Author's note: Hello there! Welcome to my little story! Either it be you're a new reader or a returning one from my previous work. Hopefully this one is a lot more polished and it updated more regularly. At the very least it should be every two months! Hopefully, a lot sooner as chapters will be shorter and a lot more consistent.

Date: 204X - 12 - 04

Operative Name: [Redacted]

Codename: Sierra Seven

Location: Killhouse somewhere in Sector Seven

A man in a balaclava looked up from the Glock he'd been dusting off with a damp rag. "LT, is this really necessary?"

"Nothing I can do, Seven," a man with gray hair sighed. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. "Brass wants to make sure your stint at the hospital hasn't hindered your abilities. Besides, it's been a while since you've been out in the field."

"'Course…" Seven scoffed. "Let's get on with it." Seven opened the door to the first killhouse.

"Simple set up, Seven: hostile bots armed with rubber rounds and civilian bots. Clear the area, the floor's yours. Shouldn't need to be said, but don't shoot the civilians."

"Roger that, LT."

'Deep breath in…'

'1… 2… 3.'

'Deep breath out…'

'3… 2…'

In one fluid motion, he forced open a wooden door, sending splinters flying. The first two bots, stunned by the sudden entrance, looked at him only to eat an eyeful of lead. A third bot pointed its revolver at a hostage.

Time slowed to a crawl.

Seven's shoulders tensed as he raised his Glock. The bot and Seven both squeezed their triggers, the outcome determined in mere milliseconds.

Bang!

"Stop the simulation," a man's voice called over the PA system.

Seven had shot the civilian bot.

"…Fuck."

The bots powered down as the man spoke through the PA system again. "Thank you, Sierra Seven, we've seen enough. You may return to your living quarters. Our decision will reach your ears soon enough." Then silence.

Seven walked out the way he came in before quickly rushing down a hall, ignoring LT screaming his name. Funny how a few small events could change his entire life…

Eight Months Earlier

Sierra Seven, better known as Rabbit or AJ. Though if you called him by the latter, that meant you knew his actual name, Avaro Jackson.

How a tanned foreigner found his way inside the European region was a story in and of itself, but not the matter at hand, for the time being at least. Militias and small terror cells had become a problem, so much so that private military companies (PMC) and smaller groups of individuals could profit from it and even receive funding from the government (and all the red tape associated with it).

The small PMC with which Avaro was associated received some government funding and training. The downside? Technically, he had to respond to a chain of command and had a handler who monitored every single thing he did.

His parental figure, who was commander in the Grifon PMC, while not exactly happy, supported him. His oathed doll Jane, however… well, she had a field day with Avaro and started going off about why he didn't go to officer school or regular school. Really, it all boiled down to her wanting him to be safe.

Avaro endured six months of training that consisted of breaching a room, fast roping, and rappelling off a moving chopper. There were other aspects such as firearms calcification and basic hand to hand combat. While he wasn't Special Forces, he had a pinch more training than the average soldier and way more than civilians who simply picked up a rifle. Six months of training leading up to today; investigating a hot tip from an informant and raiding an abandoned storage facility containing chemical weapons.

Seven heard a superior drone on, something about insurgents "making their messiah powers known to all" and "making the heretics see the errors of their ways."

"Batshit crazy fanatics…" Seven sighed to himself at the briefing. Taking prisoners was extremely unlikely. The plan was to hit 'em hard and fast— wipe them out and secure the area, allowing the government to collect then dispose of the drums filled with chemicals. Intel reported that the militia guarding the facility consisted of a medium platoon with little to no armor, crude weapons, and light training. Simple; send in Seven and a small fire team, and a team of Grifon's dolls for support.

And Intel was spot on. About the outer layer of the facility. But the deeper they went in, the heavier resistance became; better armor and weapons, and possibly better training. Now, Seven and his fire team were pinned behind a concrete barrier, one of them with a sucking chest wound.

"Keep the pressure on that wound!" the man to Seven's left screamed as he gunned down a fanatic ready to toss a grenade at the group.

A sharp inhale. "Fire in the ho—!" they began yelling before the grenade went off, sending small debris and dust around the area.

"LT, what the hell is the ETA of those stupid dolls!?" Seven screeched into his headset as he gunned down what he guessed was a drugged up fanatic who ran at them with a crude hatchet. Even as their warm, cherry red blood pooled around them on the floor, they kept cackling like a goddamn hyena.

"Two—Two minutes, Seven. Hold out for two minutes!" LT replied, uncertainty in his voice apparent, as he was surely getting the feed from their cameras.

"LT, Foster doesn't have two fucking minutes! Tell those over-glorified sex dolls they have less than one minute before I lose a man! I am not losing a man today!" Seven howled to the heavens as he laid down suppressing fire, nicking a fanatic in the thigh and making two others run for cover.

"Seven…"

'No.'

He didn't dare turn.

"…Foster…" A man looked at his shaking hands. At his blood-soaked gloves. "…He's gone," he finished weakly before a round made its home in his skull.

Seven's jaw dropped slightly. "…fuck…" His voice was barely above a whisper. "FUCK!" At the sound of small sets of footsteps, he turned and fired blindly, screams and thuds following soon after.

"LT, things are going FUBAR! I have two dead, and Mike and I are running low on ammunition… Where the hell are those dolls!?" Seven barked as he shot another charging fanatic. They were getting a lot bolder… or more drugged up.

Mike stopped firing for a moment.

Sniff, sniff.

"What's that smell?"

'Mustard? Mint? …Cherry?'

His eyes widened in realization. "…GAS!"

"Ah, shit…"

Seven, Mike, and the other fanatics began coughing. Things started to go blurry and the room began to spin as more and more of the gas filled Seven's lungs, eventually he keeled over. His chest rose and fell quickly.

"Seven! …Seven!" Mike croaked through labored breaths. LT called out at the same time.

Whatever the chemical weapon the enemy had, it was fast-acting; the blue dust suffocated its victim almost instantly. Seven clawed at his throat, wanting even half a gulp of fresh air in his lungs.

"Come on, Seven… Not… not… gonna… let… l-l-l—" Mike labored. He started to drag his fallen comrade away from the blue cloud of death, his staggering only stopped when he collapsed onto the ground of the roof.

"Seven!? Mike!? Come in!" LT yelled frantically at the silence. "Don't you two die on me! Those damn dolls should be above you! Hang on!"

'So…' Avaro's breathing steadily grew slower and more labored. 'This is…' He kept slipping in and out of consciousness. 'This is how I bite the dust…?' In what he thought would be his final moments, he heard a thrumming slice through the still air. The vague shape of a helicopter hovered overhead and a rope was kicked out of it.

Multiple figures stood over him. "…A live one" he heard one of the figures yell before they reached into a satchel and slipped a mask on him. Fresh filtered air slowly filled his lungs, and while his vision wasn't much clearer, he could make out a figure looking over the dead bodies as he was being carried away to a safer area.

Blink.

He was in a helicopter, a T-doll tending to him, gently pleading with him to hold on as they approached the hospital.

Blink.

He was in a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of him. A nurse was changing the flowers in a vase by his bed. He tried to speak but could only muster a weak groan that ended up using a lot of energy. The nurse had to do a double-take before she ran to fetch the doctor overseeing his case.