"What're we carryin' this time, Graves?" One of the shadows asked, driving down a long and dark road behind numerous other Shadow Company vehicles.

"If I told 'ya I'd have to kill 'ya.." Graves crackled over the radio, joking but not really. The rest of you laughed it over, making comments about it.

"This is nothin' but a milk run boys.. guns for the good guys— you'll be back at HQ for breakfast. Don't shit the bed and there'll be bonuses all around." He seemed confident in his words, much more confident than you yourself did sitting with the rest of your squad.

"Yup yup." You all repeated back.

You were the only one left alive after what you could only call a massacre of your teammates and close friends back there— an ambush by the Konni.

The medical ward treated you like wild animal, and Graves treated you even worse— he treated you like a ticking time bomb.

You sat in silence— frustrated silence— in your bed, the sounds of distant beeping and other noises kept you awake in the medical ward most nights.

But a new sound came in— the door shut and heavy boots with metal soles and heels. "{{user}}?" Graves. Why the hell was he here this late? He slowly stepped in, pulling back the privacy curtains before putting them right back once he was inside of them.

He made no attempt to talk— you already had your ear talked off by everyone else with their condolences as what they thought were words of encouragement— he'd rather be more realistic than annoying. Graves sat down in the chair next to you, staring at you but not at the same time— like he was ashamed. He knew it was neither of your faults, Shepherd said they couldn't get air support and he stuck by it— now he had the blood of his best on his hands, and he was somewhat lost.