A/N: Holy mother of god, an update!?

Yes, it's true. I've told various reviewers that I am indeed continuing this story, and I never really followed through on that promise, and for that I'm sorry. But the story IScontinuing!

No, you did not miss a chapter. I'm going in a slightly new direction with the plot, and so here's a look at a few soldiers that I otherwise wouldn't have had a chance to develop. The next four chapters will be ripe with flashbacks, Williams/Jackson, and Miller swearing. So don't go rifling through the previous chapters looking for something you missed; it isn't there.

Without further ado, and with my sincerest apologies, here is chapter four: Dust.

It was the middle of the field where he lay when he realized that everything he'd done in the past four hours went to shit.

His hearing was busted; that he knew rather well. A deep set ringing filled his ear drums, the comforting thudding in his ears, his own heartbeat. He also knew that he'd been shot at least once. His gut felt like it was on fire, and every time his hand strayed down there, it came up red. He'd given up trying to hold his insides in, and though he felt melodramatic for thinking it, he'd also given up trying to drag himself to safety, his only lifeline was now his sanity. That too, was slipping fast.

He tried to pinpoint exactly where he had fucked up. It was after the message on the radio had chimed in, stating that the crazy kid shot himself, the sins of his father finally catching up to the bastard and pulling the trigger. He'd heard Soap and Price's panicked voices, Gaz's angry grunts as he cursed the body of Zakhaev.

He'd also heard, felt, and lived the thump that had shattered the side of the helicopter, and in the dice roll of life, he'd finally rolled a one.

He remembered Williams grappling with the stick, cursing and saying that she wouldn't let her bird crash again, Bonk praying, Miller swearing and cocking his rifle, and the copter tilted suddenly, his gun un strapping from its holster and flying out the open end. He'd grabbed on to the frame of the copter, squeezing his eyes shut, blubbering, feeling spittle fly from his mouth.

He remembered that Jackson had been yelling orders, things like Hang on, brace for impact and other obvious shit that Sergeants tended to do from time to time. Jackson's face had been hard, angry, determined. He was a survivor.

He also remembered the impact in the only open field in the city, being flung from the wreck. His hearing had gone out briefly then, as Jackson had been pulling people from the copter, Williams had hopped down, holding her pistol. He remembered being dragged by Miller and Bonk, how Gomez had taken shrapnel and collapsed immediately when the copter blew, how their squad of eight soldiers were suddenly down to five soldiers and a pilot.

Now, he slid backwards, a lone soldier, lying almost dead and bleeding out fast in the middle of a field, the last three hours and forty-seven minutes so much less clear than the crash. He was deep in enemy territory, wounded, and desperately trying to ignore the thumping in his head that told him, repeatedly, that he was going to die.

Sean McKinnon was going to go someday, but he'd be damned if it was going to be here.

=-=-=-=-=

Three Hours Previously

Jackson surveyed the crash site, his modded M4 slung over his shoulder, trained eyes piercing the city skyline as the bright sunlight faded to purple, the night coming around. The radio was out, the co-pilot was dead, and he was miles away from any allied zone. Chances for rescue were nearly zero, and he had a wounded and delirious medic, a sniper who couldn't stop swearing under his breath, and a heavy machine gunner who seemed so calm it unnerved him. And he had Williams, who was now testing the weight of a sidearm plucked from a very dead and crispy Gomez, cocking the handgun experimentally. She slid a magazine into the gun with a harsh clack, the only thing betraying her steely eyes was her shaking hands.

Jackson headed back to the loose circle of his soldiers, getting to one knee in front of McKinnon, who was almost completely out of it. His eyes were wide, darting around the field, hands clenched and shaking as he seemed to visibly try to snap out of it. Jackson looked him in the eyes.

"What's your name, son?" He asked, trying to keep his eyes like flint. The baby blues focused, seemed to sharpen as they rested on Jackson's face.

"Sean, sir."

"Sean. We're going to get out of here. We're going to get you out of here, you understand? They've noticed us crash, they know where we are, and they're coming. All I need you to do is stay alive. Okay?"

McKinnon nodded, and Jackson clapped him on the back and stood, heading back towards the downed helicopter. Williams followed him, lowering her voice.

"I was just looking at the receiver. It's totally destroyed, but there's a chance that the transmitter's still working." She tucked a stray hair behind her ear as she spoke, her eyes darting back towards where McKinnon still sat, helmet still firmly on his head.

"It doesn't matter. If our signal's still good, they won't get here in time." Jackson rumbled, his gaze still fixed on the crashed helicopter. The RPG had torn clean through it's tail, sending it into a barely controlled spin. There was little smoke, but still enough to draw a crowd. "There are probably going to be soldiers pouring out of those buildings in about an hour."

Her eyes softened with worry, and she touched his arm briefly. "Jackson-"

"Call me Paul," He said, his eyes finally finding hers. "there's no real reason to be formal anymore."

"Paul. What are we going to do about- about Sean?" She breathed, her eyes darting back towards him. "The wound in his leg is pretty bad, he has no gun, no sidearm, and you don't look like you're in any shape to carry anyone."

She fingered a hole in his shoulder, and Jackson looked down at it in surprise. With all the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he hadn't noticed taking the hit. Now that her finger was mere inches away, the wound throbbed. He shook his head. "I'll manage. Bonk and Miller will have to carry him with us."

"Who'm I carrying?" Miller called out, sauntering up to the two. His telltale swagger was reduced, humbled by the accident that had killed his squad mates.

"Sean. We need to move from this position. Too many ways to die in the open. We need to get to higher ground." Jackson lowered his voice, indicating an apartment building overlooking the field. "You still have your rifle?"

Miller raised the gun in question, a cowboy grin on his face. "Yessir, and plenty of ammo, to boot. A Texas boy knows to hang on to his bullets."

Jackson nodded absently, his attention shifting to Williams. "I think we may be needing all of them. Go get ready." Miller jogged off, and Williams met Jackson's gaze.

"There's going to be a lot of fighting, Mary." He said, softly. She smiled back at him.

"I know, Paul. But we're used to surviving crashed helicopters – we aren't about to stop now." She said, coyly. Paul's lip curled into a small smile that vanished as quickly as it came. He touched her face for a split second before turning towards Bonk. The big gunner was kneeling, holding a small, silver cross to his cheek, staring out at the city.

"Hard fight ahead, sir." The big man said, his dark skin gleaming in the sunlight.

"Call me Paul, Bonk. Formalities can go to hell, as far as I'm concerned."

"If that is the case, call me Richard." He turned to meet Jackson's eyes, questioning. "McKinnon is not going to last long if he is left alone. I will carry him."

Jackson nodded. "Seems fair. We're headed for that apartment building, to get a bird's eye view of the shit storm we're in. Miller will hump ammo, Mary and I will take point and rear." He took a deep breath, then addressed the four survivors. "Get ready, guys. We move in five minutes."

Author's Note: Give me a review and I'll give you a new chapter!