When I awoke, it was much later than I had thought. 5 days had passed, and I had woken up to alarms, sirens, and gunfire. A Winchester Repeater lay on my nightstand. Unsure of what was happening, I swapped my medical robe for a tan uniform and slung the repeater to my back. I emerged from the field hospital still in a daze, but aware enough to see that Mexican forces were raiding the base. I sprinted for a destroyed wagon and crouched behind it. On the driver's platform, the charred, bloody body of the driver was still lying in the seat. Holding back my gag reflex, I stumbled towards a parked, covered wagon.

Inside the back of the truck, I saw 3 men. One was a tanned, muscular man who reminded me of Jan. His nametag told me that his codename was Moorcock. Beside him, a man cleaning a Springfield with a dustrag. He went by Ty. Sitting on the edge of the truck dangling his knees was a man who wore a black beret, and a standard issue officer uniform. I could barely make out his nametag, because he was barely facing me. I did, however, notice a long row of combat badges and medals, and the name "Morgansson." Before I turned around to walk away, I noticed one last dark figure. On the far side of the truck, sitting alone, was the man who I found the most interest in. He wore a tattered, ripped vest and matching green cargo pants. He had a standard issue combat vest overwhelmed with ammunition magazines, bandoliers and supplies. He wore dark sunglasses, and a brown cowboy hat with a bullet hole through the brim adorned his head. Brown hair peeked out from under the hat and rolled over his ears. His nametag was barely readable through the blood and scratches, but I made out the name "Harlow".

I had just begun to walk away when I heard a gruff voice to my rear. I quickly turned to see Harlow leaning out from the wagon. "Get on board, kid." I tried to speak, but no words came out. I obeyed him, and climbed into the back. "Can you shoot?" he inquired. "Yes....I mean...yes sir? I was the top of my marksman class at.....-" I was interrupted by his deep, southern accent. "Top of your marksman class, huh? We could use a sniper." His strong arm slapped me across the back. "Welcome to our squad.." He noticed a small drip of blood on my nametag, and wiped it with one finger. "Marston."

"...Since when do snipers have wings?!"Gamer.Matt 14:58, March 30, 2012 (UTC)

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