Author's Note: Here's the deal. I have been apparently forgetting a lot of the English language over the past month, and I blame it entirely on taking three different computer language classes at once. Also, should you happen to be a prior service member, you're gonna notice a lot is totally fudged on this, and I did it on purpose. The other thing is that when I was in, I was kind of a shit, and I didn't use any of the military lingo I was supposed to, and I have done my best to forget it (though it always comes back when I go to veteran events). Anyway. The Navy uses different *everything* than everyone else - different language, different rank names, different ways of referring to people, eleventy billion different uniforms all with their own nitpicky rules on when and where you can wear them...so I'm not a hundred percent sure anyone would be able to read this if I did use all the proper terminology. Anyway. ONWARDS!

"We've been over this, Lieutenant," Greene said, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off what was sure to be a corker of a migraine.

It was always a migraine when Magnum was involved.

Always.

Prior enlisted always made the most obnoxious officers, and Magnum was no exception, and worse – he was a SEAL who'd been to the Academy. Trying to get him to do as he was told when he was told was like trying to nail Jello to a tree.

"Sir, I know, but look –" Magnum pointed to the map spread out across the desk, indicating the route they'd just come back from. "I know Jahangir can't be responsible for everything that his name gets attached to. It's not feasible. It's not possible. But that doesn't mean that some of these attacks aren't his. Like the one today?" Magnum jabbed at the tiny blip along the route. "It's always a possibility that the Taliban is going to use kids or women or soft targets to get closer to us. That's not new. But the way these are happening? Hazara women and children, between the Korengal, Jalabad and Bagram – stopping convoys of five or fewer vehicles by sending the victims into the streets where the convoys have no other options but to stop, retreat, or risk being blown up?"

Greene sighed. "That's a thin line," he warned. "And like you said, hardly a new tactic of the Taliban. If that's all you got –"

"It's the same bombs," Magnum interrupted. "You know they're like signatures, sir. Even if the switchman hadn't said a name, he might as well have handed us a signed declaration. It's the same guy, sir."

"You're not ordnance, Lieutenant. And last I checked, neither was anyone on your team."

Magnum shrugged. "You're right. We're not. But Crash is."

Greene felt his eye twitch. "Tell me you didn't bring a live bomb back to base for that psychopath to take a look at."

The SEAL huffed irritably. "Of course not."

Greene heaved a sigh of relief.

"We dismantled it first."

Greene fought the urge to hit his head against the table. "Look, we've tried to follow this trail before, Lieutenant. Everything and everyone came up empty," he pointed out. "The intel community, the Afghani military, hell even Hannah's contacts have come up with fuck all to prove your theory that Jahangir is an actual guy and not just a name. It doesn't matter what people are doing in his name, because how are you going to stop it? You can't kill a ghost, son. It's just not possible. And I am not letting you and your buddies go haring off after fairy tales so you can get yourselves killed or worse – someone else."

"But sir –"

Greene held up a hand. "I'm not disagreeing that there's a bomber out there who's MO is to strap vests to kids to lure out American troops. I'm not even disagreeing that people are using a name to justify it. I am however, disagreeing it's a real person's name."

"You think this is what, a Dread Pirate Roberts situation?"

"You know this country, Magnum. You know the people, what it's like here for them, what it's been like for them. How do you know that you're not just playing into this exactly how they want you to by believing it's one guy who somehow manages to pull strings for half a dozen different terrorist cells across the Kunar province? Nobody here likes one another. Half our allies are trying to kill each other. The Taliban's long-standing tactic is to force their members to be so god awful that people are afraid of them without ever meeting them. If they invent a name and pin all of their tactics on their fictional leader, then they'll have the United States military chasing their tails trying to find someone who isn't there while the continue on."

Magnum considered it for a moment, before he slowly shook his head. "I understand what you're saying sir, it's just…there's too much here that is connected for it to just be the name tying them together. It feels more like a smokescreen than a lie."

"So help me God, lieutenant, if you say it's a gut feeling, I will relegate you to babysitting journalists until your time is up," Greene threatened. "And no, I will not let it be Masters. I'll find you one of the worst ones I can, who's afraid of camel spiders, heights, and a general lack of running water. Your 'gut' is not a viable source of intel that I am willing to bet lives on."

"But – "

"Here's the deal – find a shred of proof that you're right, without haring off to get killed on an unsanctioned mission, and then we can continue this conversation. But until then…" Greene drew his index finger across the base of his neck. "Not a word."

"So we're stuck on base until Hannah's contacts come up with something?" Magnum protested. "That could be days, weeks – hell, sir, it could be months."

"For someone so sure he's right, you seem to have a pretty dim outlook on someone finding proof of it," Greene pointed out. "But fuck no, I am not leaving you idiots on base without something to do. I still have nightmares about the last time you and Wright got bored."

"In our defense, sir, I think we can all agree that those monkeys seemed perfectly tame at the time."

Greene's eye twitched. "You're going in support of the 3rd battalion and the local military on a recon mission. They leave tomorrow at 0500, and you're going with them."

Magnum gave a long suffering, utterly dramatic sigh that Greene immediately mimicked back.

"Cry me a river, lieutenant. Consider it a vacation. You can even take Masters with you. Because I am that nice. Talk to Captain Markham for debrief before you leave. Wright and Calvin will be air support and EXFIL. I want you keeping an ear out – Markham doesn't have an interpreter of his own, and while I don't expect the Afghani military to lie or mistranslate on purpose, I would prefer we had our own set of ears."

"Yes, sir," Magnum said, in the same tone someone would say 'drop dead'. "Understood."

Before Magnum stepped outside the tent, Greene called after him. "And Lieutenant? Good work today."

Magnum offered a crooked smile and a half assed salute before disappearing out the door flap.

Greene shook his head. God, that kid was a pain in the ass.

(*(*(*

Rick veered left and right, zig zagging while making plane engine noises, Soraya on his shoulders with her hands in his as he held her arms out straight as TC and Nuzo marveled at the resiliency of children.

It'd taken a while – most of the afternoon – but Rick had finally managed to teach her what play meant. Rick knew enough Dari to get a point across, though most of it was strictly military related. Things like "put your gun down" and "what groups or individuals in this area have expressed anti-American sentiment?", but vocabulary didn't seem to matter as much as tone.

She'd yet to take a liking to TC – he seemed a little too big for her, and Nuzo just waved them off when it was clear Rick was having just as much fun as the four-year-old on his shoulders pretending to be a plane.

"You finally have someone your own maturity level to play with," Nuzo commented from his perch on the craptastic lawn chair someone dug out from…somewhere. No one was entirely sure where it came from. It was cheap, broken in three places, and posed a serious risk of tetanus to those who were unvaccinated, but it beat sitting on the hard and rocky ground and as Nuzo pointed out frequently – he was an old man, and he earned the chair.

"You're just jealous because she likes me better," Rick said in between motor sounds. Soraya was figuring out he would turn in whatever direction she pulled his hands and was giggling like a normal four-year-old instead of the disturbing vacancy from when they first spotted her. "I'm a people person. It's a gift."

"You bribe people," TC corrected.

"What an ugly word, TC. I would never. Do I find things for people? Sure. Do I make connections that benefit me and our little band of misfits? Yes. Do I sometimes misappropriate said relations to get a basketful of pomegranates delivered to COMSEC so that Rabbit fixes our equipment first and possibly sabotages Academi's while she's at it? Who's to say?"

"That sounds like a bribe. Does that sound like a bribe to you, Nuzo?" TC asked, turning to the chief.

"It's been a while since I looked up the dictionary definition of the word, but off the top of my head? Yeah. I'd say so."

Rick paused in his flight pattern, skidding slightly on the loose gravel. "Hey, Soraya, how do you say jerkface in Dari?"

"There's no direct translation," Thomas offered as he strode towards the group. "But you can try nâdân."

"Nâdân!" Soraya shouted, grinning brilliantly.

"Nâdân!" Rick echoed her enthusiasm. "Now what did I teach you, kid?" He pulled his hand away from hers, but not out of reach, holding it up flat with his palm towards her.

She slapped him a high five.

"Damn straight, kid. Now, where were we?"

"Vrooooom," Soraya said, trying and failing miserably at rolling her 'r' for the make-believe engine noise. Rick didn't seem to care, because with no further prompting, he was off, the girl giggling like mad.

Nuzo shot Thomas a scowl. "Seriously, Thomas? Did you just teach a kid a swear?"

Magnum looked affronted. "I would never. It means 'fool'."

"You're not a jet pilot, Orville," TC called out. "You don't fly in anything with wings!"

"Well fine then, get all technical on us, why don't you?" Rick retorted before promptly stopping dead in his tracks to start spinning madly in place. "We must go forwards, not backwards, upwards, not forwards, and constantly whirling, WHIRLING TOWARDS FREEDOM!"

Soraya shrieked with delight, leaning back with her face up towards the sky.

"What'd Greene say?" Nuzo asked as Thomas dropped down beside him, fiddling absently with a broken stick in his fingers.

Magnum sighed. "Nothing I didn't expect," he hedged. "That we don't have enough proof to risk trying to find more."

"But Hannah's on it, right? Her people will come up with something. They always do," Nuzo said, elbowing him lightly when he noticed the faraway look taking hold. The one that said Thomas was anywhere but here, running through a million different scenarios and options and paths to take. "Sometimes, all you can do is wait."

"I know, man. I know. I just…there's something off about this whole thing. I can feel it. Like…" he trailed off, breaking off part of the stick. "I feel like this is leading up to something. Something big. Something bad."

"Like?"

Thomas threw the twig down in frustration, scrubbing a hand through almost-too-long-to-be-in-regs hair, smearing dust through the jet-black mop. It made him look even younger than he already was. "I don't know. It just seems like…showmanship, doesn't it? Like…there's just enough to get our attention, but not enough for anyone up the chain to take it seriously enough to pursue? I feel like someone is setting a stage, and we're just…" he growled slightly, fingers tightening against his scalp in a grip that made Nuzo wince and glad he shaved his head, "walking right into it."

"Unpopular opinion," Nuzo offered. "Thomas Magnum's infamous Gut Feeling can be wrong from time to time. We've been running non-stop for the last few weeks. Not that it hasn't paid off, because it has, but maybe we should take a breather, huh? Delta, Gold Squadron, they can take some of Hannah's tips for a while. It's their gig, too, you know. Maybe we can see if Rick can work his magic and he can find some more Johnnie Walker Blue."

Thomas smirked at that, lips twisting into a crooked grin that Nuzo knew the women found absolutely irresistible – he knew, because Lara commented on it every time he came to dinner and swore if she hadn't already married the love of her life, she would be the new Mrs. Magnum. "You know, I still don't know how the hell he finds four-hundred-dollar whisky in a country that bans alcohol."

"The question is: do we care?"

"Not one bit." Thomas grinned. "But, unfortunately, just because we can't go off after Jahangir doesn't mean we have down time. We're off tomorrow morning at first light with the 3rd battalion and the locals for a weapons search in the Korengal."

Nuzo whistled low. "The Valley, huh?"

"Yep," Magnum drawled, making a small popping noise on the 'p'. "We're gonna go with on foot, Rick and TC are part of EXFIL. I just talked to Markham. There's gonna be 14 of us – us five, four of our guys and four Afghani military personnel."

"Well shit. When was the last time we ran a mission with more than just the four of us?" Nuzo marveled. "I'm not sure if I'm insulted or relieved."

"And we're taking Robin."

Nuzo snorted, glancing back at Rick who'd given up spinning when he'd started to list dangerously to one side and was now flat on his back with Soraya held aloft in his arms Superman style, her arms out to her sides as Rick 'flew' her from one side to the other. "Can't be expecting too much if they're sending a civilian. They say what we're gonna do with her?" he jutted his chin towards Soraya.

"Aid workers should be here before nightfall," Thomas said flatly. "They're taking her to the local orphanage, seeing if they can't find a living relative of hers near the village we found her in. And if not…" he let the sentence hang.

It was a grim outlook. Orphanages in Afghanistan were packed to overcrowding, run entirely on private donations and foreign aid. Adoption under the current government was illegal. Guardianship could be awarded to blood relatives, but first they had to be found, and the child's parents had to be declared officially dead with a death certificate. In the best of circumstances, the aid workers would find a relative of Soraya's and eventually get them across the border into Iran, where they had a better chance. Slightly worse – and much more likely – was the overcrowded and underfunded orphanage would put her out on the streets as soon as she could fend for herself, which in Afghanistan was the ripe old age of ten.

The worst of possibilities didn't bear thinking on – that when the Taliban came looking for child wives for their members, they would take the girls and the orphanage would let them, because a refusal meant more than losing a child – it meant that the Taliban would come back with more men. With guns. With torches. And kill everyone and burn the building to the ground – if they were lucky, in that order – to serve as a warning to anyone that would dare deny their leaders anything.

And even if they found Soraya's relatives, it didn't mean she would be any better off.

In recent months, the American military had been forced to stop offering medical aid to locals because parents would purposely maim their children – burning their feet, cutting their arms, smashing their heads – to be allowed onto military installations to run reconnaissance for the Taliban, scout the lay of the land, or worse…came on with vests much like the one they took off Soraya that morning to take out soft targets like hospitals and chow halls.

Nuzo wondered if Soraya would thank them for saving her at all.

"At least she has today," TC offered quietly. He hadn't taken his eyes off of Rick and Soraya, the latter of which was now flat on her back next to Rick while he pointed out shapes in the thin clouds above. She didn't seem to care much of what he said, and he didn't seem to mind as she animatedly gestured towards the sky.

They all understood the cost of war.

"Is it worth it though?"

The bigger man shrugged. "It has to be. 'Cause it's all we got."

)*)*)*

"So, wait, why can't someone adopt her?" Robin asked, pulling absently at the neckline of his vest.

Normally, if it weren't for the fact that instead of a gun hanging around his neck in a three-point sling, he had a Nikon camera, Robin Masters would be easily distinguishable from the rest of the soldiers. Journalists weren't often in a uniform and they usually wore protective gear over their civilian clothes. Well, that, and the huge white label across his Kevlar vest that stated 'PRESS' in capital black and white letters. In smaller script just below it, in the Perso-Arabic script alphabet in Dari, was 'zhornâlist' – journalist. Theoretically, the idea was that the Taliban was less likely to shoot an unarmed journalist if he was properly labelled.

Rick called it a Taliban Bullseye – especially since it was highly unlikely anybody shooting at them could read. Literacy in Afghanistan was somewhere around single digit percentages and dropping rapidly thanks to the destruction of most schools and rigid rules about what could and could not be taught under Taliban rule.

But today, Masters was in full combat uniform. No short sleeves and khaki pants, his clothes were digital camouflage like the rest of them – except he kept pushing the sleeves up past his elbow in a decidedly unauthorized fashion. His helmet, which he constantly complained about being too hot and too heavy and smelling of Fritos, was bulletproof, just like the plates under his vest, and his scuffed and worn black combat boots were higher quality than theirs.

"Adoption is illegal in Afghanistan," Magnum explained. "Relatives can be appointed guardianship, but guardianship isn't enough to basically import kids to foreign nations. And there's a lot of social and religious technicalities here that don't exist in the US or most of Europe that keep it from being feasible."

Unlike the other war journalists that they'd been stuck with over the years in their various deployments – they were inevitably on the front line of wherever they were sent – Masters was by far the most tolerable. He was personable enough that many of the villagers they encountered were more than willing to talk to him – or at least, around him or to a translator. Social customs kept many from talking directly to uniformed soldiers, but not to civilians, especially since Masters wasn't Caucasian. Once locals realized he wasn't looking to publish biased stories against the Taliban, or anyone else, they would clamor over one another to tell their stories to him. Some had nothing to do with the war. The Afghani people were extremely proud of their story telling history and wanted the opportunity to tell people about their country and their lives.

And it was almost always Thomas who was the one translating between them.

Somehow, Nuzo and Magnum wound up as his babysitters whenever he was allowed afield, and by default, so did Rick and TC.

Not that any of them minded. Robin was a fun guy, and he loved listening to their stories, and when Rick and TC were around, his pen was going a mile a minute across his notebook while he laughed non-stop at the stupid shit the four of them had pulled off. He swore up and down that none of it was going into a news article – apparently, he fancied himself a future novelist, and one day he was going to be one of those authors with six houses on five continents and drove fast cars and drank expensive booze and nobody shot at him.

At least the guy had a good imagination.

"Well that's stupid," Masters grumbled. "You'd think the Taliban would allow pretty much anyone to take a Hazara kid out of Afghanistan if they paid enough."

"Well, that's called 'human trafficking', so…"

This would be something along the lines of their twelfth 'mission' together, with Masters riding shotgun. Usually it was on a convoy or aide relief to one of the closer villages to base, but Greene wasn't expecting anything too exciting in the Valley.

Of course, they hadn't expected anything exciting when they were running point with Academi yesterday, either.

And something still felt…off. Markham left Nuzo and Magnum to cover the EXFIL area, which Magnum already thought was a bit odd since Greene seemed to think it was his translation skills needed on this. Unless he just really didn't want them on base, bored and with nothing to do.

Which…fair.

"If we're going to be stuck here waiting on TC and Rick, couldn't we go and talk to some of the villagers?" Robin pressed. He lifted the camera to his eye, squinting the other one closed as he focused the telephoto lens on the mountainside cliff dwellings. "You know where this reminds me of? Mesa Verde. Wonder if there's a common ancestor in there, or just circumstances dictating architecture?"

He wasn't far off on the comparison. The rickety houses were built into the sheer sides of the mountains – the bottom frame work the mountain itself, while the rest of the house cobbled together bits and pieces of lumber and spare parts. Few roads existed, and the ones that did were little more than cart paths and goat trails. The military couldn't drive in, so groups were forced to shuttle in by air on a rotating schedule, so the Taliban couldn't plan an attack in advance on the helicopters.

The rest of the team was going door to door with the infantry and the Afghan forces, searching for weapons in the village. The valley was highly contested territory – most of the villagers had family members in the Taliban, and no love lost for invaders, or someone from another tribe trying to tell them what they were or were not allowed in their own homes.

"Can't we go a little bit closer?" Robin asked wistfully, still using the zoom lens on the camera to spy on the group going door to door.

It was a slow process. There was a fine line between inoffensive searching and safety measures to make sure they hadn't accidentally walked into an insurgent stronghold. The Afghani military searched the houses while the American forces kept watch outside.

"For the thousandth time, no," Magnum said. "Once the village has been cleared, maybe, but the last thing the people want to do is talk to the guy who is raiding their houses while they're being raided. The goal is to improve relations, not destroy them."

Masters gave a long-suffering sigh, finally lowering the camera. Telephoto observation was okay for a couple shots, but he hardly needed more than what he already had. "I'm not even sure why I'm here then, but fine. Guess I'll just have to talk to you and Nuzo. Where is he, anyway?"

"Covering both your asses, that's where," Nuzo chimed in over the radio.

The two of them had their own channel to talk back and forth, though talking defeated the purpose of a hidden sniper in the trees for 'just in case' worst case scenarios, but Rabbit set up Magnum's to be on a constant roll call – picking up everything on any radio channel for a mile radius, but not letting others pick up on his unless he was purposely calling.

Including channels that weren't theirs.

Magnum still wasn't sure that was entirely legal, or how it was possible, but the radio tech waved off his complaints with an indifferent hand.

"You're the only one in the area who speaks or understands all six of the languages here, so the only one this will help is you. Least I can do is make sure you hear danger coming from as far away as possible."

Staying alive was a high priority for everyone, so Magnum didn't argue but the once.

Besides.

Rabbit was terrifying in her own right. Rick's offering of pomegranates was akin to offerings to wrathful gods of old.

"Right. No talking to Oversight," Robin sighed. "Guess I'll just have to amuse myself with you, Magnum."

Thomas smirked, keeping one eye on the group as they continued their search. One of the American soldiers was talking to a town elder, but while the discussion looked animated, it didn't look violent, which was a step in the right direction.

"As long as you don't ask about adoption policies or how to smuggle children across international borders, ask away," he said.

"So, what's the deal with this valley? I know it's the site of some of the heaviest fighting, but why does this place matter?"

Magnum blew out a breath between clenched teeth, whistling slightly. "Loaded question, man. Strategically, it doesn't matter at all." He gestured vaguely with the muzzle of his rifle up the mountain and down the other side. "The terrain here is a problem for us, but a benefit for the Taliban. It's hard to get around, it's dangerous during the day and impossible at night. We can't truck in heavy troops, so we have to shuttle in smaller groups to an even smaller base. It's cold eleven months out of the year, radios don't work except in short range because of the mountains, satellites can't see in because of the trees and that's nothing to say of the caves, and the locals aren't likely to help us out because they associate us with the last people who invaded – the Russians – which didn't go well for Afghanistan. A lot of them have family in the Taliban, and in here, family is everything. Some of them can trace back their families for a thousand years or more – that's impressive in a first world country with internet access and whole companies devoted to genealogy, and here they don't even issue birth certificates. So, they don't want to help us, and they believe that the Taliban rule of Afghanistan is the lesser evil, or even better than it's been in their memories."

"So why are we even here?" Robin asked. Without taking his eyes off of Magnum, he fished his notebook and pencil out of his vest pocket. "Seems like a lot of risk for minimum reward. Wouldn't troops be better served elsewhere?"

Magnum shrugged. "We're not even in a war against a country, Rob. We're in a war in a country against an idea. Who the hell knows? But here – use your camera. Check out the graffiti on the side of the mountain over there. Bright red." He pointed to the Script writing. "See it?"

Robin lifted the telephoto lens, searching for the graffiti. "Yeah. What is that?"

"It's a telephone number – Pakistani cellphone."

"I take it that doesn't say something like 'for a good time call Trixie'?" Robin dead panned. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see several spots in the village – on the sides of houses, on the side of the mountain, even one written on an old tree.

"Those are recruiter numbers left behind for people to call to join the fight with the Taliban," Magnum explained. "Not all the fighters in the valley are even Afghani – a lot of them are foreigners who come here to wage jihad against the Americans. Even if we moved, there's no reason to believe they wouldn't just follow the troops – to some place better, some place worse…I doubt even they would know."

He gestured with a vague nod of his chin towards the north, beyond the village and beyond the mountains. "The only significance to this valley is what lays beyond it. The Pech river is a major corridor for moving troops and supplies, and since we set up outposts here, the attacks on the river have gone down exponentially, and we don't have a way of strategically separating the two locations, so…here we are."

"You should really consider taking Greene up on his offer to have you do ops briefings," Nuzo said across the radio. "I think I just learned something."

"Shut up, Overwatch. Isn't your job supposed to be a silent one?"

"Someone's missed snack time," Nuzo teased. "Masters, you got anything in that vest of yours?"

"You know, I think I do…" Robin said, digging animatedly through his vest pocket.

Everyone carried chocolate in their gear somewhere. Technically, it was used for public relations – chocolate was a universal language, and the culture here operated on a give and take basis. You couldn't show up to someone's home with nothing. Besides – the kids loved it, and despite the media coverage or what the Taliban tried to spin, no one was here to create another generation of enemies to fight.

Thomas rolled his eyes, glancing back at the rest of the team. It looked like they were wrapping up their search – the village was small, and intel had it low on the priority list as a hot spot. The Afghani military just wanted help making sure the Taliban hadn't created a weapons depot under the guise of just another village.

He pressed a hand to the earpiece of his radio headset. "White Knight to Chariot, you on your way? Looks like we're wrapping up early."

There was a beat, before "I thought I told you, I ain't nobody's chariot," TC growled. The words might be menacing, but Thomas could hear him smile even over the radio.

"Whaaat? Since when? Do you really prefer 'Little Bird'? You got a thing for oxymorons?" Thomas teased.

"You wanna walk home?" TC countered.

"Doesn't matter if I want to, I have Masters and Nuzo. You wanna tell Lara you left her two favorite people out on a mountainside just to spite me over a nickname?"

"Gotcha there, buddy," Rick laughed.

Wherever they were, they were close enough Thomas could hear the steady whump of the Venom's rotors echoing off the valley. The fact that they could even hear one another on the radio meant they were only about a mile away.

"Hey, you're my gunner," TC snapped. "Don't go siding with the Frogman."

"Rick knows the winning side when he sees it," Thomas said. "You almost here?"

"One, this argument ain't over, and two, ETA is five minutes. Charlie's ahead of us, should be there in about…three minutes."

The UH-1's were handy for taking off in small areas, or just plain hard to get to places. Unfortunately, the same reasons that made them excellent evasive birds meant they couldn't hold that many people. Ten was the limit, and that was pilot included.

"How's it looking?"

"All quiet on the western front," Rick said. He had to shout to be heard over the open door Magnum knew he was sitting in front of, and he could just picture the door gunner leaning lazily against the GAU Gatling, looking for all the world like he was on a vacation taking a helicopter tour. The laid back attitude got him in a fair amount of trouble with his chain of command, but Thomas wouldn't have anyone else riding shotgun – that man had scary good aim, and if he cared even a smidgen about advancement, he'd have been a gunnery sergeant months ago. "How's your end?"

Magnum glanced around, noting that the expedition team was almost back to the EXFIL point, hardly rushing and while alert, didn't appear on edge. The search was a successful one – nothing to be found. "Another day in paradise."

"Magnum, get –" Nuzo's warning was cut off mid shout as the world seemed to explode around them.

So, fair warning, I am ignoring a lot of protocols. One, because OPSEC. Two...it's boring as hell to write and I hate it. Hannah is going to be featured in here pretty much as a reference without actually showing up since we already saw her on screen, so I'm just going to write about him telling the guys that he thinks she's the one who set them up. Also, we haven't had an interest in the Korengal since like...2008? So in reality, I bet the show is going to say they were captured elsewhere, and hidden in the Korengal because no one was interested in it, and therefore, an easy and good place to hide people. I think that's all the random things I needed to clarify...if you see something else, lemme know, and of course, come say hi over on Tumblr disappearinginq.