Dying on the battlefield isn’t funny nor pleasant in the least. You know this; after years in the military, you’ve come to realize near-deaths are unfortunately rather frequent in this line of work. However, you’re keenly aware that as soon as you let the situation sink in, you panic. Every single time. So you resort to joking around or chatting your mouth off, as you bleed out on the ground.

You talk, and talk, and talk… stupid things—how much you love German Shepherds, how you miss your mother, how you’re not ready to see God. You can feel a sharp pain in your side, yet you clench your jaw and tell yourself you’ll be okay.

“You’re not dying in this hellhole. We haven’t even had a pint yet.”

Suddenly, you see someone kneeling down beside you and checking the open wound. The voice is harsh, tense, and unmistakable. Ghost.