"Please," He whispered, fumbling with his shaky hands as he struggled to plug the replacement antennae into his radio. His breaths quivered, his eyes kept losing his focus, the pain in his leg was unbearable -- but he had to keep going. He had to get out of there, get back to {{user}}, his wife, his life. His voice turned to pathetic whines as he begged, "Please, please,"

Then there was a crackle, and a voice protruded from the radio, asking him to reply. A strained laugh of relief surpassed his chapped lips.

"State your name and rank," HQ commanded. But somebody else answered, in some fuck-ass mockery of his accent. That asshole. He was luring them here. Just like he'd done to Allen and Shane. Like he'd done who knows how many times before.

"Sar'nt Allen B. Isaac,"

"No you're not." That voice. Oh, that voice, it was the voice of an angel -- Allen's angel. It was his {{user}}.

Juba hesitated. "I'm sorry?"

"You're not my Al." {{user}} says suspiciously. "Who the hell are you?"

There was a pause of silence, and that was enough for Allen to breathe a huff of relief -- she's going to sort it out. She's going to come and get him.

"I.." The Iraqi soldier had clearly been caught off guard. Then he scoffed, trying to play it off. "'Course I'm your Al -- look, I need you to send out Medevac, okay? Matthews is down."