Barney was in the shop alone. Tool had called it a night about an hour ago and retired to his apartment upstairs. That left him with something he preferred not to have to deal with: himself.

He heaved a sigh and looked down at his thumbs, the flat scarred tips touching while the rest of his fingers rested softly against the table, interlocked. He remembered a time where he wasn't sure he'd make it home alive, or even if he did, if he'd still have use of his hands. He could remember the searing pain, the absolute gore of it all, and the queasiness that had settled in his stomach to see his own body perforated like Swiss cheese. He clamped his teeth shut and shook his head. It was a sour memory. One of the pitch-black-soul ones he always talked about. He had quite a few.

We keep it light until it's time to get dark, and then we go pitch-black.

That memory strangled him, too. The first time he'd heard those words spoken aloud, he'd had a lot less grey in his hair and fewer wrinkles on his skin. His hand had been fully functional, his aim developing but still better than anyone else's. He was just another run-of-the-mill P.I.T.A, hopes held high and balancing on his weary shoulders, forcing his chin up. He was so good at casting that illusion of confidence that he started to wonder if at some point he fell for it himself. That went for all of his morality, too. He walked the thin line between right and wrong, good and bad, and he had his entire life. It was a balancing act, one he knew he could fail at with one misplaced bullet or one thought of greed. When he'd started the Expendables, he figured doing the dirty work for the government was about as moral as a guy like him could get. He was wondering if there was even such thing as good anymore. If there was, he hadn't seen it in a really, really long time.

When he thought of something good, he felt the darkness lift a little bit. Life became a little bit less suffocating. A little bit less torture and a little bit more pleasure. When he thought of something good, he thought of her.

He didn't let himself think about her a lot because there was still a gaping hole in his chest that was left by her absence. Every memory, every thought, however fleeting, would send surges of pain throughout his body. He never thought emotions could hurt worse than a gunshot, but while he looked down at his hand and compared the pain of that injury to the agony of losing her, he decided he'd go through the former tenfold just to see her one more time.

But Barney Ross didn't like to dwell on fantasy. He was a practical man, and even though he ached for just a sliver of hope… He knew there was none. She was the fire that brought light to his life and when that fire went out, he went cold and dark. That was about the time he left the service, too. He was a man with nothing to lose, and thus the Expendables were born. His soul was just ransom in whatever game the universe was playing. Just currency. His body was just a pawn to contain it. He never felt connected to the earth or to life after she left, and even though his team now- his family- came close to healing that, he realized that he didn't really want it. Life was only worth so much without that fire. He recognized that same thing in Lee when him and Sammy started spending time around each other. He walked a little lighter, held his head a little higher, and dammit if the grumpy man didn't smile more.

Barney flattened his hands against the table and swallowed. He really hoped Lee could have this. The universe had to be kind to some people, right? Even just thinking about it made him picture her eyes hovering just in front of his own. He couldn't bear it. He stood from the chair in a rush and ran his fingers through his hair.

How many years had it been? How many decades? How many hours- minutes- seconds- had passed by without her light on this earth? The numbers kept getting larger, and with them, so did the ice-cold hole in Barney's heart. He had to shudder against it. That's how fucking miserable it was. He wasn't one to pray or beg, but he had done both to try and be rid of that tormenting pain. But deep down, he knew he deserved it.

—-

Vietnam 1970

Her entire life had been a war. She was born five years after Barney Ross, right before the spring of Vietnam, in a French town called Annecy. France had long-held tensions with the Vietnam area, but the war came after their sorely lost occupation, so for all intents and purposes, she should never have had anything to do with any of it. When she was around ten, though, her family left behind the charming little canals of Annecy and the countryside and immigrated to America. Since nobody really spoke French in the states, her schoolmates coined her nickname: Lucie, short for Lucelle Lilou Chaudoir. Barney Ross would later contemplate the irony of that nickname, since long after the war was finished, he'd stumbled upon it somewhere online while researching for a job, and discovered that it meant "light" in Latin.

In 1970, on her eighteenth birthday, she enlisted as a combat medic and left her life behind. Barney often found himself wondering how different things would have been for the both of them if she never enlisted. Maybe fate would've had its way anyhow. It didn't matter though, because what had happened, happened. He couldn't change the past.

She was wearing a dark army-green button up with the collar folded neatly down. Her name was sewn onto a patch along the right of her chest and "U.S. ARMY" was on the left. Her hair was slicked back into a low bun, slight little curls like sideburns down her cheeks. She was standing at a counter in the barracks and flipping through some charts. She had scissors in her top left pocket, the two metal finger-holes sticking up and catching the light. Another nurse walked by and she looked up and smiled. Her teeth were white and they sparkled. Her cheeks were clean and dimpled. Barney was sitting on a cot waiting to get a nasty infected cut checked out when he stopped in his tracks and gaped. She tucked her pen into her empty right breast pocket and said a few things to the passing nurse before she gathered up her chart and glanced around the room. Her eyes landed on his and he felt his heart falter.

"Specialist Barney Ross?" She asked, striding up in front of him and greeting him with another bright, blinding smile. He felt his mouth hanging open and snapped it shut. He blinked a few times while she waited for his response.

"Uh, yeah. That's me," he said eventually. She chuckled a little and glanced down at the paperwork. He cleared his throat.

"Got an infected wound I see," she said, setting the paperwork down and looking over him. "I'll just run your vitals and take a look. I'm sure it's nothing some antibiotics won't fix."

Her accent was subtle after spending most of her formative years in the states, but he could make it out. She didn't sound like the other people around them. She looked more like a "make love, not war" type, too. Her hair was mousey brown but it reflected the light above them, showing off natural lighter highlights.

"Say ah," she said, and he opened his mouth only to have a thermometer shoved under his tongue. He clamped his teeth around it and furrowed his brows. While she let the thermometer sit, she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and glanced down at her watch as she pumped air into it. He studied her. She was dainty upon first glance, but she carried herself with the kind of confidence he only pretended to have. He read the patch on her shirt: "Lucie." His own patch said "Ross." He wondered if that was her last name or if she had requested that specifically to be put on her gear. Before he could think anymore about it, she tugged the cuff off of him and made a note on the paperwork. Then she pulled the thermometer from his mouth and inspected it. She frowned.

"You're running a slight fever," she said. "You should've come in sooner."

"Uh- I'm sorry," he stammered, and she tried to suppress a smile as she turned to put the thermometer away. She pulled out a small bottle of pills and gave them a shake.

"Antibiotics, like I said," she said, holding them out for him. "Let's clean out that wound while you're here, too."

He nodded and rolled up his sleeve. The wound was on his upper arm wrapped sparsely in bandages. It didn't help things that it was so damn humid in the jungle. She didn't show any sign of disgust as she unwrapped it and looked it over, though. He mentally chastised himself for thinking she would be grossed out. She was a combat medic. She'd probably seen much worse stuff than a little infection.

She got to work cleaning it out. She rewrapped it in some fresh sterile gauze and he had to admit that he was already feeling better. Maybe it was the medication, being clean, or just being near her, he couldn't say. He was grateful, regardless.

"Alright, Specialist," she said happily, stepping back and examining her handiwork. "I'd say that's as good as we'll get it for now. I recommend some rest and not skipping any of your doses."

"Yes, sir," he said, standing up from he cot and straightening himself. He cleared his throat. She just reached his nose with the top of her head where she stood, but her presence was so much larger. The shadow she cast outweighed the sum of her physicality. She was larger than life.

"Ma'am," she said stiffly.

"Sorry?" He asked, taken aback.

"It's ma'am, not sir. I do believe I am a woman, Specialist."

He couldn't help the smile that spread on his face. He nodded curtly.

"My apologies, ma'am," he said emphatically. She smiled back. She reached a hand out and brushed her fingers along his injured arm and he felt an entire strike of lightning hit his body in that instant. He froze up and probably looked like a deer caught in headlights to her. If she noticed, she didn't make it obvious.

Then she turned and hurried away. Barney didn't know a whole lot of things for sure at that point in his life, but he knew one thing: he'd been brought to that part of the world for a damn good reason, and it was walking away from him right at that moment. He knew he'd have to see her again. He'd take a bullet if he had to. She'd be worth it.

—-

New Orleans, Present Day

Sammy brushed her hand along Lee's arm and he stirred. He was a light sleeper, but lately he was getting harder and harder to wake up. She liked to think he was finally getting comfortable, that he felt safe enough to really rest around her. She wrapped her narrow fingers around his arm and gave him a shake. He groaned.

"Lee, I'm leaving for work in a bit," she said lightly, watching as his face scrunched up in a fight against the morning. He let out a tired sigh.

"What time is it?" He asked.

"Around eight," she said. She placed her hand against his forehead and rubbed circles with her thumb. It was something she remembered her grandmother used to do to her. He slowly opened his eyes and found hers.

"Good morning," he said with a breath, shifting so that he could face her more. He yawned.

"You don't have to come in," she said. "I'm just doing a few small tattoos today and going through potential jobs with Tool again."

"I should, though," he said. "I'll put some hours in on plane maintenance with Barn. Lord knows that deathtrap needs it."

Sammy chuckled a little bit. "Alright. Then come on, your highness, get up."

He smiled and twisted his face into the pillow. Those were the moments he found joy in, he realized. He also knew he had something else he needed to talk to Barney about.

Retirement.

It wasn't something he was considering lightly. He never thought that he would even think about, let alone take the idea seriously, but Sammy and their last mission had been the catalyst to a serious few page-turns in the story of his life. Lee wanted a family, and being a mercenary wasn't exactly conducive to that. The hours were crazy, the mortality unpredictable, and he could find his way to a lot of people's bad sides with just a flick of his wrist (literally). The pay was good, but he had a lot of money put away and if the situation ever arose where he ran short, he knew Barney would let him tag along and make a few bucks. He was ready to settle. He just wanted to talk to Barney about it first. Then he would figure something out about Sammy. He knew she wouldn't be ready for another change of pace, and he didn't want to force her into some domestic situation she wasn't ready for yet. But he wanted to let her know that he was, and that he'd be waiting for her until the time came that she was, too.

Sammy pulled herself off the bed and hit him lightly with her pillow. He pulled himself from his thoughts and lifted an arm to block an incoming attack. She chuckled as he gripped the fabric case and pulled it from her grasp with a sharp tug.

"Come on, I wanna get some work in before my first client arrives," she said, heading for the door.

Lee looked after her and let out a sigh. This was freedom, he thought. This was happiness. His chest ached a little at the idea of leaving his team, but he knew they would always be there for him, and him for them. Signing off didn't mean goodbye, it just meant not being in the field with them. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. Being a soldier was all he knew.

But he also knew that he was ready to try something else. Something different.

He pulled himself from bed and crossed the hallway towards the shower. The bathroom was still foggy from Sammy. He could hear the tea kettle whistling from the kitchen and smudged the cloud from the mirror so he could inspect himself. He didn't look any worse for wear. He turned the shower on and breathed in the steam.

Sammy watched the bathroom door and tapped her fingernails against her cup of tea. There still was something that wasn't sitting quite right with her and she couldn't figure out what it was. She even contemplated calling back home just to check in but dismissed the idea. What could happen over there that was worse than what she'd already been through? She turned and settled her gaze on the pictures of Riley. She'd be turning fifteen if she were still around. Sammy felt a stab at her heart. She had to try really hard just to hear Riley's voice in her memories now. She was surprised at how quickly pieces of her sister were beginning to fade from her. Memories were like that, though. They had a funny way of playing cruel tricks. Sometimes Sammy could swear she heard Riley as clear as day in the next room, but other times she had to fight just to picture her smile. She knew it was a losing battle and that one day Riley would just exist in pictures and the recesses of her mind. She was determined to push that day off. Her sister deserved more life than that, and she'd already been robbed of enough of her own existence.

The light was shining through the front door and slipping through the short hallway towards the kitchen. It was warm out. The sky was supposed to be clear.

She sipped her tea and waited for Lee, studying the images of Riley to try and burn them into her mind. She wouldn't forget. She refused to.

—-

Barney was nursing a cigar and tinkering with his bike when Lee and Sammy pulled up to the shop. His memories of the war flickered in his mind again, but he pushed them off, puffing out a bit of smoke and trying to focus on the bitter flavor instead. He could remember it all too well, and most of the time, like that morning, it was the last thing he wanted to be thinking about. It didn't help that the scar on his upper arm started to itch whenever the memories resurfaced.

"There you are, darlin'," Tool called, hobbling into the main room and holding his arms out. "I was wondering if you'd forgotten your early appointment."

Sammy rolled her eyes. "Relax, Tool. I was waiting on the grinch," she said.

Tool held up his hands in mock surrender and chuckled. Lee rolled his eyes and gave her a nudge.

She hurried over to her desk and flipped open her appointment book. She had some time to kill before the client arrived, and she planned on getting a few more sketches done. She was building up her portfolio again, focusing on her art and her work with Tool instead of her grief and stress. It was working, for the most part.

She shifted her appointment book across her desk and an envelope slipped out and fell to the floor. She blew a few strands of hair from her face and reached down to grab it. She flipped it over a few times and frowned.

She remembered when Tool handed it to her not long ago. She must have forgotten to open it. She must not have even looked at it too hard, because it was addressed to Sammy "Gogh" Williams, and only so many people knew her call-name. She glanced around the shop and saw that nobody was really paying her any attention.

A tense, sickly cold feeling fell over her and she tightened her jaw. There was no return address on the envelope, which piqued her interest even more. She scratched the side of her head and chewed on her lower lip. The envelope weighed heavy in her hands with dread. It was palpable. She didn't understand it, and she didn't think she wanted to. Regardless, she slid her nail into the paper and dragged it across the top, opening a slit in the envelope. There was a sheet of folded up paper inside and she slid her fingers over it. It was thin, just one page, and she pulled it from the enveloped and tucked it back into her appointment book. She felt that dread surge through he again but she bit it back and unfolded the letter. It was short, and her eyes were scanning it too fast in a fit of anxiety to really take anything in. She let out a shuddering breath and closed her eyes.

Everything is fine, she told herself. Of course it was. The worst possible thing had already happened to her. She had nothing to fear.

She read the letter silently to herself.

Sammy "Gogh" Williams;

We regret to inform you of the passing of Olivia "Bee" Taylor, who died in action on the day of May 7.

We hope this letter finds you well. This message was sent at the request of the deceased in their personnel file. If you find yourself in need of counseling…

Sammy stopped reading and felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could feel it all over her body. Each beat was a thumping towards disaster. She could feel the emotion swelling within her and the panic along with it. She suddenly didn't know what to do.

Bee? Dead?

The same Bee that she would race at basic? The same Bee that she befriended on her very first day, who she confided in, and who she loved like a sister in the sudden absence of her own?

She felt guilty that she hadn't even thought of her lately, and the whole time she had been dead. The thought made her suddenly nauseous and she gripped the letter tight in her hands. Rational thought was escaping her and all she wanted to do was run and find a dark corner to hide in. Hide from feeling any of those heavy, miserable feelings again. But it was too late. She knew. She'd read the letter. She couldn't outrun her own mind.

And running was something the old Sammy did. The new Sammy stormed headfirst into her problems instead of away from them. Her hands started to shake as she considered this. What did headfirst mean when death was what awaited her? She couldn't breathe life back into a corpse. She knew that. She had tried once before.

Her jaw was loose and shaking and she clamped the letter in her fist. She wasn't technically a soldier, so who could she ask? Her first thought was the Major, but that son of a bitch had been M.I.A since they finished that damned mission. She pulled the letter back open and scanned it again.

She could remember Bee in her uniform, the name "Taylor" printed across the chest. She was young. Too young. Something didn't feel right, but Sammy wasn't sure if it was just the grief talking. The rest of the world was tuned out. She stumbled backwards and caught herself before she could fall, catching the attention of Tool at the table near her. He furrowed his brows and studied her.

"You alright there, honey?" He asked, worried.

Her mouth went dry. She wanted to be honest and say no, but that felt like admitting that the letter was right. It didn't even have a return address. It wasn't even signed. She drew in a sharp breath and met his eyes as a few tears slipped through her lashes. He stood quickly, concerned, and lowered himself slightly to meet her eyes. He gently grabbed her wrist and looked down at the letter.

"What is it?" He asked.

She opened her mouth to try and speak but no sound would leave. She felt like if she moved, she would be back in that hospital room in that ICU in New York, the one she'd grown up not far from, had been born in, that now was host to the memories of the worst day of her life. The pain rattled in her chest and more tears began to fall.

"Sammy," Tool tried again, lowering his voice and glancing around. "Talk to me, Sammy."

She tightened her grip on the paper again.

"I need to find-" she started, but her voice caught in her throat and she stalled.

I need to find the Major.

She knew that if the Expendables knew where he was, he'd be in their grasp already. But she also knew that they weren't the only people looking for him. A lot of people held a grudge against him. He had to be deep in hiding somewhere.

Tool glanced around again and she realized that the shop had gone quiet. She hurried to wipe her tears away and tugged her wrist free from Tool's grasp. She licked the tears from her lips and shook her head.

"I need to cancel my appointments," she said, her voice broken. The world was beginning to spin. She looked around but couldn't see anything other than shadow. Nothing was processing. She was functioning on instinct, and her instinct was telling her to find some place to breathe. The walls were closing in, and without another word, she turned and hurried for the door. Tool watched after her, brows drawn tight and knitted, his hands hanging at his sides. Lee and Barney shared a look, and then caught Tool's attention, and he shook his head. He shrugged.

Sammy rushed out into the humid air and into the street. A car rushed by on the other side and she swallowed, hurrying to the sidewalk before she could get hit. Her gut was screaming at her. Something wasn't right. She looked down at the letter again.

May 7th. Sammy wracked her brain for some memory or sign or anything to hint at it being fake. The only evidence she had was her own doubt.

She fumbled down the sidewalk and ran her free hand over her face to dry the tears. Her cheeks and nose were already red and soaked, her eyes red-rimmed and glazed. More tears threatened to fall and her ears were ringing.

She needed a plan. She needed one fast. She needed to know for sure.

Something in her kept telling her that she already knew. There was no way Bee could be dead. There was no way, because that would mean she had failed somebody else. She thought back to the photographs of Riley and tried to remember her voice. It was all static, like a radio with a bad signal. She slammed her balled up fist into the brick wall beside her and bit down hard on her lip. She tasted blood.

She knew she couldn't do anything about Riley's cancer, but if Bee was in danger, she could do something about that. She just wasn't sure where to start. She wasn't even sure if there was a starting line to this mission. She might have been well passed the finish.