"You just stay the course, and do what it is that you do, and grow while you're doing it. Eventually it will either come full circle, or at least you'll go to bed at night happy."

~Jon Bon Jovi

It took him a while to recover after his injuries. It took all of them a while to recover. They were put on strict rest under threat of being faced with a charge of insubordination if they disobeyed. And while Echo was bored out of his skull, he'd had no unwelcome visits since the last one. He'd of thought that someone else would come and lecture him about what went down, or about his choices or lack thereof, but he'd been left alone with his tumultuous and tortuous thoughts.

For the first time, he had no clear idea of what to do or where to go. He was aimless, floating without cause or purpose. He knew that there would be more events he'd have to participate in: including the task force and being disavowed. He just wasn't sure when it would occur. He was teetering with unsurity, feeling his muscles wasting away, his instincts dulling. But there was no chance for him to start training, for him to be in peak condition.

Insubordination was something he couldn't afford to be stuck with because that would hurt him later. Plus, he thought, as he shuffled upwards, still feeling the jarring sensation of every rib bristling, I doubt I'd be able to do much with stubbornness alone. As it was, he could barely walk, stuck with slow healing and an eagle-eyed team, who were also injured in their own rights. I hate physiotherapy. As if I don't know how to deal with my own injuries.

He grumbled, reaching over for a glass of water, his jug halfway empty. He tensed his right arm, flexing it inwards and outwards, trying to get his muscles to respond, to move like a slick oiled machine instead of a broken and disused one. They'd been moved out of the German ward a week ago, once they'd all been deemed as safe to travel. They were back home in Credenhill now, and though he was reluctant to admit it, the burr of British accents was slightly comforting.

Whether it was some long lost memory of Echo's or his own preference, something about British accents just made him feel calm. There was a tablet fixed on the table, idly showing some TV show that Echo had tuned out of. Another predictable plot that Echo had seen coming from the first seconds of it being introduced.

"Echo min. Fancy going walk-about?"

He blinked, staring Soap down with furrowed eyebrows, also flicking his gaze to the crutches that were leaning against the side of his bed. What's he playing at? Last I checked, I was on strict bed rest, and wasn't allowed out of my room apart from to go to the mandatory therapy and physiotherapy.

"Thought I wasnae supposed to leave my bed?"

He commented dryly, adjusting his position, and tapping on his casted leg to prove a point. The thunk it made was hollow, but his leg was so swaddled up that it felt like his leg was swallowed with a big cushion. Soap shrugged, moving over to the window and throwing it open, seeming much less stern than he usually was.

"You aren't. But you're gonae go mad stuck in here lik a caged dog."

Soap backtracked to Echo's bed, and held his crutches, offering it to the man as he slowly shifted positions, his breathing picking up ever so slightly. It's never taken me this much effort to get out of bed before. He grumbled, hands curling around the crutches that he'd begun to hate. He carefully pushed himself out of his bed, leaning half on Soap, and half on a crutch.

"I figured you wouldn't take a wheelchair. Now come on, we'll go out to the garden fae a bit. They won't even know yer gone."

"I hope so, else yer dealing with my insubordination charge."

Soap rolled his eyes, helping his comrade out of the ward, shouldering his wait. Thank you Soap. I was beginning to think I was about to commit murder in an attempt to alleviate the burden. There's only so many times I can see the same four walls, the same grisly sky.

"I'll make sure you dinnae get a charge."

"This is refreshing Soap. Thanks fae taking me oot here."

Soap nodded in acknowledgement, shifting his leg. The grass surrounding them was almost too vibrant for the United Kingdom, the sky far too blue. The grass, long enough to curl around their legs, was untrodden like nobody had dared tread here since the grass had grown. Daisies and dandelions and daffodils grew all around, and for an army base, the area was calm and tranquil, very little hustle and bustle and stress.

"My pleasure. I heard a couple of rumours about a promotion in the works."

They chatted amicably, not broaching upon the topic of Russia. They were steering well away from that topic, something only to be discussed at a later date. There were a lot of traumatic experiences in that, and even Echo himself wasn't unaffected. Well, I'm happy for him. And Echo was because Soap deserved the promotion after all the duress he'd been through, the situations he'd been forced to work through.

"Congratulations."

He told him honestly, adjusting his legs on the grass, accidentally kicking the crutches off to the side. Stretching his legs and flailing them, he allowed himself to focus on him and his teammates, and that was it. Any other thought was thrown aside to be dealt with later, as was his usual coping mechanism. It wasn't a good one per se, but it worked for him, and that's what mattered. Soap shook his head, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. What?

"It's not just me in line for a promotion Lad. There's talk o' you becoming a Sergeant."

Echo's eyes widened slightly, as he tilted his head, accepting the offered glass of water from his friend. Raising it to his lips, he took a sip before diplomatically placing it back down. Me? A Sergeant? He hadn't really thought it was an option for him, with everything considered. He'd been injured on most of the missions he'd gone on, had gotten captured once, and hadn't had the best of experiences in the squad.

"Really?"

Soap nodded in confirmation, picking at a strawberry- who knows where he'd gotten those from. His disbelief was evident on his face it seemed, because Soap rolled his eyes again, tossing the stem of the red berry to the side. Echo took one and chewed on it, tasting the sweet flavour- unlike the tart ones he'd gotten used to having.

"Yeah. They're talking about making a new taskforce: 141. Price'll be heading it from what I've heard, the rest is hush hush."

Echo tilted his head in faux interest- well, not really faux, he was interested- ignoring the brief burning of his arms, and the receding numbness of his legs. There was a brief chill in the air that curled around them every so often, sharp enough to be noticeable, and cold enough that it was a refreshing change from the climate.

"That's interesting. I assume we'll find out where that's going soon."

He was back in his bed, staring listlessly at the four walls. There was something dull and depressing about the four white walls that caged him in, making him feel like a wild animal, kept ensnared in a trap. Besides his teammates, his only visitors was the physiotherapist and plain old normal therapist, both of which he didn't want to see.

The physiotherapist was a grump, and downright sadistic. Poking at all of Echo's cuts and bruises, jeering at him that "what, you're a soldier? You'd better get walking then, Shorty." Echo was not short goddammit. He was 6ft 2 goddammit, he just looked small because of his constantly bent legs. It had been tempting to punch the man, and he wasn't about to let his plaster-clad arms stop him, but he'd fought against it by sheer force of will.

A court-martial wasn't something he had in his plans. The therapist, on the other hand, was too gentle, too coercing. "And what did you think about that?", "What do you think about your parents", "What are your memories surrounding the last mission." It was like she thought he was walking on eggshells, waiting for a chance to explode, a ticking time bomb.

Talking about what had happened wouldn't change anything, and it wasn't like he could talk about everything else without being branded a lunatic and ending up in a psych ward. They weren't fun places to be. He would know. The whole situation was loathsome because he couldn't even wash himself: he felt useless, like a former shadow of a human.

There were no physical bindings keeping him to the bed, and he couldn't get up any time he wished. But it certainly felt like he was chained there, thick and heavy, weighing him down far better then anything else could. He pushed himself up against his bed, looking at the documents marked "Top Secret" that Price had been by with half an hour previously, to let Echo have a look at them before he came back to collect them.

Was it slightly irresponsible? A little bit. But with Echo stuck in the hospital ward with no near estimated time of leaving, and the files needed to be read as soon as possible, then it was the only real option. "Lieutenant James Gibben, call sign Echo, from Lockerbie, Scotland."

It continued on with a bunch of his personal information, lifted straight off of his personal record. It contained the list of all his attended missions, his background, his personality, and his list of assignments. It wasn't very long, with his longest stint being in Bravo Team: every other time, he'd just been where he'd been needed, an extra numbers kind of thing.

Continuing on, there was an addendum, written by nobody else then Captain Price, practically singing Echo's praises. "Recommended for promotion to Sergeant after a stellar performance during his time with Bravo Team. Proposition to be made recognising Lieutenant Gibben for Task Force 141 as a close-quarters specialist, but only after he has passed the required assessments, and has made a full recovery."

Of course, that left Echo wondering what was going to happen regarding Price- after all, he was supposed to be in a Gulag right now, but here he was, going around Credenhill like it was a normal state of affairs. He rubbed his plastered arm, resisting his instinct to itch at the plaster, continuing to skim-read the rest of the document, accrediting his signature at the bottom, in loopy and messy left-handed shorthand.

Setting them to the side, he chewed the tip of the pen in an odd gesture, looking at the lined paper in front of him. At the top, it simply read "After-Mission Report" and that was as far as he'd gotten before pushing it to the side. A paragraph at a time right? He thought to himself as he began to lay out the beginning of the mission. Upon seeing the length of his first paragraph, he huffed slightly to himself, resisting the urge to slam his head against the desk.

I'd rather not die via paperwork… There were some things even he didn't like.

Echo did not flinch at all when he had to deal with Price later that afternoon, the man starting the lecture he'd been waiting for. How could you be so sacrificial? You flatlined twice on the table. We didn't think you were going to pull through. Echo has shrugged, a stupid move, and had answered as simply and as honestly as he could. It was me or you. Me or the team. It was a simple decision to make: one life for the needs of the many.

Price had not been amused and had come back the day after with even more paperwork. Sadistic son of a bitch.

A month or two had passed, and Echo had been allowed to return to his dorm, which had been untouched in his absence. He could almost imagine the thin layer of dust that would be coating both his sheets and his things. He could hobble around unassisted, even if his leg was still plastered, but he still had to visit the physiotherapist and therapist once a week.

It was better than his previous every few days, but still a nuisance. Still, his bed was as he remembered leaving it, before that clusterfuck of a mission, and everything that he could say was his was still there. Even a small framed photo that was of a smaller version of Echo, surrounded by his parents. There was some form of detachment from himself and the photo, and it felt like it hadn't been him, that it was someone else.

And that wasn't exactly a lie in the grand scheme of things. The paper that had gone through, cementing his ascension to Sergeant. Truthfully, he wasn't sure of what it meant for him, and he wasn't sure how to feel. Happy? It was a big change for him, and not just in terms of team dynamics. He wasn't the FNG any more, and his squad was being shuffled up. Gaz was being assigned to head a unit of his own but wasn't joining the new Taskforce 141.

I think that's more of a blessing then he realises. But what changes did Sergeant bring, besides that? It was just a title, a change in how he was referred to. Everyone outside of the original Bravo Team and Macmillan referred to him as Sergeant, which was a lot more difficult to get used to than one would think.

A normal person would be happy about their rank up: but he was just nonchalant. And nervous, the feeling of trepidation refusing to leave him. There's so much I've got to think about: my new title, the upcoming missions… the whole thing with that guy and my sense of self… I'd rather not think about it and ignore it, but I don't have that courtesy. That luxury. I can't afford to run and hide like a child: not that I know much about that.

He looked at his hands, calloused from holding rifles, burn marks marring the pink skin, and he just couldn't recognise them. They weren't his. His fists curled together, hiding the unrecognisable skin from his view. A shiver went down his spine, along with a chill in the air as he stared out of his window, looking at his body with disgust.

The only thing left for me to do is train, and keep everyone off of my back… friend and foe alike.

Author's Note

And that's a wrap for Arc 1. To be honest, this isn't my favourite story when it comes to the other ones I've written. I feel like this one was underdeveloped in terms of plot, and that the characters just aren't interesting. The idea of the "Guardians" is also underdeveloped, and I think that maybe the story would have been better had they just been omitted.

Regardless, it's been a lesson learnt. Maybe I'll come back for Arc 2, maybe I'll rewrite this one as a more traditional story. I guess we'll wait and see!

Thanks for all of the support, and I appreciate all of your reviews, favourites and what not!

I'll see you around, and stay safe!

~Cait