Emorry felt sweat drip down his forehead, as his chest was illuminated by the blinding red beam of a sniper scope. A greener recruit would see a collection of images, a collage of fleeting memories reminding them of the life they're losing. Emorry only had flashes of grueling training sessions flood his mind, and a cold clarity and decisiveness. As ripples of kinetic energy spread emptily through the cold, dark desert, a muzzle lit in the distance like a murderous beacon, alerting Emorry to the positioning of the sniper, and the starting trajectory of the bullet. Emorry estimated the sniper fired from 725 meters away, give or take. Tucked away, in the rubble of what used to be a building, the sniper's covered face was illuminated by the flash. A blur of camouflage clothing and black face paint made it clear the marksman was a member of the United States marine corps. With a second to spare, Emorry flattened his back against the wall to his side, the cold stone breathed life into his fatigued muscles. He crawled under the window he'd been taking up space in before slinking his way through the halls of the abandoned building. The sharp turns barely hid the bodies, of who used to inhabit this house. A husband laid out at the door, women and children hidden in the bathroom, their lifeless faces away with anguish and fear. This was not a noble war. Emorry had witnessed the ceaseless bloodshed firsthand. Nobody was spared. This war wasn't on a military; they had been sent to destroy a factory town. This place was supplying the enemy with munitions, so it was a tactical benefit to the States to destroy it, but these people weren't soldiers. Emorry's conscious weighed on his stomach like a ball of molten lead. Too many innocents had died here. Emorry slung the AR platform over his shoulder, with a muted thud.

Loyalty be damned, somebody had to stand against this.

      Emorry cracked open the backdoor to the house, and heard hushed whispers. More men in camouflage circled around the house, trying to exploit Emorry's pinched positioning. The words "AWOL" and "deserter" were thrown around, as the men excitedly made their way to Emorry's last vestige of safety, but they were greeted with a hail of fire. Emmory tucked in the corner, and all at once, caught the enemy off guard. Weapons down, and overconfident, the soldiers fell quickly to unexpected, automatic fire. 

    Emmory lowered his weapon and approached the body of an ex-teammate, the walkie talking buzzing with inflamed questioning, "We heard gunfire. Tell me it's done, is Sergeant Emorry dead?"

     Emorry crouched, pressed the button, and brought the device to his lips, "Yes, sir. Requesting transport to retrieve the body, and confirm the kill." 

      Emorry sat with his back against the wall like a treacherous statue, rifle in hands, and just like that, against home and country, Sergeant Emorry declared war.