Chapter Text
Nobody is coming to save you.
There's a ringing in his ears. He's not sure when he'd been put flat on his back. Instinct kicks in and he reaches for his rifle. There are hostages still to recover.
Get up.
The room spins when he goes to stand. The hand that moves to steady himself falls to an arm. One of his squadmates, he figures, knocked back by the same thing.
"Sorry, bro. What the fuck was-"
His hand is wet. The arm has been torn from its owner.
An owner that looks more like shredded meat than a person.
The limb, more recognizable than who Joseph realizes is his Captain, lies alone in a pool of blood. Ruptured flesh, shiny and slick under fluorescent lighting.
Blood on Bruno hands. It's a generational curse. He wonders if his father felt the same emptiness when he'd abandoned his car after hitting that kid.
It was a mistake to look up. To see the similar state of all three of his squad. Of Davis, of Powell, of Kowalski.
The wet thud of a piece of matter, of person Joseph's spoken to daily for months, falling from metal walls to concrete.
He's not sure how much time passes before he's retching. Then dry heaving.
There are not enough pieces to put the puzzle back together.
No one is coming to save you.
Get up.