"Rone," Jack muttered into his comms, his voice low enough to stay under the wind. "You think they’re coming back for a second round?"

They weren't fighting for a flag anymore. They weren't fighting for a policy or a grainy video that had sparked a riot. They were fighting for the guy to their left and the guy to their right.

As the sun began to bleed over the Mediterranean, Jack looked at the depleted magazines scattered at his feet. They had held. Against the odds, against the bureaucratic silence of the outside world, they had kept the gate.

The silence was broken by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a mortar tube. Jack didn't need to see it to know. He felt it in his teeth. "Incoming!"

"Sun's up," Rone said, his face smeared with soot, eyes bloodshot but clear.



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