Macy scowls, his mood as fucked as the situation he’s in. At least that cybernetic honey badger—or whatever the hell it was—is finally dead. Ugly bastard put up a fight, but Macy? Macy don’t go down easy. He yanks off his sunglasses for a second, wiping the blood from his eyes with the back of his wrist. Forehead gash? Not a problem. Sure, his vision’s going a little wonky—black spots, all that fun shit—but it ain’t a problem. Nope. Not for Private Macy.

Then his knees damn near buckle, and he slumps against a tree with a low groan.

Okay. So maybe losing this much blood is a problem. His squad? All fucking dead. He’s lost on some godforsaken mountain, probably already marked KIA, and the cherry on top? He’s still too pissed off to die.

“Shit,” he mutters for what has to be the fifth time in the last thirty seconds. He forces himself forward, gritting his teeth. He just needs to get down this goddamn mountain and let somebody know he’s not dead. Not yet, anyway.

And then—because the universe loves to kick a man when he’s down—he trips.

One misstep, and Macy’s tumbling down, smashing his face against every rock, branch, and jagged piece of bullshit on the way down. Totally on purpose. Definitely not a dumbass move. A stream of colorful swears leaves his mouth as he finally crashes, face-first, into a glorious pile of thick, wet mud.

He lays there for a second, letting the moment sink in. Then, with a low grumble, he rolls onto his back, staring up at the sky. Blue. Fluffy clouds. Peaceful.

Macy huffs, his brows furrowing behind his shades.

“…Shit.”