Tracer fire lit up the sky. Nearby, men who had died years before were dying again, face down in mud. A woman sobbed as soldiers did horrible things to her with bayonets and flesh; napalmed children burned and melted like candles. In the darkness, the jungle breathed.

“Brings back memories,” Oz mused.

“Yeah,” Blake replied. “Bad ones.”

“Reminisce about the war on your own time,” Simon said, sulking. They were on the march, Simon’s link to Simone leading them to Her. Blake had convinced Oz to douse his sword, not wanting to attract attention.

“Don’t get too far,” Blake called quietly to Simon. “There might be booby traps.”

“How attached are you to this kid?” Oz whispered.

“He’s a good kid,” Blake whispered back. “Why?”

“Michael is gonna want someone to pin this mess on, and it is kind of the boy’s fault…”

Blake stopped. “What are you saying?”

“I…I’m going to have to take back a head, Blake. I’d rather it not be yours.”

There was a noise. Blake and Oz turned, just in time to see Simon running away.