The air smelled like cordite and rain. Muzzle flashes cut through the smoke in quick, angry bursts. Jace Mercer pressed his back against a shattered wall, lungs burning, ears ringing from a mortar that had landed too close.
His rifle was slick with blood — some his, some not. He could feel the heat of the barrel through his gloves, hear the faint clunk of the charging handle as he slammed in another magazine.
"Mercer, we're pulling back! Move!"
Ramirez, his squad leader, shouted from across the street, already dragging a wounded man toward cover.
Jace nodded, though the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his side. Shrapnel — he could feel it. Something warm and wet was soaking through his plate carrier. He couldn't tell if it was rain or blood anymore. Probably both.
"Covering fire!" he called, voice steadier than he felt. "Go!"
He rose from behind the wall, sighted down his rifle, and opened fire — controlled bursts, three rounds at a time. His body moved on instinct, years of training distilled into muscle memory. The world narrowed to front sight post and target. Figures in the smoke fell one by one.
A part of him registered this — human lives ending by his hand — but the soldier in him, the Ranger, simply marked them as threats neutralized.
Then something slammed into his chest. Not like the mortar — this was sharp, hot, personal. He stumbled back against the wall, sliding to one knee. His armor had stopped the round, but the impact cracked something deep. His ribs screamed.
"Mercer!"
He looked up. Ramirez and the wounded soldier were almost across the street — almost safe.
A shell screamed overhead, the air itself folding around its passage. It hit the building they were running toward, erupting in a thunderclap of brick and dust. The world went gray for a moment. When Jace's hearing returned, there was only a high-pitched whine and the muffled shouts of men fighting and dying.
Ramirez was down.
Jace forced himself upright, ignoring the fire in his side and the slick warmth running down his leg. One step. Then another. He raised his rifle.
"RAMIREZ! CAN YOU MOVE TO COVER?" he shouted, but the word caught in his throat and came out as a wet cough.
Silence answered.
The firefight intensified. Rounds stitched across the wall above his head. Dust and plaster filled his mouth. He needed to pull back — to retreat.
But what about the two men in the street? What about his team?
And that was the moment — the question that had haunted him since his first deployment. The question that had brought him here, to this shattered street so far from home.
Why am I here?
He looked down at his rifle. It was an extension of his will — an instrument, inanimate, unfeeling. Yet here, now, covered in blood and grime, it felt like a silent witness. A partner.
A flash of movement in his peripheral vision — two figures emerging from the smoke. Enemy rifles raised, aimed at the downed men.
Jace didn't hesitate. He raised his weapon, centered his sight post, and squeezed the trigger. The first figure crumpled. He shifted, fired again. The second fell beside him. Two more lives ended. But there were always more.
He advanced, methodical, firing as he walked. The pain in his side became a dull roar, a background hum to the symphony of destruction. It didn't matter why he was here — he never belonged anywhere. Maybe dying for something was enough.
His team had families waiting for them. He didn't. That made the choice simple.
He was almost to them now, just a few feet away. He reached down, grabbed Ramirez by the harness.
"I got you, Sarge."
Something punched through his back, just below the shoulder blade. The force sent him stumbling forward, nearly dropping his rifle. But he held on. He had to. He tightened his grip on Ramirez's gear and started to drag.
"3-6, this is 3-2A! Two unresponsive casualties, requesting immediate backup and medevac between buildings twenty-six and twenty-seven, over!"
His voice crackled through the radio — strained, fading — one last burst of desperation into the void.
He made it another few feet, shoving Ramirez and the other soldier toward the alleyway before collapsing against the wall. The gray at the edge of his vision crept inward like a slow, silent tide. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps. The warmth spreading across his back turned cold.
His rifle lay beside him, caked in dust and blood. Mara. His squad always laughed that he'd named it, but he thought it deserved one. They were the same — built to serve, used until empty. Tools without purpose.
In the flicker of a distant fire, he saw his reflection in the ejection port — a young man's face streaked with dirt and blood. His eyes weren't afraid, or brave, just… finished. For once in his life, he'd done his job. He'd bought them time.
He let his head fall back against the wall. The sound of gunfire faded to a distant hum. The pain receded, replaced by stillness. He had always imagined death would be violent, loud — a final, brutal punctuation mark.
But this was quiet.
This was the quiet between.
And in that quiet, a voice spoke. Not in his ears, but somewhere deeper. It was neither male nor female, young nor old. It simply was.
"Your existence has been defined by the protection of others, Jace Mercer. Even to your own end. You have been a tool for survival — a shield for life — yet you found no purpose in it."
Jace's thoughts were slow, syrupy. He tried to form words, but only a quiet acceptance remained.
"Purpose is not given," the voice continued, resonating through the silence. "It is forged. You have only ever known the forge of war. Would you, given another chance, seek to forge something else?"
Images flickered behind his eyes — Ramirez laughing about his daughter, a faceless family at a dinner table he'd never had, a fence built with his own two hands.
"Yes," he thought. "I would."
"Then your will shall be the foundation. The universe does not require justification. It requires a choice."
And then, there was nothing.