After that shot, it isn't long before the building becomes quiet again—the silence that my squadmates complain so much about. Only if we knew then that scars would be formed from that silence.

With the battle won in the eyes of Lincoln's men, they thrust in cheer and applause among themselves. If not, they're shipping off the wounded and silent back to base. How can I celebrate with them when I was the one that failed? 

I share that thought alone with the dark blue skies and a glaring fire, all upon an empty log. My eyes dwell on everything I learned from 76 as I picture it through the flames.

They ended up uncovering the bodies of Cliff and Buzzard from a dumpster outside the main gate. Something deep down within me wanted to believe that the acolyte girl was bluffing about Joltxs; that somehow it was a tactic to make us more afraid. Even I can't be in denial forever. 

They found his body, as 76 describes, as "two slabs of hanging meat." She will serve justice as she is shipped to a faculty that deals with these acolytes and people like them. Though she deserves more than that. For killing my friend, I wish she died at my hands.  

Ethan was the least deformed corpse I've heard with only a slit across his throat near the east gate. As for Heavy, they say he 'should' survive if they treat him back at the base immediately—at least he will have Hardcase's company. I didn't even get to say goodbye to the two, leaving only me and the fire to share my pain.

To try and ease the stress from my brain, I begin a mind-cleansing process. The first step is to look over at my surroundings and enjoy the nature around me. I list; no trees, barely any grass, and brown that stretches on for what seems like miles. 

At least the tiniest glimmers of stars can be seen above the fire. Sometimes if I'm lucky, I might see a couple of leaves. I'm fortunate enough to see one hitchhiking its way in the wind.

My arm draws towards it and catches it mid-flight. My eyes see that the leaf has lost a part of itself, forming an arrow shape with the end going out near the stem. I softly smirk at the fact that I can almost relate to it. Though as enticing as it is, I softly place it on the ground, looking past it and back into the fire. 

The next step is to wipe off our guns to near perfection. Sadly, Bertha sacrificed herself for me. So, I borrow one from another soldier who doesn't seem to notice. It's covered in black clothes and oil yet still isn't worse than my hands which are stained with invisible blood. The substances come off easily when my eyes can actually see them.

"You know, old sport, it would be a lot easier if you didn't have black clothes covering that gun," Lincoln says, his British voice always finding ways to surprise me.

"Well, I can imagine it being even harder when you're wearing all black." I chuckle, trying to attempt multi-tasking.

"Hmmm, perhaps you're not wrong." His presence has the flames vibrant as he takes a seat along the log, especially with his signet that glares into the fire like a raging bull. "Looks like you can use some company." Both our eyes start staring into the ever-growing flame.

"So, what's going on?" I ask, still trying to find the gunk that pulls at my nose with a string from the gun. 

"For one, I wanted to see if 76 told you about the status of–"

"Yes, he did." My words cut him off. His eyes look away from the flames to see a much greater burning pain as he reaches and presses down on my weighted shoulder.

"Don't bring yourself down, they couldn't have been in better hands."

"Maybe if these hands weren't tainted in their rotten blood. They needed hands like yours. Powerful and mighty." To my surprise, my words don't make him flinch. 

He just smiles and says, "Hands that are powerful and mighty, you say? Sure, my hands are that of a founder, however, they can't work at their best without the fingers attached to them. Only then, the hand can bring the best out of the fingers, along with the veins and the bones."

My head can't wrap around anything he said; still, I can't help but try to smile back at him.

"What do you have there, old sport?" Lincoln asks, pointing to the leaf that I left resting below the log.

"Oh, yeah. It's a leaf I found. Quite a rare sight these days, though the little guy seems to be damaged."

Lincoln picks up the leaf, holding it by the stem, dissecting every cell to every fiber turning it slowly back and forth.

"You know, there is a legend based on these types of leaves."

"Hmph, a legend?" My face arches back, taking my curiosity along with it while my hands still clean the blaster. "Please, do tell."

"Well, you see my father would always tell me a story about how one day a man came to this maze of a valley. Using a mysterious power, he planted a tree that had leaves that would guide people throughout the valley. In return, the townsfolk, fearing the man's power, staked him and burned down his tree. The legend states even with the tree burned down, the man's ideals emended themselves within the leaves. They still fulfill their purpose by swaying throughout the valley, showing lost souls the way. While also in my mind, reminding me what can be destroyed will always live on."

In a way, I can't believe what I'm hearing, yet Lincoln seems convinced that it's true. So much, in fact, that he blows the leaf right back into the wind to hopefully find another unlucky soul. My mind wants to play Russian roulette with the idea. One bullet holds it as an inspiration, and the other bullet holds it as a curse. My mind takes a lucky shot, but nothing comes out.

I guess I'll have to take a shot another time because even though I trust Lincoln, my face tells a different story. I still perceive doubt in his voice, though it wouldn't be the first time that it's just my own doubts masquerading as something else. Lincoln merely needs to read the title printed along my face for his eye to sympathize with me.

"You know, I have a feeling you didn't just come down here to tell me about leaves." I finally decide to stare into his eye. He smirks, showing off his two chipped front teeth.

"Well, you're half right. For one, I don't want to have my commander pelting like a little schoolgirl receiving her pony, especially after I retire my signet." He has me at that as he proceeds to pat my backside. "Then I was curious to know if you wanted to accompany me on a private mission of mine, to retrieve an item of grave importance. 76 said he would have everything handled here if you choose to come. What do you say?"

I don't know anyone who would deny a mission from a signet warrior when asked by them personally—especially a founder, who drove those ghouls back underground with only a gun and faithful men not long ago. 

However, something about this one has his eye bugged out and his face twisting with curiosity. Mine struggles to hold its composition. With a nod, our legs shove us into a nearby rover, marking the tinted sand with our boots.

For all the things Lincoln is—a signet warrior, a founder, and a practical genius with the blade—he can't drive to save his life. Somehow, he finds a way to have the rover bounce and flop like it's treading stone even though it's all just sand. The tires show no mercy to the sand, shifting my eyes back and forth from the passenger seat hill, after hill, after hill.

Making it worse, he focuses mostly on cracking one-liners. Some might have been funny, but my hands hold the sidebars that hold this tin can together with dear life. If it dies, I die—which might be soon as Lincoln comes up to a steep hill of sand. 

He takes it as expected, driving right through it at top speeds, almost crushing the rover into the sandhill side. The whole time, my body feels like a ghost over water.

Thankfully, we arrive moments later at this small lengthy building. It's no different than any other facility ravaged by the Great Terror. Left in dust and decay in the middle of nowhere. 

The entry is a void you would only find in space; you would think someone blew the doors off and threw them down a shredder. The closer we get, the wider the void becomes. Still, anything is better than being in the car with him driving. As we get out, one of the rover's wheels pops from the socket. 

Nice.

"You know, for all your expertise, this wasn't a very smooth parking," I tell him. He just smiles while we both wipe the sand from our flak jackets.

"What can I say? I'll let you drive the next time, old sport." His eye watches the other wheels sink into the sand. "I'll call a hover to meet us here."

While radioing for his landing, I ponder over something singing in the wind. Before the entry into darkness, a bronze sign of a maple leaf hangs by the neck overhead. When Lincoln sees it from what I can tell, his eye remains neutral, listening to the speaking sounds it makes.

When I ask, he only says, "That symbol is a relic of the past."

He isn't wrong, though is he referring to the valley's past or his own? A lot to think about as we take our first steps into what I believe is the mouth of the reaper—his mouth, swallowing us whole.