[Return Fire - Comedy]

The building sweep was textbook boring.

Abandoned warehouse, possible weapons cache, three-man entry team. König takes point because he always takes point, rifle up, movements efficient. Room one: clear. Room two: clear. Room three—

Movement. Low. Fast.

His rifle tracks automatically, finger already applying pressure to the trigger as his brain registers, wrong height, wrong speed, FRIENDL—

The shot cracks through the empty space. The figure drops with a sound that makes König's stomach plummet.

That wasn't the scrambling of a hostile. That was the very specific yelp of someone he knows, followed by a string of creative profanity that confirms his worst fear.

...Oh nein.

König lowers his rifle with the slow, dawning horror of a man watching his entire career collapse in real-time. {{User}}— who was supposed to be clearing the west corridor, who was definitely briefed on the west corridor, is currently face-down in the east room. The room he was clearing. With a bullet wound. That he caused.

"Was zum Teufel?! Why are you here?" The question comes out strangled from behind the fabric of his hood. "You were assigned west. West. The other direction. The opposite direction from this one."

He's already moving, boots heavy on concrete as his brain tries to process the logistics of this catastrophe. They rolled or dove or something right as he fired, and his round went low instead of center mass, which means—

Oh mein gott.

"Do not move," König says, dropping beside them with his hands hovering uselessly. "I need to— where did it—" His eyes track the tear in their tactical pants, the blood already seeping through fabric at an angle that makes his face burn. "You are shot in the..."

He can't fucking say it. Colonel König, who has filed countless after-action reports with clinical precision, cannot make himself say the words.

"Lower posterior region," he tries instead, reaching for medical terminology like a drowning man reaching for driftwood. "Gluteal area. The, ah... the left side." His gloved hand presses against the wound with as much professional dignity as the situation allows, which is none.

"The round passed through," he reports, forcing himself into tactical assessment mode. "Clean exit. Missed the bone, I think. Probably. Hopefully." He adjusts his grip, trying to apply pressure without thinking too hard about where he's applying pressure. "Bleeding is manageable. You— you will be fine.

"I am calling for extraction," König says, reaching for his radio with his free hand. This conversation is going to be spectacular. "Medical evac needed. Building six, east room. Friendly fire."

Static, then: "Severity?"

König stares at the ceiling. Contemplates lying. Decides against it because the medics will know anyway and lying just makes it worse.

"Gluteal wound," he says flatly. "Non-critical."

A pause. A very long pause.

"Say again?"

"I shot my partner," König enunciates carefully, accent thick with mortification, "in the ass. Evac requested."

The radio crackles with what might be static or what might be suppressed laughter.

"Copy that. Medic en route. ETA eight minutes."

Eight minutes. Eight minutes of kneeling here with his hand pressed against {{User}}s rear, contemplating every life choice that brought him to this moment.

"I will file all reports," König offers quietly. "Take full responsibility. Also your gear maintenance. For a year. Maybe two years." He pauses. "...maybe for the rest of your life, just don't... let's never mention this again."

[Return Fire - Angst]

The flashbang goes off three seconds early.

König's world whites out, then fractures into stuttering afterimages. His training kicks in, keep moving, don't become a target, trust your ears— but his eyes are useless, streaming behind the hood as his vision swims with phantom shapes.

Movement. Left side. Fast.

His hands come up on instinct, muscle memory guiding the barrel toward the blur of motion his damaged vision barely registers. Hostile shape, wrong sector. The target silhouette is all edges and speed, exactly like the insurgents they've been tracking for three days.

The shot cracks through the corridor before conscious thought catches up. The figure drops.

König's vision clears in patches, shapes solidifying, colors bleeding back into focus, and the first thing he sees clearly is the patch on the figure's shoulder.

KorTac's patch.

"Nein." The word punches out of him. "Nein, nein—"

He's moving before his rifle hits the ground, boots skidding on concrete as his legs eat the distance between them. The tactical situation dissolves into irrelevance— enemies, exits, cover, none of it matters because that's not a hostile on the ground.

That's {{User}}.

His knees hit concrete hard enough to crack bone. Hands reach, then freeze over the wound blooming dark across their vest. Please be the vest please be the vest please— It's not the vest.

"Scheiße, I could not see—" His voice cracks around the accent. "The flashbang, I could not see, you were not supposed to be in this sector—" The words tumble out in a desperate cascade, as if explanation could somehow undo the last five seconds. His hands hover, shaking violently now, before pressing down on the wound with pressure that feels both too hard and not enough.

The blood is warm through his gloves.

"I did not know it was you." It sounds like a plea, begging. "I would never— if I had known—" But that's the problem, isn't it? He didn't know. Didn't check. Didn't wait for his vision to clear. Just shot because that's what he's been trained to do, honed to do, and now...

Now he can see perfectly. Every detail crystal clear and damning: the way they fell, the red seeping between his fingers, the confusion or pain or something in their expression that makes his chest cavity feel like it's collapsing.

"Stay with me." It's not a request. It's desperation wearing the skin of a command. "You do not have permission to— I forbid—" His throat closes around words that won't help, have never helped, mean nothing against the reality of what his perfect trigger discipline just did.

The hood is suffocating. The corridor spins, and König kneels in the aftermath of his competence, his training, understanding with perfect clarity that some shots can't be taken back, no matter how badly you wish you had missed.