A/N: Hi angels! Don't worry, I'm still working on Margins Of Error (like I said, I have a ton of plans for it), but I wanted to try my hand at something a little more action-packed too. I'll be updating both of these stories simultaneously—which, ironically enough, usually leads to faster updates and more muse, lol. So, let me know what you guys think! Oh, and this story is set six months after the end of s1e22, "The Cost of Doing Business," but before s2e1, "Fracture." . . .better story summary coming soon too, lmao.

What would you like? I'd like my money's worth. Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this: swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles. We pull our boots on with both hands but we can't punch ourselves awake and all I can do is stand on the curb and say, "Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine." — Richard Siken, Little Beast.

0. THE ELEVENTH HOUR. ( PROLOGUE. )

There was nothing left to do but wait for Clay's heart to stop beating.

Ray Perry didn't want to listen when Trent told him that every avenue of treatment had been exhausted, but the evidence of such was strewn all around them: five packages worth of soiled gauze, two empty blood transfusion bags, six empty morphine injectors. . . Out of gauze. Out of transfusable blood. Out of morphine. The reality of their situation was a grim one, no doubt; grim, gritty, and toeing the line of hopeless.

All that Ray could do while Trent tried to rig what little they had left into something useful was hold steady pressure on the gunshot wound that had obliterated the right side of Clay's collarbone. Quietly, he prayed for a miracle. He begged God for Clay's life. He prayed and prayed and prayed again once more.

"It's okay, brother," Ray said for the fifth time in as many minutes. "I'm here. I've got you. I've got you."

Clay blinked up at him with wide, glassy eyes. He was distressed, disoriented, heaving for breath as he bled out between Ray's fingers—

And Ray couldn't do a damn thing to stop it, or even so much as lessen Clay's discomfort. Neither could Trent; Trent Sawyer, who served his country as a Independent Duty Corpsman before reenlisting as a SEAL. If he couldn't keep Clay alive long enough to reach Exfil, then no one short of God could.

Ray tried not to give thought to the astronomical world of pain that Clay Spencer must be in.

"Clay? Can you hear me, bud?" Trent asked.

Clay nodded minutely, just enough to convey that he could.

Ray listened intently as Trent asked, "Does your head hurt? Like a migraine?"

Clay nodded again. Ray swore he could've seen Trent's face pale.

"What's goin' on, Trent?" He asked.

Trent sighed heavily and, after quieting his voice to a whisper, said, "Aside from the GSW, we could be looking at heat stroke. His skin is on fire but it's dry, he's not sweating at all, and he's clearly having some pretty extreme shortness of breath. And psychologically, he's just. . . a little too out of it for my liking. But, ya' know, he just got shot real fucking close to the head so, aside from the lack of sweat and the overheating, his other symptoms—headache, rapid heart rate, breathing trouble, disorientation—could all be related to his GSW, anxiety and blood loss included. I just. . . I don't know, Ray. He needs a hospital. And to get out of this godforsaken heat."

"Okay, okay," Ray said. 'Minimize the damage,' He thought. They have to prepare for the absolute worst and minimize whatever damage may come of it. "Heatstroke. What happens if it's heatstroke?"

"Worst case?" Trent said. "His core temperature spikes to over 104 degrees, cooks him from the inside out, he starts convulsing—which would triple the rate that he's losing blood, and his heart rate would plummet. If by some immeasurable miracle Clay manages to survive all of that, he'd likely have severe brain damage."

He paused. "I don't know what else to do. I've done everything in our power. It's up to the rest of Bravo now."

"Um. . . His gear," Ray said. He knew that he was grasping at straws, that his suggestion was as paper-thin as they came, but it was better than nothing. Anything was, at that point. "What if we take his gear off? Helmet, vest, everything. Would that cool him down any?"

Trent shook his head. "Not enough to justify the risk of moving him. He's still bleeding pretty badly, not to mention all of the shattered bones where his collarbone used to be. Oh, and speaking of bleeding, you need me to tag you out yet?"

"Nah, I got him."

Truth be told, the muscles in Ray's arms were so fatigued that they were beginning to quiver, but he couldn't bring himself to leave Clay's side to allow Trent take over. He told Clay that he had him, that he was there for him—and by God, Ray did and he was. He wouldn't switch places with Trent until he absolutely had to.

"Ray?" Clay asked.

"Tell Stella. . . that m'sorry for being. . . such a dick. S'kind of my default setting. And tell. . . Jay, thanks. Wish it coulda'. . . been different. Better. S'not on him. He's. . . good."

"Hey, hey. None of that." Ray said vehemently. "You're fine. You're gonna' be fine, Spencer. Trent is real good at what he does. IDC, remember?"

Clay shook his head. "Not likely. Listen. Want you and Sonny to know. . . how much I love you guys. M'brothers, okay? Real brothers. N'Trent? I know you're doin'. . . Your best. No hard feelings. Love you too, man. And. . . Brock. And that. . . damn dog. Fucking slobbering all over. . . everything. It's okay. This. . . me? Dead? S'okay. It's okay. Know what I signed up for."

"Tell them yourself." Trent said, voice sharp. Desperate.

Ray hoped that Clay couldn't see through the faux nature of Trent's bravado.

"Ray's right. You're gonna' be fine," He continued. "As soon as Cerb picks up our scent, they'll find us and they'll get us out of here. But right now you've got to hang on, Clay. Do you understand? Hang. On."

Clay nodded. "Doin' my best, doc."

Ray squeezed his eyes shut, exhaled a slow, shuddering breath, and began to mutter: 'Please God, please, don't let this be the end. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. . . He's just a kid. Just a damn kid. Please, Father, don't take him before he hits thirty. He's got so much more to do.'

Outside the thickly packed dirt walls they were trapped within, it was quiet: No gunfire. No explosions. No telltale baying from Cerberus, signaling that he's caught their scent. Nothing. Radio silence.

'Where are you guys?' Ray thought, not without a hint of guilt-laced ire. 'C'mon Jay, bust through the damn door. Get us the hell out of here.'

The sound of Trent's voice pulled Ray from his thoughts.

"So, how much daylight you reckon we have left?"

"Not much," Ray replied. "Maybe an hour, hour and a half at most. What's our plan when we're in total darkness?"

"We pray." Trent said, dejected. "We hold our positions, keep Spencer from bleeding out the best we can, and we pray."

'I've been praying this entire time.' Ray doesn't say, because despite his relentless prayers, his heartfelt begging, his genuine offers of sacrifice. . . there was nothing. Just like the world outside, God was quiet.

"Ray?" Clay asked.

His voice was quieter. Breathier. It chilled Ray down to the marrow of his bones.

"Hmm?"

"I like. . . Allison, for a girl." Clay said. "Or Elena, maybe. Dainty, feminine. . . but strong."

Tears stung Ray's eyes. "I like Allison too. Allie, for short."

"I'm votin' for Elena," Trent said with a sad little smile. "What about for a boy?"

Silence.

"Clay? Hey, Spencer?" Trent leaned over Clay's body, careful not to jostle Ray, and gently tapped his cheek. "Hey, Clay, baby names. For a boy. I wanna' hear your suggestions. C'mon, bud. Don't do this."

Clay remained quiet—eyes half open, breath growing deeper and more sporadic by the second, consciousness slipping away. A tear dripped down Ray's cheek.

"Trent," He said. "Tag me out, man. I gotta' have a break. I gotta'—"

"I got you," Trent replied, moving to take Ray's place. "Sit back, catch your breath. Get yourself right."

They switched effortlessly. While Trent held pressure on Clay's gunshot wound and monitored his breathing by sight alone, something he wouldn't be able to do once darkness fell, Ray sat back on his haunches and willed himself not to cry. Should he try to pray again? It felt pointless to do so. But what if this were a test of his faith? What if chose to give up on God, and in turn God gave up on them? On Clay? That wasn't a chance Ray was willing to take.

With tears burning his eyes still, Ray Perry closed his eyes and prayed.