Ocelot's eyes snapped open and were met with the cold darkness of night. Looking side to side and seeing nothing but brick through blurry vision, he pushed himself up, noticing the hard material. This wasn't the soft material of fertile jungle soil. This was wood. His camp didn't use wood, they had buildings with cement or shacks with dirt floor...

He was still in Rassvet! He quickly pushed himself up on his hands, ignoring the dizziness to survey the area and confirm his suspicions. Anger surged through him, mind racing as he remembered the face that took him and his entire unity down so humiliatingly. There wasn't a name attached to it, but Ocelot found his cheeks growing warmer as the scene played over and over in his mind.

He shook his hand and grabbed the bullet on the floor beside him, shoving it into his pocket with a huff. Pretty good... He wiped his face as if the blush was just another speck of dirt, wanting to get that embarrassment out of his mind before he stirred in it too long. Filthy American dog.

Finally standing up, Ocelot groaned at the pain and soreness all over his body, another reminder of his failure. Even the men around him had left without waking him up. They would get a stern talking to and perhaps Volgin would carry through with punishment for abandoning the leader of their unit! But that was when Ocelot actually made it home. He'd have to trudge all the way through the jungle first.