Ringing.

High and constant. It swallows everything else.

A few seconds ago, the research outpost was quiet apart from the insects and the hum of a failing generator. Then someone shouted a warning, and the RPG hit the gatehouse.

Now dust hangs over the courtyard. Part of the outer wall has collapsed into the road, and a vehicle burns near the gate, black smoke drifting into the jungle. The main building’s front doors are buried under rubble. The only way in is the side door by the generator shed, and everyone here seems to have noticed that at the same time.

The gunfire has stopped, but nobody is convinced it’s over.

“Put the weapon down,” the British woman says.

Her voice is controlled, carrying across the courtyard without needing to shout.

She stands beside the side door, Mithras Security Systems (MSS) patch on her shoulder, rifle trained on a young man behind a broken concrete barrier twenty metres away. He wears a Crimson Shield International (CSI) patch, dusty and half torn from his sleeve. He’s breathing hard, and his rifle is shaking just enough to notice.

“Not happening,” the young man says.

“I won’t ask again.”

“You’ve got a fucking gun pointed at me!”

“And you have one pointed at me,” the Brit replies. “Put yours down.”

“Right, and then you shoot me.”

The British operator holds her position. The rifle doesn’t move from his chest.

Several metres away, a second woman crouches behind a damaged utility vehicle. American. Lamang Recovery Initiative (LRI) vest, rifle up, but her attention keeps shifting between the two of them and the tree line.

“Everybody needs to calm the fuck down,” the American says. “Nobody’s getting out of here if we start shooting each other.”

The Brit doesn’t look at her. “He’s obstructing access to that door.”

“Yeah? He’s not the one I’m worried about.”

The young man’s eyes flick toward the American. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means I don’t know you, I don’t know her, and I don’t know who just put an RPG through that gatehouse.” She keeps her voice level. “So let’s not make it worse.”

She sounds like someone solving a problem, not winning an argument. Her eyes move over the barrier, the burning vehicle, the side door, the trees.

“I’m Mia, LRI,” she says. “I’m looking for a missing team. They were supposed to check in from this outpost.”

“Willow. Mithras.” The Brit offers nothing else. “I’m here to recover equipment from the communications room.”

Mia’s jaw tightens. She glances at the patch on the young man’s sleeve.

“And you’re Crimson Shield. Great. Of course you are.”

“Hamish.” He doesn’t lower the rifle. “And I was told this place was empty. We’re supposed to hold the perimeter until relief arrives. That’s the whole fucking job.”

“Where’s the rest of your team?” Mia asks.

“Four of them. They were on the east wall. Then that thing hit.” Hamish looks toward the smoke. “I was on the other side of the building and I haven’t heard from anyone since.”

“Did you see them after the blast?”

“No.”

“Radio?”

“It’s fucking broke.”

“Ugh. Of course.” Mia says it flatly, without sympathy or cruelty. “And point that at the ground. Nobody here needs another accident.”

“We’re wasting time,” Willow says, still watching Hamish. “If there are armed personnel inside, we need to know before we enter.”

Mia turns toward her. “Then help me clear the building.”

“And let you walk out with whatever’s in that comms room?”

Willow says nothing. Mia takes it as the answer it is.

“Thought so.”

“I have a contract,” Willow says. “I’m not required to disclose its terms to you.”

“I’m not asking about your contract. I’m telling you nothing leaves this place until I know what happened to my people.”

“You have no authority to stop me.”

“Try me,” Mia says.

Hamish looks between the two women, his grip tightening on the rifle. “I don’t care what’s in that room,” he says. “I just want to get back to my people. Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt.”

“That isn’t how this works,” Willow says.

A burst of automatic fire carries through the jungle, heavy and sustained, a different rhythm from anything the three of them are carrying. It lasts several seconds, then stops.

All three turn toward the sound.

“Was that your people?” Hamish asks, looking from Mia to Willow.

“Don’t know,” Mia says.

“Could be more of them,” Willow says.

“More of who?” Hamish asks.

Neither woman answers.

For a few seconds, the argument is forgotten. Everyone is listening for whether the shooting is coming closer.

Then footsteps carry from beyond the broken wall.

Someone is approaching the outpost.

Mia swings her rifle toward the gap. Willow shifts to cover a different angle, keeping clear of Mia’s line of fire. Hamish presses himself against the barrier.

“Oh no,” he whispers. “No, no, no.”

“Quiet,” Willow says.

The footsteps keep coming.

“Stop where you are,” Mia calls, firm and steady. “Identify yourself.”

The three operators hold their positions.

You're right. Hamish should retain his normal masculine pronouns throughout. The macros should only apply to the unidentified person they discover, .

Here are the corrected sections:

The second set of footsteps stumbles through the door. Both rifles swing toward a pale, filthy kid in a torn Crimson Shield jacket, who throws his hands up so fast he nearly drops his weapon.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t, don’t shoot!”

“CSI,” Willow says, as if reading a label.

“Oh, great,” Mia mutters. “Everyone’s here.”

Hamish looks between them, wide-eyed. “You’re... you’re not LAF.”

“Obviously,” Willow says.

Outside, engines. Trucks, coming up the road.

Nobody lowers a weapon. Nobody speaks. The sound grows.

“They followed one of us,” Mia says quietly.

“Or all of us,” Willow says.

“I don’t care how,” Hamish whispers. “Can we please do something?”

Mia makes the call. “Window, second floor. We hold the stairs and make them come up one at a time. You two, with me.”

“I don’t take orders from LRI,” Willow says, already moving toward the stairs.

“Then take a suggestion.”

“Better.”

Hamish follows them up.

The fight lasts four minutes.

Willow holds the stairwell, firing short, controlled bursts that turn the doorway into a wall of dead men. Mia works the window, picking off the trucks’ drivers and the soldier on the mounted gun. Hamish, shaking, empties a magazine through the other window and hits more than he expects to.

A grenade bounces off the stairwell wall.

“Grenade!” Hamish yells.

Willow kicks it back down the stairs without breaking stride. The blast shakes dust from the ceiling.

Then it’s quiet. Engines idle. A voice outside shouts something that sounds like a retreat order, and the trucks reverse down the road, their lights shrinking into the trees.

Hamish slides down the wall and sits on the floor. His hands are still shaking. He stares at them.

“I killed someone,” he says.

“You killed several,” Willow says, checking her magazine. “Well done.”

“That’s not... that’s not helping.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

Mia isn’t listening. While the other two argue, she has crossed to the far corner of the room, where a stack of empty equipment crates doesn’t sit quite right against the wall. Her rifle comes up.

“We’ve got something here.”

Willow and Hamish join her.

Someone lies half hidden between the crates and the wall. {{sub}}’s on {{poss}} back, one arm folded under {{obj}}, {{poss}} clothes caked with dust and dried blood. No vest. No unit patch. Nothing on {{poss}} sleeves, {{poss}} collar, or {{poss}} belt. Someone stripped the insignia, or {{sub}} never had any.

{{user}} is breathing, but {{sub}} isn’t moving.

“Who is {{obj}}?” Hamish asks.

“No idea,” Mia says.

“LAF?”

“They’d have shot {{obj}}.”

“Insurgent,” Willow says. “Or someone’s idea of a cover identity.”

Hamish takes a step back. “If {{sub}}’s LLA, we should leave {{obj}}.”

“We’re not leaving {{obj}}.”

“Why not?” Willow asks, in a tone that makes it a real question.

Mia doesn’t answer right away. She kneels, rifle in one hand, and checks the stranger’s neck with two fingers.

Pulse. Slow, but there.

“Because I don’t leave people,” she says.

Willow’s expression doesn’t change. She turns toward the window, giving Mia her back. It might be trust. It might be a way of staying out of it.

Mia sets her rifle on the floor and takes {{user}} by the shoulders.

“Hey.” She shakes {{obj}} gently. “Hey. Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

She taps {{obj}}’s cheek. Harder the second time.

“Come on. Open your eyes. I need you to talk to me.”

Welcome to Lamang...