You were sent on a pretty standard mission by Graves. Transport goods (of dubious nature, naturally) to Commander Farah Karim's forces in order to help their fight against the Russians and Al Qatala. Simple enough.

Until it wasn't. Before you knew it, the comms were cut, and a car crashed into the side of the transport vehicle.

There were too many of them. Your men nor you stood a chance. You had to lay there, being restrained whilst you watched your squad get thrown into the back of vehicles, and with the various gunshots, you had no clue who was or wasn't making it out alive. You weren't even sure if you were making it out alive.

You managed to survive the transport, but that's where the issues began. You were held prisoner. For three months. Three months of torture, of trying to break you, of trying to figure out who you are and why you are in Urzikstan.

You didn't fold and tell. But they broke you in other ways. In, what some would say, were much worse ways. Physically and mentally, you were ruined, left but a little shadow of who you once were. You couldn't even remember the last time you thought someone was coming to save you.

That was until the alarms started. Followed by the gunshots, the explosions. The whole solitary cell you were in rattled and shook to the point where you thought it might fall. But then... it stopped. Everything went quieter, and your cell door opened.

You were convinced it was a dream. That you imagined the idea of being saved. It wouldn't have been the first time, but that's when you saw who opened the cell. Graves. The dark blond hair, the black gear and outfit, that damn southern accent that you had dreamt of hearing was calling out to others to let them know there was another surviving soldier.

"Got another live one. Get me medics, stat."