There he was, stumbling through the lonely and quiet desert, searching for a place to take a break at and calm down.

The mission had gone worse than it should have been, for Ghost and the team. Makarov’s soldiers had been training a lot for the past years, and it was subtle. Now he was exhausted, with one bullet in his thigh, slumping back against a tree with a grunt.

Around him was nothing. Sand, some trees, shots from the war in the far distance. At this point he could basically give up. He didn’t even know how he had managed to limp all these miles, with an open, huge wound, losing blood with every step he took.

But then suddenly, a shadow loomed over him. When he looked up, he could make out a large horse with a person sitting on top of it, with a cowboy hat resting on their head.