(2) Noah graves

The air hung heavy, a paradoxical blend of humidity and dryness, as the relentless sun scorched the earth below. Grains of sand, stirred by the occasional gust of wind, danced through the holes that peppered the walls of the makeshift home. On the second floor, two small apertures had been carved into the rough surface, allowing slivers of light to pierce the dim interior. A few feet back, sprawled on a grimy, overused mattress, he lay motionless. The cool rubber of a Macmillan buttstock rested firmly against his shoulder, a silent companion in the stillness.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting to the side where a small, weathered booklet lay open. Its pages were filled with notes and records of every shot he'd ever taken—a trusted companion and a reliable reference point. Just beyond it crouching next to him was his favorite spotter, Jay, a man who had been by his side since their days in basic training. Jay was the kind of guy who could charm his way into any woman's heart but could never quite figure out how to stay there. His jet-black hair was perpetually tousled, and a faint shadow of stubble always graced his jawline, giving him that effortlessly rugged look.

"Noah you found someone yet or… are you still"

Noah smiled with a sigh

"I don't wanna hear anything about relationships from you especially after the last one"

"You cannot use the Anna as an example"

A breath left his lips and he spoke with mock annoyance 

"Bro you slept with a barracks bunny and tried to start something"

"Fuck you at least i had the balls to do it"

There was a moment of silence, as much as he loved this conversation *he didn't* the convoy was meant to arrive to clear houses of any enemy hostiles, And then, there it was—the convoy, rolling into view like a slow-moving storm. The gunners perched atop the vehicles scanned the terrain, their weapons poised, anticipating resistance.

He pressed the comm on his neck

"Overwatch to Convoy, I have eyes on your position. Moving to overwatch on sectors A. No visible hostiles at this time. Proceed with caution. Over."

He hated how calm the place was, because quite frankly it was deceptive it was like a pressure cooker left too long on the stove 

"Copy, Overwatch. Moving to House Alpha. Keep us posted. Out."

That's when he saw it the door to one of the roofs of sector A had been slammed open and a young military aged man had walked out cellphone in hand as he looked at the convoy approaching 

Jay spoke besides him

"927 meters, 10 mph wind left to right, one mil left, 12 mils elevation. Target is steady"

Noah adjusted and had called it in 

"This is Overwatch. Immediate update: I have a visual on one individual, rooftop of Sector A. They are on a cell phone, actively observing and speaking about the convoy. Behavior suggests they are reporting our movements. Request further instructions. Over."

The response came through with a faint crackle, a telltale sign of hesitation. There was a pause, just long enough to suggest that someone behind the scenes was weighing their words, consulting unseen voices, perhaps even deferring to higher authorities. The air seemed to hang heavy with the unspoken tension of decisions being made, of plans being made

"Overwatch, maintain surveillance on the individual. Do not engage unless they pose an immediate threat. We are assessing the situation and convoy is alerted. Over."

"Copy, HQ. Maintaining surveillance. Will update if situation changes. Out."

Noah's true purpose as a sniper wasn't the Hollywood fantasy of pulling the trigger at every opportunity. No, his role was far more deliberate, more patient. Ninety percent of the time, he was a ghost in the shadows, a pair of unseen eyes relaying critical information to the team below. The other ten percent? That was the rare, fleeting moment when the stars aligned, and he was granted the chance to take the shot. But those moments were exceptions, not the rule. 

For most, the endless hours of waiting, watching, and observing would have been unbearable—a monotonous grind that tested the limits of sanity. But for Noah, it was a thrill. Not because he reveled in chaos or destruction—no, the psych evals had made that clear. He wasn't a sociopath. He wasn't driven by some dark, twisted urge. What he loved was the precision, the artistry of it all. The way the world seemed to hold its breath as he lined up a shot, the way time slowed as he calculated wind, distance, and trajectory. And then, the satisfaction of seeing it all come together—the perfect connection. That was his addiction. Not the kill, but the craft.

When Noah spotted the figure kneeling in the distance, pulling an RPG from its case with deliberate, practiced ease, he didn't hesitate. Jay, his spotter, had already relayed the situation up the chain, and the response came back clear and unequivocal: *kill order granted.* Noah's world narrowed to the scope of his rifle, the figure in his crosshairs, and the rhythm of his own breath. 

He inhaled deeply, the cool air filling his lungs, and then exhaled slowly, deliberately, waiting until his body was utterly still, his lungs empty. Time seemed to stretch, the world around him fading into a muted haze. He was in his bubble now—a place where nothing existed but the target, the trigger, and the perfect alignment of variables. His finger settled on the trigger, steady and sure, and when the moment was right, he squeezed. Not a jerk, not a pull, but a slow, deliberate pressure, as if the rifle were an extension of his own will.

The recoil was minimal, a faint kick against his shoulder, but Noah barely registered it. His focus was already beyond the shot, on the outcome. He held his position, eyes locked on the target through the scope, waiting. The man he'd shot at wasn't falling. Not yet. The seconds stretched, each one an eternity, as Noah's heart thudded in his chest. He didn't blink, didn't breathe, until Jay's voice finally broke the silence, calling out the result. 

"Miss, impact just below target. Adjust elevation, Hold 1 mil left for wind, 0.5 mils up for elevation. Fire when ready."

Noah didn't hesitate. Not this time. His body shifted almost imperceptibly, a slight adjustment to his position as he peered through the scope. The man in his crosshairs was still there, kneeling, focused, adjusting the reticle of his own RPG with a precision that mirrored Noah's own process. It was almost ironic, Noah thought—the way the man moved with the same deliberate care, the same calculated intent. They were two sides of the same coin, separated only by distance and purpose.

But there was one difference this time. A fly, small and relentless, buzzed lazily in the air, drifting closer to Noah's eye. It was a distraction, a tiny, maddening intrusion into his carefully constructed bubble. His instinct was to blink, to swat it away, but he couldn't. Not now. His eyes stayed open, unflinching, even as the fly hovered dangerously close. His focus didn't waver. His finger found the trigger again, and he pressed it with the same slow, deliberate pressure as before.

The shot rang out, sharp and final. This time, Noah didn't look away. He watched, his breath caught in his chest, as the red mist erupted from the man's body, a vivid burst of color against the dull backdrop of the battlefield. The figure crumpled, the RPG slipping from his hands as he dropped to the ground, lifeless. 

Noah inhaled again 

"Good hit! Target down."

For hours, Noah had watched the ground team move with methodical precision, their silhouettes darting from one house to the next like shadows in the fading light.

Doors were kicked in, the sharp cracks of splintering wood echoing across the battlefield, followed inevitably by the staccato bursts of gunfire. Each shot carried its own weight, its own story, but Noah was detached, an observer perched high above the chaos. His role was to watch, to guide, to ensure the team below moved with the confidence of someone always watching their back.

But actions, no matter how calculated, always had consequences. 

It started as a faint whistle, so distant and soft that it barely registered at first. Noah's brow furrowed, his body tensing as the sound grew louder, sharper, more insistent. His instincts screamed at him before his mind could fully process what was happening. The whistle became a shriek, a piercing wail that cut through the air like a blade. He barely had time to brace himself before the world around him erupted in chaos.

The house he was lying in shuddered violently, the walls trembling as if they were alive. Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling, the force of the impact rattling his bones and sending a sharp, metallic taste of adrenaline flooding through his veins. His rifle shifted, the scope knocked askew, and for a moment, everything was noise and confusion. The ground team's radios crackled with frantic voices, but Noah couldn't make out the words over the ringing in his ears.

When the dust settled, the air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and shattered concrete. Noah's heart pounded in his chest as he quickly reassessed his position, his hands moving instinctively to check his equipment. The house was still standing, but barely. The walls were cracked, the windows blown out, and the once-stable perch he had relied on now felt precarious, unstable.

He glanced back through his scope, scanning the area below. The ground team was regrouping, their movements hurried but disciplined. The whistle—no, the mortar—had been a reminder, a brutal one, that no matter how controlled their actions seemed, the battlefield was always unpredictable. Noah spoke 

"We need to leave now"

"HQ, this is Overwatch, emergency traffic! Our position is compromised. Enemy has eyes on us and is initiating mortar strikes. Request immediate support. Over."

"Copy, Overwatch. You are under mortar fire, position compromised. QRF is alerted and moving to your location. Over."

He despised the cold, mechanical calm of their voices over the comms—no fear, no urgency, just flat, emotionless directives. It grated on him, especially now, when every nerve in his body screamed for action. He gathered his gear, his movements sharp and deliberate, and began to move. Down the stairs, one step at a time, his fingers working quickly to disarm the claymore he himself had planted earlier. The building was behind them now, Jay trailing close, their boots crunching against the debris-strewn ground as they scrambled for cover.

Then it came—a shrill, piercing volley of whistles cutting through the air. He barely had time to register the sound before the world tilted violently. One moment he was upright, the next he was sprawled on his side, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. His ears rang, a deafening, hollow silence swallowing all other sounds. He groaned and coughed, trying to push himself up, but the ground seemed to shift beneath him. Sand and rubble clung to his vision, the world a blur of dust and chaos. He blinked, disoriented, his mind struggling to piece together what had just happened. The air tasted of grit and smoke, and for a moment, all he could do was lie there, waiting for his senses to return.

He rolled over, his body aching as he pushed himself up from the ground. Behind him, the earth bore the mark of his impact—a shallow crater, its edges jagged and raw. But that wasn't what gripped him, what yanked him back to the present with a cold, unrelenting force. It was the absence. Jay. Jay had been right behind him. Where was he?

His eyes scanned the chaos, the smoke, the debris, until they landed on the figure in the middle of the street. His breath hitched. Jay. But it wasn't the Jay he knew, not the one who'd been at his side moments ago. This Jay was sprawled, motionless, his body ending abruptly where his knees should have been. The sight was a punch to the gut, a visceral blow that left him reeling.

He didn't think. He didn't need to. His body moved before his mind could catch up, legs propelling him forward in a desperate sprint. He reached Jay in seconds, his hands gripping the straps of the plate carrier vest, hauling him up with a strength born of sheer panic. The weight was unbearable, but he didn't stop, couldn't stop. Not until they were behind cover—the mangled front tire of a destroyed SUV, its metal frame twisted and scorched. 

He crouched there, his chest heaving, Jay's limp form pressed against him. The world around them was a blur of noise and destruction, but all he could focus on was the ragged sound of his own breathing and the faint, shallow rise of Jay's chest. He wasn't gone. Not yet. And as long as there was breath, there was a chance.

His hands moved with a frantic precision, driven by instinct and training. The pack was already open, his fingers closing around a morphine syringe. Without hesitation, he plunged it into Jay's thigh, the needle piercing through fabric and skin. Jay didn't flinch, didn't stir—his stillness was a knife twisting deeper into his chest. 

Bandages came next, pulled from the pack in a flurry of motion. He pressed them hard against the ragged stumps where Jay's legs should have been, the fabric soaking through crimson almost instantly. His hands were slick with blood, but he didn't stop, couldn't stop. He applied more pressure, his voice breaking as he spoke, low and urgent, as if the words alone could anchor Jay to this world.

"Stay with me, Jay. Stay with me, damn it. You're not going anywhere. Not today. Not like this." His tone was a mix of command and plea, each word sharp, desperate. 

His free hand fumbled for the radio at his side, fingers trembling as he keyed the mic. "This is overwatch! I need immediate evac! Delta-2 down—critical condition. Massive blood loss. We're pinned at the SUV wreckage on—" He rattled off their coordinates, his voice cracking under the weight of the moment. "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!"

He dropped the radio, his attention snapping back to Jay. The bandages were already saturated, the bleeding relentless. He tore open another pack, his mind racing, his hands moving faster than his thoughts. "You're gonna make it, Jay. You hear me? You're gonna make it. Just hold on. Just… just hold on." 

The words spilled out, a mantra, a prayer, as he worked to stem the tide of blood, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. Around them, the world was chaos, but in that moment, there was only Jay, the bandages, and the fading hope that help would arrive in time.

"JAY… JAY!... wake up buddy you still there"

Jay's eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, but there was a flicker of awareness in them. His lips parted, the words coming out slow and slurred, each one heavy with effort. "Noah…" His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried a weight that made Noah's chest tighten. 

Jay's hand trembled as it rose, fumbling with the chain around his neck. The dog tags and the small, worn pendant—a keepsake Noah had seen a thousand times but never asked about—clinked softly as Jay pulled them free. His fingers, slick with blood, pressed the necklace into Noah's palm, the metal warm from Jay's skin. 

"Get them… to my mom," Jay managed, his voice breaking. The words were soft, but they hit Noah like a sledgehammer. Jay's hand fell back, his strength fading, but his eyes stayed locked on Noah's, pleading, insistent. 

Noah's throat closed, his grip tightening around the necklace. "No," he said, his voice raw. "You're gonna give these to her yourself, you hear me? You're not done yet, Jay. Not yet." 

But Jay's eyes were already drifting shut again, his breathing shallow and uneven. Noah clenched his jaw, his free hand pressing harder against the bandages, as if he could will the blood to stop, will Jay to stay. The necklace dug into his palm.

The voices cut through the chaos like a blade—harsh, guttural, and closing in fast. Noah's head snapped up, his body tensing. They were close. Too close. His Macmillan sniper rifle, precision-built for distance, was useless in this kind of fight, slinging it over his shoulder. His eyes darted to Jay's C8, still slung across his chest. 

Without hesitation, Noah gently pulled the rifle free, the familiar weight of it settling into his hands. He'd trained with this weapon, knew its rhythm, its quirks, like it was an extension of himself. He crouched low, his back against the shattered remains of the SUV, then shifted, perching himself on the engine block for a better angle. 

The first shot zipped past his head, so close he felt the air crackle in its wake. He didn't flinch. Instead, he returned fire—single, controlled shots, each one deliberate, each one buying them time. The sharp crack of the C8 echoed in the narrow street, and he saw one of the figures drop. But there were more. Always more. 

He ducked back down, his chest heaving, and grabbed for the radio. "This is Delta-Two! Where's my evac? I'm taking fire—Jay's critical. We're out of time!" His voice was a snarl, desperation clawing at the edges of his words. 

The response was static, then a voice, calm but urgent. "Delta-one, hold your position. Evac is two minutes out. Repeat, two minutes." 

Two minutes. It might as well have been an eternity. Noah's grip tightened on the C8, his jaw clenching. He glanced down at Jay, pale and still, the bandages soaked through. Two minutes. He could hold for two minutes. He had to. 

"Hear that, Jay?"

"Jay?"

Noah's eyes dropped to Jay's chest, searching for the rise and fall that would tell him his friend was still fighting. But there was nothing. No movement, no wheezing, no sign of life. Just stillness. The kind of stillness that left no room for hope. He knew what it meant. He'd seen it before, too many times. Jay was gone. 

A cold, hollow ache spread through him, but he shoved it down. There was no time for grief, not now. The voices were closer, angrier, their footsteps crunching over debris. He had to focus. He had to hold them off. For Jay. For himself. For whatever was left. 

He rose, the C8 steady in his hands, and peered over the engine block. The street was a blur of movement, shadows darting between crumbling buildings. He fired—single, precise shots—forcing them to take cover. But just as he ducked back down, something shifted. The air itself seemed to change, growing thick and heavy. 

A sandstorm. 

It came out of nowhere, a swirling, roaring wall of dust that swallowed the street whole. One moment, he could see the enemy advancing; the next, the world was a hazy, impenetrable brown. The wind howled, stinging his eyes and choking his breath. He crouched lower, squinting through the chaos, but he couldn't see a thing—not the enemy, not the SUV, not even the gun in his hands. 

And then it hit him—a strange, electric sensation, like static crawling over his skin. His stomach lurched, a sudden, disorienting sense of freefall gripping him. It was as if the ground had vanished beneath his feet. He reached out, instinctively searching for something to hold onto, but there was nothing. Just emptiness. 

The impact came suddenly, slamming him into the ground with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. He groaned, his body aching, but years of training kicked in. He rolled to his feet, C8 at the ready, his eyes scanning for threats. 

But the threats weren't there. 

The sandstorm was gone. The street was gone. The enemy was gone. 

Instead, he stood in the middle of a forest. Tall, ancient trees stretched skyward, their branches weaving a canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor. The air was cool and crisp, filled with the scent of pine and earth. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance, their songs soft and unfamiliar. 

Noah's grip on the C8 tightened, his mind racing. This wasn't possible. One second, he'd been in the middle of a warzone, and now… this. A forest. Quiet. Peaceful. Wrong. 

"What the hell…" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a cautious step forward, his boots crunching on fallen leaves. Every sense was on high alert, every nerve screaming that this wasn't real, couldn't be real. But it was. The trees, the air, the ground beneath his feet—it all felt real. 

He glanced down at the C8, then at the dog tags and pendant still clutched in his other hand. Jay's things. The weight of them was a reminder, a tether to the world he'd just left behind. Or had he left it behind?

And he wasn't alone.

Four others stood in a loose circle, their weapons trained on each other. Each of them wore military gear, similar to his own, but none of it matched. Different patches, different camo patterns, different equipment. They looked as confused as he felt, their eyes darting between each other and the unfamiliar surroundings.

Noah's grip tightened on the C8, his finger hovering near the trigger. His mind raced. Where the hell was he? And who were these people? Soldiers, clearly, but not his unit. Not his team. Not jay