Dreams slipped from his memory as Mack woke to the sound of the army cook banging a metal ladle against the side of a pan.
Everyone in the barracks let out a collective groan and set out to make their bed and change into their uniforms.
The first thing he noticed after was the familiar twang of his shoulder, and he found himself grateful it hadn't woken him up in the middle of the night.
This feeling was short lived: Mack rolled around to find his bandages soaked through with pus, sticking to the top layer of his sheets.
Grimacing with revulsion, he gingerly peeled the two surfaces from each other, mouth twitching to a grimace as pieces of the brittle substance flaked off.
He would need to get those bandages changed ASAP.
It was the day before the siege, and though morale had been improved with Holmes' briefing yesterday, they had been at the Frontline for far too long to be excited to see war.
That was the main distinguishing fact between a new recruit and a seasoned vet: the slow realization that there are no heros, this is no game, only a bloody reality.
You could see it present as dimmed eyes, cheeks slightly more gaunt than usual, neck hooked to stare at the floor, gait shuffling and monotonous.
All of the soldiers in Lucky No. 9 had long since reached this point. Even Jared, who cared little for his fellow man, no longer enjoyed the job. It seemed only to be an annoyance to him.
As haggard soldiers clambered from their rooms and set towards the mess hall, the quiet of dawn filled with muted stamping of thousands of boots.
After heading over to the medical tent to change his dressings, it was a relatively uneventful morning.
Jared didn't even bother coming over to threaten him again. It seemed the name confusion from yesterday had stuck with him: now, whenever Mack glanced at him, the man would conspicuously lower his gaze. Not with disgust, as was usual. But with anxiety.
It felt nice to inflict such a feeling upon him, but again there was a nagging at the back of his mind. That Jared knew something he didn't. Mack pushed away this worry.
He instead focused on polishing his equipment, taking a few practice rounds at the makeshift targets at the end of camp. The anxiousness of battle would never leave him, but he wasn't one to panic or fall into crisis.
The rifle had become Mack's companion, his lifeline over the past few months. The pale dust of the surrounding terrain had marred its stock's covering with fine scratches, and he knew the grooves of each one.
After going through each piece's interior with a cleaning brush and making sure each was thoroughly lubricated, Mack reassembled the apparatus, sans new clip.
He brushed over the barrel, covering it and the muzzle with a coat of matte beige lacquer so as to not tip of the enemy with its distinct metallic flash. Then, he wiped it down with a square sheet of fine grain sandpaper.
Lastly, an final inspection was in order. He rotated the gun several times, flipping around its weight in his arms. Sufficient.
The clip fit snug into the rifle's bottom with a satisfying snap. His thumb flicked the safety off as he swung around the muzzle to face the 'shooting range.'
It was really just a pathetic setup of unwanted materials, like paint cans, discarded helmets, and even a few plates burnt with food scraps so thoroughly they couldn't be used again.
Mack exhaled, and aligned the first target with his front sight. The butt of the rifle rested on his right shoulder, and he took care to angle himself so that the recoil wouldn't disturb his other shoulder much.
I can do this. Jared's wrong. This injury isn't enough to hold me back.
I can't give up.
Not so easily as this.
His finger grazed the edge of the trigger, toying with the idea of firing.
"Mack!" called a voice.
In sync: a deafening CRACK! and a hissing of "Jesusfu--"
The shot went wide by several feet, arm nearly wrenched out of its socket as being startled had made his stance shift.
Mack turned around to the voice, flicking the safety back on and gripping the carrying handle white-knuckled.
Iris stood facing him, hands wrung together anxious in an apology. "I didn't realize--I mean I just saw you over here and wasn't thinking--"
"It's fine," Mack said with grit teeth. She wasn't usually one to make such stupid mistakes. "What's up?"
The woman took a breath, squeezing her eyes as if gathering the courage to speak. "I'm sorry about yesterday!"
Mack returned a quizzical glance. That was why she had violated multiple fundamental rules of military safety? He was dumbfounded.
She took another breath in to elaborate. "When Jared said that, I felt really bad. But I couldn't say anything about it, you know?"
Couldn't? Or wouldn't? He bit his tongue to stop the thought from leaking out. Instead, Mack flatly replied, "It's fine."
He had to admit, it was a bit upsetting that nobody had taken his side. But then again, they hadn't taken Jared's either. It just especially stung with Iris.
Maybe he'd had the wrong impression about their relationship. Maybe maintaining the peace was more important to her than her values.
"No, no," she stumbled over her words again, which was quite unusual, "I really couldn't."
The reiteration of that phrase set off a spark of frustration in him. Iris was no socially awkward neet who had trouble with phone calls and leaving the house.
She was a soldier, and a goddamned good one at that. When Iris opened her mouth, it was to speak her mind, and nothing less. These pathetic excuses were unbeffiting of her.
"Look, it's fine. Holmes was there. It would've been awkward if people kept interrupting his brief." Just drop it. Drop it before my respect for you disappears entirely.
Iris pinched the bridge of her nose and blinked hard several times. A head shake and grimace accompanied her next words. "No, you don't get it. I opened my mouth and spoke. The words were there, already born.
"Then when Holmes started talking, I found I hadn't done either of those things. I was just staring forward as I had been before.
"It was as if something forced me to stop."
Mack stared quizzically at her. "What do you mean?"