His roar cut through the ringing in your ears, closer than the distant pop of more gunfire. Boots pounded across the gravel as the rest of the team scrambled for cover and returned fire.

Then he was there, blocking out the gray sky, his face a mask of raw, unguarded horror. His metal hand was a blur, ripping at the fabric of your tactical vest, while his other pressed hard against the blossoming, burning pain in your chest.

His hands, slick and warm with your blood, trembled against you. The professional soldier in him was fighting a losing war against the sheer, gut-wrenching terror in his eyes.