Chapter 17: War

10 Years Ago

Arthur's feet were killing him. The heat seared through his boots, exacerbating the already painful state of the blisters popping along the surface of his skin. On top of that, he had a splitting headache and his 2nd in command, Bradley, had just informed them they would be black on water soon. Fantastic. Now I can learn what it feels like to die of dehydration.

Really, Arthur just wanted to go home.

But he couldn't.

Because this was his home. Home was wherever his men were, his squad. The only thing I have left.

And right now, his squad of twelve was in another dreamscape, another barren desert. A merciless pit of sand and heat and misery that reminded Arthur a little too much of his previous tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.

In fact, this mission was no different from any of the others he had suffered through.

Nothing had changed.

Except for one thing.

Arthur knew that whatever happened, whether his men completed their objective or not, whether they successfully saved each other from any more atrocities, each and every one of them would die. Perhaps slowly. Perhaps quickly.

Arthur knew war.

He knew the rapid fire, the endless discharge of a Browning M2HB, a barrage of bullets mowing down anything in their path. Arthur could clearly smell the barrels of burning shit, of human feces, a task the higher-ups never told the men they would have to perform. Arthur would never forget the sound of an RPG hitting the guard post, the scene of a disfigured body crawling from the rubble, legs completely blown off.

Arthur knew survival.

He could remember the most haunting mornings of his life, waking up endless hours before the full heat of the sun. He could identify the chanting. Thousands of people, an endless sea of humanity, saying their prayers in unison in the distance. And Arthur would sit on his rack, staring at the whites of the man's eyes across from him, knowing that some of those people invoking those prayers were wishing for his death.

Arthur knew that nobody won.

That after the smoke cleared, that after the doors had been kicked in and the enemy movement suppressed, there was no winner. There were losers, though. The civilians.

No matter how many insurgents they took out, no matter how many raids were successfully conducted, there were always more. Like a snake, a hydra, an endless replicating and multiplying beast, enemies just came back, filled with ruthlessness and selfishness and savagery. Arthur would go back to his post and the same civilians who had laughed with him in Pashto would be massacred the next week, never to speak again, desecrated and left to die on the straw mats of their homes.

Arthur had seen death. A fact recruiters never thought to tell him – Arthur would see more suicides in three deployments than he ever thought he would even hear about in his entire lifetime.

Arthur learned a lot of things as a soldier, but he didn't know death. Not personally. Not until he joined Project Somnacin.

Then he knew death intimately. And it was not what he expected.

Dying was not graceful. It was not courageous. People didn't say their last words, their goodbyes. It was not dignified. Arthur had soldiers beg for their lives on their knees in front of him, and they didn't look like the enemy. They looked like men. They looked like his friends.

Soldiers would piss and shit and cry and scream, all while in the last of their death throes. Or, worse yet, just disappear. In the fiery orange cloud of an IED, in the earth-shattering collapse of a building. Gone in the dust.

Dying was not a refined passing, a heroic crossing of rainbow-hued bridges and brilliant bursts of light.

No.

Dying was painful.

And Arthur knew it firsthand.

It had all been very clandestine, even for SpecOps. Arthur had been dragged out of his rack in the middle of the night by a knock at his door. When he opened it, there stood an unfamiliar captain, a brunette with a tight bun and unfamiliar face.

"Lieutenant, you're ordered to report to the base commander."

Arthur squinted at the interruption to his sleep, and saluted, glancing down surreptitiously to make sure he had his PT gear on. "Yes, Captain." Arthur moved to make a right flank, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. He was barely able to stop himself from raising an eyebrow at the intrusion of the captain's hand on his arm.

"I am charged to escort you."

"Yes, ma'am," Arthur replied, and followed the woman to the commander's office.

Once there, the only words offered to him by his commander were 'Good luck, Lieutenant' before Arthur was ordered to follow another soldier. The man's countenance was stony, foreboding. They traveled down several flights of stairs, farther under the base than Arthur had ever traveled before. His hastily laced boots squeaked against the rough tiles, the end of one errant lace clacking rhythmically. Arthur was too tired to ask the man to formally stop, and for some reason he got the feeling the soldier wasn't in the mood for a delay.

There was a strange sort of tension clinging in the air as Arthur followed the major. He didn't even come to a stop as they passed a metal door, only slowed in his stride, pointing. Nodding to Arthur in a silent order to enter, the man disappeared down the hallway, vanishing completely around a corner.

Arthur stood there for a second, dumbfounded. It dawned on him that he was alone in an unknown area of the military base, half-asleep and without backup. He was without orders or directions, and, looking down, Arthur remembered he was still clad in his rumpled PT gear. What a night.

Arthur pulled at the metal door hesitantly, automatically keeping clear of the opening. As he opened the door to its fullest extent, Arthur looked inside, hand instinctively reaching for his flashlight, his gun, his knife, something . But he had no supplies, and was only faced with a plain room, dimly lit. If my men are trying to pull another goddamn practical joke on me because of my promotion - but no, the commander was involved, they wouldn't - Arthur's thoughts suddenly cut off as something latched onto the back of his shirt.

Instinctively, Arthur twisted. He caught a glimpse of digitals, of a uniform. He reached to tear off the grip, but a heavy force rammed into him from another angle, shoving his body back into the foreign room. The door clanged shut in front of him as Arthur scrambled forward, and stars popped into his vision as the heavy weight slammed directly onto his face.

A crack echoed throughout the empty room and Arthur stumbled back, hands clutching his wounded face. Blood streamed from his nose.

Recovering his balance, Arthur rushed forward, ready to wrench open the door and meet his adversaries. His hands slammed against the grey metal in front of him, fists clenched.

"What the hell?" He shouted. His palms trailed over the grey paint, flummoxed.

There was no handle.

Arthur felt along the seams of the door. The current of blood from his nose had slowed to a trickle, staining his hands as he pressed his palms against the door.

Arthur was angry, furious with his confusion and ignorance. Is this some kind of fucked up indoctrination? They swore after the qualification course we were done with this shit.

After exhausting every possible idea of escape, Arthur concluded the only option was to press forward, into the room. He turned around, staring into the gloom.

His eyes had deceived him. What had looked to be a room turned out to be another passageway, another hallway. Well, I have nowhere else to go.

Arthur began walking, steps slapping against the bare concrete. The only sounds were the irregular splash of blood on the cold floor and the clacking of his loose shoelace. My nose is probably broken, he realized, noting the spreading ache. Again.

Arthur walked for at least twenty minutes until he came upon another door nearly identical to the previous one. This time, though, there was a slim handle.

Squaring his shoulders and wiping away some dried blood, Arthur pushed his way inside.

Inside turned out to be a huge white room, reminiscent to an airplane hangar.

Instead of planes, the space was filled with people. Quickly tallying up the buzz cuts, Arthur counted over one hundred and twenty men milling around, at least three platoons. Everyone's dressed differently. I see ASUs, BDUs, even PT gear. But there's no one ranking below an E-4 here, which is... interesting. Arthur's mind was racing, searching for a pattern. What are we doing here? Wait - who are half of these people? Arthur thought he knew everyone in his barracks, at least by face, if not by name. Obviously I was mistaken. He pushed through the throng of voices, searching for someone, anyone, even remotely familiar.

Desperate, Arthur began to call names from his squad. "Eckhaus? Bradley? Hughes?" Arthur pushed against the uncertain tide, bumping against someone's back. He apologized tersely, frustrated at the unknown faces. No one even looked twice at Arthur's blood-stained attire, too preoccupied with finding their own friends.

Arthur kept walking, pacing, until a grey patch flashed in his peripheral vision and crossed silver arrows caught his eye. Arthur looked up from the familiar insignia, relief washing over him. "Lin!" The man turned, confused, but a trace of a smile graced his face once he recognized Arthur. It quickly changed to a frown as he took in Arthur's appearance.

"What happened to your face?" Lin moved closer to Arthur, tilting his head slightly.

"Doesn't matter," Arthur waved Lin's concern away. "Do you know what's going on?"

Lin just shook his head, his dark buzz cut at odds with the sterile environment of the room.

"None of them know," the man said, gesturing to the throng of people. Lin ran a tense hand down his face, his features twisted in frustration. The soldier had always been the most charismatic of their squad, popular with the women off-base at bars that the men snuck off to flirt with. His half-Indian half-Asian features gave him a proud tilt, with strong cheekbones and flawless dark skin. The scar that ran across his nose made him dangerous looking, exotic, although the first time they had met, Lin had made Arthur promise never to tell anyone it was from a mere bicycle accident.

Lin was not only part of his squad, but one of Arthur's friends.

"I was pulled from watch, and my relief didn't know anything either." Most of the natural color had been leeched from Lin's face, a sickly looking cast overshadowing his features. Arthur paused at Lin's words, once again scanning the crowd of soldiers around them. A sense of unease was apparent throughout the group of men, a buzz of disquieted conversation. Arthur looked up towards the bright lights of the ceiling, studying the bulbs. He didn't see any cameras, but maybe -

And then the lights promptly went out, plunging the men into total darkness. "Shit," Lin whispered. "What was that?"

"Find the wall." They crouched down, feeling in front of them. Someone's arm got in Arthur's way, and he pushed it aside impatiently, fumbling in the general direction of the wall. Arthur blinked, desperate for some type of sight, but the black of his eyelids stubbornly matched the black in front of him. Finally, finally, his hands hit the smooth surface of the wall. Arthur spotted a sliver of light on Lin's boots, shining through the legs of the other men. "What is - "

But Arthur's query was cut off by a yell, something incoherent. The noise turned animalistic, desperate, and the sound of something heavy crashed to the floor. Arthur recognized the sound, the dull thump. A body. What the hell?

Someone else shouted, and the clang of something metal reverberated throughout the room - "Someone has a knife," Arthur spat to Lin, hands out in front of him, readying for a fight. It was hopeless; the room was absolutely devoid of light. Arthur was an experienced fighter, but even he knew how ineffective he would be without sight. "I have no weapons," Arthur hissed, feeling along the wall behind him. "What's on you?"

"They took my Beretta," Lin rasped back. "I thought it was a training exercise, something - " Then there was another loud groan, the sounds of skin-on-skin contact. A struggle.

Touching Arthur's wrist, Lin tugged at the skin, pulling him in another direction. Arthur squeezed the man's wrist back, understanding the motion. Find the door.

Arthur kept his right hand on the wall beside him, creeping forward slowly. He could feel Lin's presence in front of him.

A tense minute went by, and Lin and Arthur's progress took them to a corner of the room, hitting two perpendicular walls. They continued on, switching tracks, and Arthur was struck with a sense of remembrance. "The door is somewhere around here, I think." Arthur tried to remember the height of the door knob, his fingers skimming over the wall in front of them. The sounds of fighting were drawer nearer to the two men. Soon they would be pulled into the altercation, willing participants or not.

"Here," Lin declared quietly, and Arthur's arm was guided across the man's body. With Lin's help, his hand closed around something cold. Arthur sighed in relief as his fingers felt the outline of the cool handle.

But - something was wrong. The placement of the knob was far too low, and the grooves felt different, rougher - cylindrical?

Arthur shoved Lin back at the revelation, intimately acquainted with the object in front of him. He opened his mouth to tell Lin to duck for cover.

He never got the chance.

The air was shattered with the sounds of gunfire, screams echoing in the inky gloom. Bullets tore through Arthur like a piñata, searing through his skin like personified agony. He opened his mouth, falling back. Blood poured out of his throat instead of words, the liquid metallic and bitter on Arthur's tongue. He stumbled, hands scrambling.

The last thing Arthur felt was Lin's body, motionless and cooling on the slick ground.

Arthur woke up in a cold sweat, needle tearing from his arm, vomit spewing everywhere. Tears blurred his vision as he stumbled across the room, limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He threw off the arms blocking his path, blood trickling down his skin as he gasped desperately for air.

The wound smarted, marking the beginnings of a scar.

His first needle scar.

Arthur was officially part of Project Somnacin.

Arthur slung his canteen off his pack, unscrewing the tightly sealed lid with a twist of his gloved hands. Sweat dripped down the side of his face, rolling into the already damp shemagh surrounding his neck. The digital pattern blurred in his vision, blending in with the dark tan sand below.

Arthur shook off his disorientation, taking stock of his squad. The eleven men marching beside him looked strung out, hyperaware of their surroundings. They were all on high alert, M16s in hand as they plowed through the elements. By Arthur's count, they had been in this particular dreamscape for over four days now, although it felt like the longest mission yet.

The mission was to sneak into the village undetected, where they were tasked with infiltrating the insurgent's operation, and stealing the information related to their movements.

Arthur, nor the rest of his squad, had no idea what to expect in way of resistance. He didn't know how many men were waiting for them, or how heavily fortified the main compound was. In a word, we're fucked, Arthur thought. But their higher-ups loved to do that - throw them into a dreamscape with little to no actual information. They disgusted Arthur, playing with his men's lives like they were toys to be manipulated. It was horrifying.

But Arthur wasn't worried about living adversaries at the moment. He was preoccupied by something else.

Arthur had noticed the temperature dropping, fast. Normally a cause for celebration, the swift reversal also brought the heralding of clouds in the distance - huge collections of vapor that Arthur couldn't ignore - they rolled towards the team, ominous and dark. Squinting through his regulation sunglasses, Arthur could see sand ahead of them kicking up hard and fast. That's no regular rainstorm. Swearing under his breath, Arthur pulled his shemagh up tighter over his nose and mouth. He signaled to Bradley, his motions urgent, tight.

Bradley jogged over to Arthur, pulling down his scarf. He greeted Arthur, glancing at the sky behind them. Arthur saw Bradley's lips move, but through the rising winds, the man's words were lost. Arthur placed a hand next to helmet, signaling his problem. Bradley edged closer, an increasingly large frown marring his face.

"I said: Is it a dust storm?"

"No. It's a Shamal."

Bradley looked at the approaching clouds with a new sense of animosity. "Fuck." He cursed. Bradley realized the implications - a Shamal was dangerous, deadly, and fast. Infamous in the real world, the storm was known for stripping paint off military vehicles, ripping walls apart like paper, and tearing buildings off their foundations.

"Be ready," Arthur said to the rest of the squad through the comms. "It's a Shamal."

The wind just got worse, and without reference points, it was near impossible to locate the village through the storm. Arthur was getting frustrated, although he kept it to himself. Other members of the team weren't so reserved.

"I feel like I'm in a fucking cyclone!" Rhodes barked. "If I wanted to walk through a tornado, I'd've stayed in Kansas!"

"By my estimate, we're three kilometers out," Dalecki reported. "Once we find the village, we'll have to slip in by way of the northern perimeter. Assuming - "

"Stop," Lund said suddenly, cutting through Dalecki's report. The entire squad ground to a halt immediately.. Arthur swept their perimeter again, confused by Lund's outburst.

"What is it?" Arthur asked through the comms, tense. The wind was horrendous, kicking up dust and all sorts of debris. Brown had already been hit by a particularly large rock, sustaining a sizable injury to the shoulder. Whoever's dreaming this up really has it in for us.

"I thought I spotted something at our 3 o'clock," Lund replied. "Although it was probably just a flying goat, jesus, all this dust." At his words, the squad immediately looked towards their right, their eyes straining across the uneven terrain. The landscape was a mix of dunes and rocks, soil and boulders, and the Shamal made it hard for anyone to differentiate one sand dune from the next.

"Stay sharp, everyone. And pick up the pace." Bradley's tone brooked no argument. He's been a good 2nd Lieutenant, Arthur thought. In Afghanistan, and now here.

"Let's just infiltrate the village without any complications," Iacovelli muttered, his smooth voice cutting through the continuous barrage of sand. "I'm fucking tired of this sand getting in everything. And I mean everything."

"It won't be like last week," Lin said, always optimistic. "It won't go to shit."

It went to shit.

They had gotten lost, dangerously lost in the storm, and everyone was relieved once they found the village. But now that they were there, breaching the wall, everyone could tell something was off, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what.

"I hear gunfire," Iacovelli remarked, slinging his handgun holster closer to him. "Who the hell would the projections be shooting at, besides themselves?"

"Must be a new type of training they're springing on us," Graves muttered, swinging down from the wall, his tactical vest clanking. "At least it sounds far off."

"Right then," Arthur began, once everyone was safely over the perimeter. "We'll reach the compound in an echelon formation." Arthur waved Bradley closer to him, already worried about the added complication of walking blind into a firefight. "We'll have to -"

Several dull thuds sounded from next to Arthur, and he was sliding away on instinct, his Beretta already out of its holster.

"ENEMY FIRE! FIND COVER!"

The men scattered, and through Arthur's vantage point, he could see that Eckhaus was down, his form motionless in the swirling sands. Arthur sprinted forward, grabbing a handful of Eckhaus' uniform. Lin was at his side in an instant. "Pull!" Arthur ordered, wielding his gun in his dominant hand. Lin scrambled back with him, dragging the Eckhaus' limp form.

More shots, but this time from beside Arthur, and he recognized Hughes' Barret rifle. He quickly looked back, trying to find an obstacle large enough to shelter the three of them. Spotting a beaten-up vehicle, Arthur pulled even faster at Eckhaus' body.

"Oofph!" Arthur whipped his head back at the pained intake of breath. Lin was forced to a knee, his hand clasped over his arm. "I've been hit," he grit out.

Arthur backpedaled even faster, this time not only dragging Eckhaus, but supporting Lin as well. Grit sprayed his boot as a bullet burrowed into the sand next to him. Arthur aimed as best he could, retracing the bullet's trajectory, shooting back through the raging wind.

Finally, with one last heave, Arthur slid them all behind the car. He ripped off Eckhaus' vest, simultaneously shaking off his right glove. Slightly shaking, Arthur's stiff fingers reached for Eckhaus' neck. There was no pulse.

"Shit," Arthur whispered, shifting the man's body aside. He turned to Lin, his gaze fixing on the man's bloody arm. Arthur dragged Lin back from where the man was ducking around the car, aiming with his Beretta. "Let's wrap that," Arthur said roughly, searching through his pack. "Here," Arthur held out a piece of fabric, ready to bind the wound. "We need to find Lund," Arthur stated, referring to their medical sergeant.

"No, sir," Lin said, his voice betrayed by pain. He brushed off Arthur's help, taking the bandage for himself. "Talk to Bradley. Figure out who the hell is shooting at us. Worry about me later, Lieutenant."

Arthur glanced one more time at Lin, shaking his head. "Bradley, report."

"...Lieutenant," Bradley sounded out of breath and somber. "Iacovelli and Ali are down. Brown and Eckhaus aren't reporting and Dalecki was hit in the femoral artery, from what Lund can tell."

"Eckhaus is out, Bradley. Lin and I dragged him behind cover, but Lin was shot in the process. The arm. Is everyone else under cover?"

"I can't see anything through this wind, but I think so."

"How could we have missed this?" Arthur asked, more to himself. He had six men left, and they weren't even close to the compound.

"We need to get out of this position," Bradley said. "It's obvious there are snipers above, picking us off."

"Do you think this was a planned ambush?" Lin asked, his voice still layered with pain. "We've never run a simulation like this before."

A chunk of the metal flew off next to Arthur's head, and he ducked to avoid the shrapnel. He shot back, squinting to see silhouettes through the wind and debris. The Shamal was gaining so much speed that cloth and mats and other light objects from nearby houses had been dragged outside, cluttering the air around them.

"Dalecki's as good as dead," Lund reported, sounding defeated. "He went into shock from the blood loss, and he's not responding to any stimuli."

"Right then," Arthur said, quickly feeling control of the situation slipping through his fingers. "We need to get to the compound. Bradley will lead a dog leg - "

" - I'll take Lund, Rhodes, and Graves," Bradley assented. "We'll feint to the west and hopefully suppress fire - "

" - while Hughes, Lin, and I go to the compound to the east," Arthur finished. "Hughes can set up a position for his sniper rifle and stay behind when we go in. Everyone clear?"

"Clear."

Time felt simultaneously frozen and wrenched into fast forward for Arthur, just as it always did when he was in combat. There was no time for second-guesses, for calculations, and yet somehow he still had time left over to obsess over every single one of his men left standing.

"Let's go," Arthur stated, readying his M16. He ducked out behind the car once more, but could spot nothing through the swirling grime. "At my signal then. 1, 2, 3. GO GO GO!"

The men shot at once from behind their positions, M16s firing off at an erratic clip. Arthur pushed off from behind his own position, sediment blinding him. He couldn't make out anyone at the top of buildings in front of him, but he discharged his weapon anyway. Next building in sight, Arthur moved in a crouch to the right, keeping as low to the ground as possible.

He could barely make out two other members of his squad in front of him. I just hope that's Hughes and Lin.

Intermittent bangs rang out as bullets whizzed past Arthur, peppering the dirt in front of him. The wind whistled in Arthur's ears, doing funny things to his equilibrium.

He tumbled behind the next wall of dirt, aiming the barrel of his M16 over the precipice. As he secured his weapon, Arthur spared himself a second of pause, spotting a familiar uniform on the ground next to him. At first, he thought it was Hughes, aiming with his Barret rifle in a prone position, and Arthur thanked his lucky stars the man had found him.

But as Arthur reached out, grasping the man's shoulder and yelling through the storm, he realized it was Brown's collapsed body, his whole side destroyed by a volley of gunfire. Blood and bits of skin seeped out from below the man, pieces of pink in the puddle marking the remnants of the man's destroyed organs.

Arthur resisted the bile rising in his throat, forging ahead. He ducked over his flimsy barrier to aim his M16. The rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun blasted Arthur's left ear as he pressed his own finger against the trigger.

"GOT ONE, BOYS!" Rhodes crowed into the communications. "I saw a body fall!"

A blur of a uniform leaped to Arthur's right, and he was suddenly joined in his ditch by Hughes, rifle out and blood across his face. "I'm moving to the next structure," Hughes said, reloading his Barret rifle. "I spotted a place where I can return fire, and God knows we need a sniper on our side right now." Arthur had barely nodded his ascent before the man raced off behind him.

Arthur covered their sniper, letting loose enough bullets to suppress enemy movements for a time. Squinting in the wind, he thought he saw the camouflage of another uniform flash by, one not from his squad. Arthur quickly shook off the vision. The projections always wear the same nondescript clothes, he thought. The Shamal is just messing with my head.

Minutes later, Lin slid to join Arthur, breathing hard. The bandage Arthur had given him was haphazardly wrapped around his right bicep, already soaked through. "It seems they've given up for a little while," the man huffed, unjamming his weapon.

"Let's just hope it stays that way," Arthur replied, on edge. "The compound is at least a mile away." The storm made it impossible to have complete quiet, the way it was howling through the village, but Arthur couldn't hear any gunshots close by. That could be a very good thing, or a very bad thing.

Unlike the Hollywood perception of war, Arthur knew crossfire could take time, and the air wasn't always filled with yelling and explosions. Still, he couldn't quell his anxiety as he slowly moved further east with Lin, listening with one ear to Bradley's progress.

Hughes was moving as well, trailing behind the two men, sighting the enemy from building to building with the scope of his rifle. "You're not going to believe me, Lieutenant, but I'd bet my farm back home I just spotted a British SAS uniform."

"Did you hit him?" Lin replied tersely, giving Arthur a hand up onto the next round of mud steps.

"No," Hughes said, sounding disappointed. "The projection, soldier, whatever, was involved in the other engagement. He was too far away for me to get a proper sight on him through the storm, and I don't think we want to reveal our position just yet."

Arthur was uneasy with all the conflicting information, but he kept it to himself. "Speaking of which, Hughes, put your rifle away for now and get down here with us. It seems we're launching a stealth three-man attack on the compound now, for better or for worse."

Lin and Arthur hopped over the next round of walls separating two stone houses. Arthur made a signal for Lin to stop next to him as they waited for Hughes.

"These houses are all empty," Arthur remarked, ducking around an open archway of a home. He looked inside, walking in further, inspecting the intricate tapestry on the wall. "It makes me wonder if - " Suddenly the side of the house shook as something slammed into it, a dust cloud erupting near the entrance of the door.

Arthur sprinted towards the front and careened around the corner. Lin was struggling against another soldier, the man's larger frame dwarfing him. Lin's M16 suddenly was ripped off him, skittering across the sand. The two men were locked in a dual chokehold against the mud walls. Lin briefly got the upper hand, rolling to knock the other soldier back against the wall. Arthur rushed forward, just as the man took out a deadly combat knife, aiming right for Lin's throat.

Lin parried the man's wild swing, kicking, and Arthur lunged, stabbing the man in the side with his utility knife.

The unknown soldier howled, releasing his grip on Lin, and Arthur dragged his blade out from the man's ribs. Seizing the man's vest in a brutal grip, Arthur spun him around until he could grab his helmet. Batting away the man's weak protests, Arthur swung his knife forward one more, burying it to the hilt in the man's unprotected neck.

It was all over in a second. Arthur released the man's body, letting it fall to the ground. He wiped at his face, sweat dripping in rivulets, and Lin swiped at his own forehead, breathing hard. "What - what - the - " the darker skinned man gasped, wheeling back to pick up his M16. " - what in the hell was that?"

Arthur bent down to flip over the man's body, inspecting the uniform.

"That's a Russian uniform." Hughes' voice sounded over Arthur's shoulder, his combat boots appearing next to Arthur's arm. "I tried to get here as soon as possible. I'm seeing men all over, Lieutenant - and none of them are wearing the typical clothing of the projections."

Arthur stood up from his crouch, absentmindedly readjusting his helmet. Arthur pressed a button on his comms that would contact Bradley directly. "Bradley, report."

Silence.

Arthur tried again. "Bradley. Lieutenant."

Silence.

A cold weight settled over Arthur's shoulders. "Let's go," Arthur said to the two men.

They were approaching the full heat of the main firefight when it happened. The three men had successfully evaded any other sort of contact, barring a projection Arthur had silently dispatched with his pistol.

Arthur had been calculating the best way to scale the building ahead when two rapid black blurs flashed in his vision. They hit the ground, rolling right in the path of the three men.

As if in slow motion, Arthur eyes tracked the ridges of the devices. He pushed Lin into the open doorway of the nearest building, and turned back, intending to do the same to Hughes.

But the man was absent from his place next to Arthur.

Instead, Hughes had rushed forward, towards the live grenades.

"GET BACK! GET BACK YOU DUMBASS! THAT'S A FUCKING ORDER!"

But Arthur had no choice but to dive for cover as he yelled, jumping back behind another mud wall. The sounds of dual explosions rocketed through Arthur's ears, one after the other - and suddenly his leg was on fire, blinding torrents of pain streaking up his limb.

He huddled behind the broken fragments of mud, barely able to muffle the screams that threatened to erupt from his mouth.

Squinting through the pain, Arthur looked down at his leg.

Fragments from one of the grenades had lodged themselves in his calf, peppering his uniform with holes. "Arhhhggh," Arthur screamed, biting into his shemagh. "Oh God. Oh, no." It was unlike anything he had ever experienced, tiny shards of metal worming their way into his calf muscle. He laid against the wall for what seemed like hours, clutching his leg, in utter agony.

"Lieutenant?" Lin appeared, heaving himself over the wall next to Arthur. He stopped, spotting Arthur's leg, the tattered bottom of his uniform pants. "Oh - Arthur." Lin crouched down, fumbling with something from his bag. "Here, this might - this might help for a little while." He sprayed the contents of an aerosol can onto the wound, and Arthur tried to get away on instinct, the cold spray only making the pain more intense. "Just wait," Lin soothed, stopping him from crawling back. "Give it a second, Lieutenant."

Arthur's eyes fluttered shut for a second, just long enough for him to compose himself. Surprisingly, after he forced himself to open them again, the pain in his leg was bearable, almost - "Numbing agent - experimental," Lin said, inspecting Arthur's leg. "There aren't any fragments large enough for me to remove, but at least you can go longer with this. Lund gave it to me."

Arthur adjusted his sidearm, checking to make sure the safety was off his M16, and straightened his sunglasses, looking anywhere but at Lin. He was embarrassed to have lost his composure, even for a moment. "Thank you, Sergeant. I assume Hughes - Hughes took the worst of the blast?"

Lin seemed surprised at Arthur's formality, but took it in stride. "Yes, Lieutenant. Sergeant Hughes sacrificed himself, absorbing most of the fragments. I already checked - he was kicked back to the surface." He's dead seemed to be at the tip of Lin's tongue, but the man stopped himself. "What are your orders?"

Arthur stared at Lin a second, his thoughts a mess. Bradley's unresponsive, Hughes is dead, I'm useless… "You need to continue on by yourself, Sergeant."

"I - what - Lieutenant - my M16's jammed - and you - " They weren't the Marines, but Arthur had always instilled the tenant of never leaving a wounded comrade behind.

"Go," Arthur ordered. "I'll just slow you down, and there's… something I need to check on. Take my gun instead, that way you don't violate protocol." Everyone knew you could just dream up more bullets and weapons, but the government insisted on 'realism' in the dream world, to Arthur's disgust. "I won't be needing it. That's an order, Sergeant. Head to the compound."

Lin stared at Arthur a moment more, placing the can of numbing agent by the fallen soldier's side. He hesitantly took Arthur's M16. Both of them knew a projection would find Arthur eventually, and where there was one, there were more. Arthur was essentially killing himself.

"Goodbye, Lieutenant."

"Goodbye, James." Lin started a little at his name, but raised the M16 in a salute. He vanished around the corner, back into the fray.

As soon as the man left, Arthur sprayed his leg once more, throwing the can to the side. Another one of the military's wonderful ideas, tested on us in the dream world. He grit his teeth, painfully levering himself to his feet. "Uugh," Arthur grunted. His leg was completely numb now, and although mostly painless, clumsy and awkward.

Stumbling a little at first, Arthur crept from one obstacle to the next. Breathing heavily, eventually Arthur made it to the wall on his right. Pointedly ignoring the carnage that was Hughes' body, Arthur kept going, moving farther and farther away from their intended route.

Looking up, Arthur realized he was at the spot he wanted to investigate. And looking up once more, Arthur realized he had been right.

In the chaos, gunshots had been all over, especially towards the city center. But Arthur had heard the sound of a rifle through the storm, a closer noise.

With all the confusion, Arthur hadn't felt the need to mention it - focus on the mission, focus on the objective of course. But now, Arthur suddenly had time on his hands, and he figured finding the source was as good of a task as any - maybe try to interrogate a rogue projection. That is, if he is one, Arthur thought.

He heaved himself up onto the scaffolding of the building, his injured leg giving a distressed twitch. Slowly, Arthur made his way up level by level, Beretta in hand. It was his only other firearm, with five bullets left in the magazine. Great.

Soon, Arthur was at the lip of the rooftop.

He peered over the edge, gun first. Sure enough, there was a sniper, aiming towards the main theater at the center of the village. Smart, staying this far back from the fighting. Almost too smart for a projection. Sneaking a peek once more, Arthur recognized the rifle as an ASM-DT, a Russian model. And a Russian uniform, Arthur thought. More and more interesting.

Now that he was at a higher elevation, Arthur could feel the Shamal kicking up again, severely changing the weather around them. Arthur wondered how the sniper could even sight through the distraction, but his mind flashed back to training, where Hughes hit the 'O' of a label from over two hundred yards away. Anything is possible with those freaks of nature.

Arthur also knew that, just like Hughes, the man would be intensely concentrating, the perfect target to ambush. And to interrogate, and to figure out what the hell is going on. Arthur heaved himself up, silently, onto the rooftop itself. Keeping his Beretta out, Arthur unsheathed his knife with the other hand.

He snuck towards the sniper, the Shamal concealing any ambient sound. He was ready to lunge, to subdue the man with his knife.

Right as he was about to pounce, Arthur paused abruptly in his attack, wrenching himself back. The sniper had reached for a handgun, and was now aiming right below them, towards someone below the building. That better not be Lin! Arthur lunged forward, panicked, and the man rounded on him.

Arthur congratulated himself as he knocked the gun out of the man's hand, but before he could fire his own - thoughts of overpenetration and hitting the mysterious person below running through his mind - the man gave a savage growl, and knocked them both over the side of the building, his Beretta falling through the air, out of his grip.

Arthur's head hit hard as they broke through the scaffolding, crashing through to the layer below. His leg raged and stars burst in his vision, but Arthur lunged again, slashing with his knife. Clipping the man on the shoulder, they rolled again, off the flimsy piece of material.

Arthur's knife was knocked out of his hand as they collided with the hard ground. His sunglasses were torn askew, and the light blinded him. Arthur landed a good front kick towards the enemy soldier's chest, but the man climbed back on him with ferocity, punching his face over and over. Arthur struggled to get his guard up, his leg screaming for attention as the man's weight crushed the bone.

Arthur bucked his hips, trying to dislodge the soldier's weight off his stomach. Blows rained down hard as he swung back, his brain rushing with adrenaline as air refused to enter his lungs.

Then the man was torn off, and Arthur gasped for air, weakly rolling onto his stomach. He tried to scramble to his feet, to fight, but his leg failed beneath him, and he crashed to his knees, sand from the wind tearing at his eyes. Shots sounded to Arthur's right, and Arthur almost waited to feel the hit, to feel the impact of his failure.

At the absence of a gunshot wound, Arthur looked up, ready to find his knife.

He found something much different.

The Russian soldier was on the ground, dispatched by a Mozambique drill, Arthur noted - two shots to the chest, one to the head.

The shooter was looting the body, stooping to pick up Arthur's knife from the ground. Arthur looked around for something to defend himself, but he knew it was hopeless. A piece of rock isn't going to stop British SAS.

"That was bloody dumb," the soldier said, turning so Arthur could read his lips through the raging wind storm. "Although it saved my life." The man strode over to Arthur, handing him his knife hilt first, along with his sunglasses. "I guess I can't expect a better plan from a Marine."

Arthur reached up to grab the dirty knife, once again rocking forward to stand. The man hauled him up by the elbow, shaking his head as he took in Arthur's leg. He tsked, taking a knee to inspect it.

"I'm not a Marine," Arthur said finally. He watched the man get back to his feet. "And you should know about bad plans - 'he who dares, wins'." The SAS motto fell off of Arthur's tongue, unfamiliar and awkward.

Arthur couldn't tell through the man's black shemagh, but if he was pressed to guess, the larger British soldier was smiling. "What are you then - don't tell me - some poor sod, straight out of basic?" The man helped Arthur behind another building, reloading another magazine into his gun. Arthur, weaponless, eyed the man's holstered Heckler & Koch enviously. He leaned against the wall, grateful for the reprieve.

"I'm a Green Beret," Arthur replied shortly, tapping the patch on his shoulder as he cleaned his knife on the fabric of his good leg. "And I'm still not convinced you're not some new bastardization of a projection, sent to kill me in new fun ways." The man snorted, pausing in his motions. He pulled off his sunglasses, and Arthur resisted the urge to fidget.

The soldier's eyes were brilliant in the Shamal, fractals of emerald and topaz in a sea of sand.

He looked Arthur at a moment, long and hard. Arthur stared back, assessing, evaluating just as the other soldier did. The other man was the first to break eye contact, shrugging the tension off with a laugh. "Green Beret?" The SAS soldier shook head. "I was under the impression that they could have beards, mate. You have peach fuzz."

Arthur just rolled his eyes, shoving his sunglasses back on. He jerked his chin towards the center of the village, where the gunfire still raged. "Captain, I'm less worried about the state of my facial hair and more about my surviving men, if there are any. What is going on?"

The man just looked at Arthur, shaking his head. "We're fighting the Russians. And losing. Bloody badly. This was my last ditch attempt, to kill the snipers, but - " The soldier inclined his head Arthur's had fallen from the building, taking out the enemy gunman. "Obviously it's not going that well."

"You're real SAS? A man, I mean," Arthur broke off, unsure how to convey his question. "Not a projection, a fake."

"This isn't reality, if that's what you're asking, mate. This isn't Iraq."

"I know it's a dream!" Arthur exclaimed, frustrated. "But you're British, I'm American, they're Russian - and we are all sharing this hellhole… together."

The man shifted, his shemagh falling lower to reveal full lips, dry and cracked. "I wasn't even aware the Americans had a program," he muttered.

"I wasn't aware anyone beside the Americans had a program," Arthur replied. His leg gave a twinge, and he slumped further against the wall. He felt the man's brilliant eyes on him, and straightened automatically, against the pain.

"Let's go to the rest of my company," the man suggested, handing Arthur the Heckler & Koch from its holster. Arthur flushed, embarrassed the soldier had caught him eyeing the weapon, but nonetheless accepted the gun gratefully. "We have a lot to talk about. Of course, that's if the Spetsnaz doesn't mow us down."

"What's your mission?" Arthur asked, inspecting his borrowed firearm.

"They have some of my men captive," the British soldier replied, his irritation evident. "Got themselves seized, the daft blokes."

"I just watched one of my men fall onto a frag grenade for me. I'd doing anything for them, no matter how idiotic they act."

The soldier took a drink from his canteen, sweat dripping over his sunburned cheeks. His gaze turned to Arthur's arm, towards his rank. "That's a powerful statement, Lieutenant…?" His eyes flicked to where Arthur's last name should have been printed.

"Arthur."

"Fair enough," the SAS soldier replied. "Call me Eames."

"Alright, Captain Eames." Arthur pushed off the mud wall with determination. "Do you know what the Green Berets say?"

"No," Eames replied, pulling down his sunglasses. "But I would love a demonstration, darling."

A/N: I'd really appreciate hearing what all of you think of this chapter, or even just the story so far. It's been time-consuming editing docs for this site, and I'd love some feedback. For some reason my line/scene breaks aren't transferring, and I'd love some help making it all make sense. :) Just a reminder my tumblr is the same as my username, randombitsofstars.