain only confirming the injury. Of course, being slumped in the back of a moving vehicle, he didn't have to try and walk on it- not yet, anyway.

He had tied a tourniquet onto it, all the usual medical practises, and while the rib-bruising smack into the side of the jeep had hurt, it was negligible. But it was evident that Soap didn't think the same, as his eyes widened at the small pool of blood. It's not the time to be worrying about a little gunshot Soap. We've got a terrorist on our hands- one who is going to wipe out half of Bravo Team if we don't end him now.

"Shit, you've been shot!"

Soap exclaimed, moving over towards him to look at the wound. He pushed Soap down, forcing him to duck behind cover, as Echo moved himself up to eliminate another truck. There wasn't much time until they reached the bridge, and he didn't want Soap or anyone else to be distracted by his injury when all hands needed to be on deck.

The road was quickly narrowing, rough rocks dislodged by the stampeding vehicles, whirring rotor blades ominous in the background. Damnit. I'm not sure what's worse: getting killed by Life and Death, or watching these men I've come to appreciate die.

"I'll be fine! Focus on the chopper!"

Shit! It's going for the bridge!

They cried out in unison, and Echo forced himself up, to get a better aim. It was veering left and right, out of control, it's guns rocky and unable to focus on the actual bridge. Bullets ricocheted off of the chassis uselessly, Echo might as well had screamed at the thing to fall and not shoot the bloody bridge, for all the use it would have done.

"Fuck! Brace for impact!"

Price screamed as screeching tires and screaming breaks became audible, the jeeps fighting against the rubble-road to stop. They kept shooting- there were no other trucks following them- at the chassis, but to no avail. They got ready to brace as Gaz slammed on the breaks, but there was an explosion and the heatwave.

Echo looked up and saw the helicopter go down in a bluster of smoke, falling through the air like a comet. The helicopter that had Zakhaev in it was ahead, but Echo didn't get much time to concentrate on that fact, thanks to the whole world suddenly tilting in on itself. There was the sound of a yell as the truck tilted, skirting dangerously on two wheels.

The ground came up close on them, and there was the sudden crack, his neck snapping back, a burn-like feeling climbing up around his body. There was the sound of something clattering against the ground, some more yelling, before a great pressure forced down his head, subduing him and almost paralysing him with a choking intensity. A creeping cold feeling climbed up his spine, and as the sound of shattering glass cut through the silence, Echo found himself thinking a final, conscious thought- even when things change, it always ends up the same.

Asphalt hurt. If you'd ever bellyflopped into a swimming pool from a great height, imagine that, but intensified tenfold. Rock scratching at your skin, tearing it off like strips from meat. Blood surrounding you like water, running over the terrain with little difficulty. Your squadmates, scattered in the wind, limp on the ground, blood mixing with your own. The quiet sound of the valley, the bridge between sides whole and complete, their vehicle a flaming wreck.

Petrol snaked its way into the mix, creating one noxious mix that was just about ready to ignite the minute a spark latched its teeth onto the liquid. Echo forced himself up as things came back into perspective with a pounding headache and foggy vision. Pain radiated up and down his form, and he took a second or two to take stock of his injuries.

A quick shuffle forward and an attempt to stand told him his already injured leg had become worse- broken, from what it felt like. The light-headedness and the pool of blood surrounding him told him that he'd lost quite a bit of blood- not quite lethal yet. The pounding of his head suggested at least a severe concussion, if not something fractured, and his ribs were tender, a blotchy purple creeping up then, surrounding them painfully. At least two of them are broken.

There was the sounds of a helicopter lowering down to the ground, a whipping of dust as it was violently torn from the ground thanks to the force. So this bit hasn't changed. Gritting his teeth, he analysed the rest of his team, calculating a plan of action in his mind. Price was dragging the unconscious Gaz behind cover, looking the most well off out of all of them. Blood trickled down the side of his face, and his uniform looked dishevelled.

Bravo Six. This is Kamarov. Bravo Six, are you there? Bravo Six- if you can hear me, we're three minutes out. We've got aid on standby!

His hat was discarded in the mess, near some of the rubble, but apart from that, he'd made it out fairly unscathed. Gaz, still unconscious, had what looked to be a dislocated shoulder, bent slightly out of place. His hair was heavily matted with blood, and his holster distinctly lacked any kind of weapon. His ankle was bent upwards at an angle, signifying it was broken, and they were only the injuries that he could see.

Still, the steady rise and fall of his chest signified that he was still alive, so he hadn't failed his mission just yet. The ground started to move, and he groaned somewhat unintentionally, looking up to see Soap, favouring his left side as he dragged Echo behind some cover, making it look like an easy feat. Soap himself didn't look too worse for wear, despite being catapulted out the same place as Echo.

He was favouring his left side heavily, leaning with heavy breath as he carried Echo, who was admittedly dead wait. He flailed with his limbs, trying to push himself forwards to aid Soap, but they were heavy and uncoordinated, reminding him too much of when he'd been knocked unconscious before. He hooked a rifle with his foot, sending it skirting towards them as the helicopter- the one that contained Zakhaev, because the man loved to gloat- touched down, unloading four men, and the grizzled Zakhaev himself.

It made sense in a way- he could make an example out of the men that had taken his son, and in doing so, could have some leverage with the United Kingdom and the United States. It was a smart plan, save for the fact that Echo would never let it happen.

"Zakhaev's here! Get behind cover!"

Griggs had been dragged by one of the few remaining SAS members, and there were strewn bodies near the crash site. Soap let him down, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position, much to Soap's annoyance. He curled his feet inwards, using enough force to send the gun up to him, picking it up as steadily as he could.

"I seek vengeance for my son. British, American, whatever country you may come from, I warned you about taking my blood. His capture will be paid for in blood, spilt because you did not heed my demands. I am a reasonable man, but you have been a thorn in my side, as well of that of my sons, and it has gone on for too long. I look to send a message, and that message will be sent now."

The sound of bullets followed, and he forced himself to lean around the side of the impromptu shelter, firing a small flood of bullets towards Zakhaev, aim wild and uncoordinated. Gaz was still unconscious, Soap and Price were huddled behind cover, Echo himself was limited as to what he could do- not that it would stop him- and Griggs was also unconscious, huddled by Strafe the backup.

"Stay down!"

Soap hissed from Echo's side, pushing him down with one hand. Echo shook his head furiously, a blaze of emotion filling him. There was no use not fighting if we end up dead anyway! He clenched his fingers in order, before gritting his teeth so hard he was surprised they didn't wear away. The sounds of gunfire only served to make Echo nervous- if he fucked this up, there were no second chances.

This scenario was marginally better than the one that would normally occur- there was no bridge limiting their evac. There were fewer men thanks to his sabotage of the helicopters, and nobody was dead yet. But this part was familiar- having to hold out until Kamarov could arrive. Bravo Team was scattered and faint, this only confirmed as Price called out for a sitrep, the answer coming from Soap, since he was the second-highest in rank next to the currently unconscious Gaz.

"Gaz is unconscious, sir. As is Griggs. Strafe and Semper are conscious, though Semper has a dislocated shoulder. Echo is also conscious, though critically injured. I will be fine- suffering from minor injuries. Sniper Team 1 and 2 are re-routing from the evac to come to our aid, and Kamarov is three minutes out."

Zakhaev, the bastard, kept pressing forward, and with many of their members down for the count, they were forced to hold their ground. Echo gripped his gun with white-knuckles, keeping his breathing steady and calm, despite the agonising amount of pain that shot through his body every time he so much as shuffled position.

While Echo was used to great amounts of pain by now, there were so many injuries, all of them inflicting him at the same time. They were compromising his capability to complete the mission, and the pain just stacked upon one another until he couldn't ignore it any-more. He was one of the best at compartmentalising, but even then, he was still affected by pain. Just as much as any normal person. He just had an ability to push past it, but even that only stretched so far.

"I'm going to fight Soap! Regardless of whether you want me to or not- I'm dead even if I don't fight! At least this way we have a chance!"

Let it never be said that Echo couldn't be compassionate. He'd learnt some things recently, and it had brought some realisations to him. Things he'd noticed, but never dwelled on. All it took was a change in perspective, and chinks in his armour appeared, small and steady. But one small crack in a fortress could bring the whole thing down, and he couldn't allow himself to be compromised.

Whether this whole scenario would repeat one day again, or he'd have to watch them all die… or someone else he'd grown to like, that was in the future. He could cross that bridge when he came to it because his squad was what mattered in the here and now. His squad, and his mission. Soap popped out of cover, firing a spray of bullets before cursing.

He's down to his last clip. Soap didn't comment on his speech at all, and his eyes were too busy being trained on the hostiles. So, Echo took some executive action. It took him a while, but he slowly balanced himself on his knees, huffing quietly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep it hidden.

He slowly forced himself so that he was in a ready to stand position, sweat dripping down his body at the effort. The small pool of blood continued to increase as Echo slid his gun over to Soap in a weak gesture, an attempt to lull the man into a false sense of security. A false sense that would make Echo out to not be planning something evasive. Once Soap was distracted yet again, Echo pulled out his pistol, which had been stuck in his holster. It was scuffed all along the barrel, the magazine slightly jagged at the end, but it had a few bullets in it.

A few bullets were all he needed. His pistol was shortly followed by his combat knife as he tested the blade, tearing apart sinew with ease. Echo's muscles coiled in preparation, the burn reaching from head to toe, vibrations going down his spine, as Soap finally ran out of ammo, shortly thereafter followed by Price. Both men were resigned to their fate but were going down swinging.

In their hands, they each clenched their respective knives, an unspoken agreement amongst the two of them. They wouldn't go down willingly. Ignoring his injuries, his life, the burn and the agony, those relying on him, he slowly moved around the other side of the cover, under Soap's nose, just as Zakhaev approached forwards, spinning his pistol once in his hand.

"Say goodbye… Price."

He never got to finish his sentence as Echo pounced, much to the shock of Price and Soap. His broken ribs met Zakhaev's solid ones, and from close range, his gun fired deep into Zakhaev's stomach, the heat burning both Echo and Zakhaev himself. With his other hand, his knife slashed across his throat, resulting in a distressing gurgling sound as the man fell to the ground- but not before firing a shot from beyond the grave.

And as Echo fell to the ground, helicopters in the background, adrenaline and strength leaving him, there was the dull burning of a gunshot wound, somewhere in the torso. There was the sound of hasty Russian and emergency evacuation orders, but Echo's eyes slid shut, everything becoming muted, making a sacrifice that he didn't consider a sacrifice. A sacrifice that was inevitable, like many of mine. Even if I faced death, never to be awoken again, I would not consider this a sacrifice. My duty, my right. They live while I die- a fair trade.

"Come on Echo. Come on James."

Author's Note

Arc 1 is soon coming to an end. While I write Arc 2, I'll be posting a new story in the meantime.

On another note, I'm having severe problems with my internet at the minute, so I'm going to get this up while my wifi is alive.

~Cait