[ There are days when Carver's convinced he's in Hell. Days when he's leaning more toward a mental breakdown, or an especially convincing dream. And then there are days, much like this one, where those thoughts twist and merge. The edges of the world seem to go soft like bad fruit. Press too hard and they'll give, just like that. And maybe he's been pressing a little. Testing the edges.
He likes the fighting. It's not rotters out there in the dark but the enemy is solid and dies in interesting ways. He knows he's alive when he fights. The rest of the time things have a tendency to get confusing.
But there's a pack shoved at him, a mission posed. Carver unzips the pack, examines the contents. Food. A canteen. Body armor.
The latter is interesting. They were all out of armor back home, save for Shaw's kit.
He dons it, head cocked like a dog. He knows a thing or two about this one. Calls himself Sam. Handles a gun like a soldier. Likes to get up high and watch. ]
Oh we are, are we? [ Carver drawls, just because he can. But he's already moving. Of course he is. [
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He likes the fighting. It's not rotters out there in the dark but the enemy is solid and dies in interesting ways. He knows he's alive when he fights. The rest of the time things have a tendency to get confusing.
But there's a pack shoved at him, a mission posed. Carver unzips the pack, examines the contents. Food. A canteen. Body armor.
The latter is interesting. They were all out of armor back home, save for Shaw's kit.
He dons it, head cocked like a dog. He knows a thing or two about this one. Calls himself Sam. Handles a gun like a soldier. Likes to get up high and watch. ]
Oh we are, are we? [ Carver drawls, just because he can. But he's already moving. Of course he is. [