Hope y'all are staying safe. Prayers to everyone during this time of global crisis.

So, this storyline (or one along the lines of) was suggested and I attempted it, might fall short, but...well, angst, self-doubt and blame thyself, is not my style. All I can say is, I tried.

With everyone wearing night vision, it was easy to keep an eye on Bravo One's raised hand. All eyes ignored the surrounding area, watched only him and waited for the countdown of tucking one finger at a time into a fist until there were none – their signal to attack.

Five, four, three…..

The night exploded into bursts of light. The ground beneath their feet vibrated, the walls behind their shoulders shook. Debris toppled, fire flared, dust rose, smoke spread.

"Bravo, what did I just see?" Eric Blackburn, Bravo's Lieutenant Commander, barked into the phone receiver. "Bravo One?"

Command center erupted into frantic chaos. People jockeyed for position at key boards. Large screens on the wall came to life. Drones were redirected. Satellite footage was booted up, brought on-line.

"Bravo One?"

"Was that gun shots? Were shots fired?!"

"Explosion!"

"Was that a rocket grenade!"

"Fire?! Is there a fire? Can anyone confirm?"

"Report!"

"What we got?"

"BRAVO ONE?"

"Building on east block has collapsed!"

"That's close to where Bravo was."

"Lost video feed from drone four."

"DAMMIT! Site rep! BRAVO ONE?!"

"No movement."

"WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?"

"Check that, civilians in the streets."

"Air is two mikes out."

"Ground's scrambled."

"BRAVO ONE? BRAVO?"

"Ground is on the move."

"DOES ANYONE HAVE ANY VISUAL?"

"We're blind."

"We're up, but can't see. Too much smoke, dust."

"Nadda."

"No further explosions, sir."

()()()

Jason remained crouched down and hunched over until the deafening sounds of explosions and what sounded like gun shots dimmed and finally ceased. Though the night was now lit by what seemed like numerous burning fires, his ability to see further than the length of his arm was hindered by smoke, dust and debris.

If his comms were working, his ears weren't, because he couldn't hear any voices. Just distant, dull, muted sounds that made him feel like he was under water. Coughing into the crook of his elbow, he slowly rose, turned around, leaned against whatever part of the wall remained to give him support.

He knew the rule was to stop, attempt to make contact with HAVOC, take stock of his own injuries, but he didn't know what had happened and his men were out there somewhere – and they came first.

Fuck the damn rule book.

He could stand. Wobblily.
He could see. Mostly.
He had two arms, two hands and ten fingers that wouldn't stay still.
He had two legs and boots on his feet and there were two of those too.
His helmet remained on his head.
His ears were still attached, though not working correctly.
He knew, because he wormed his fingers under the protective flaps, felt them.

Despite the activity going on all around him, he pushed out of his secure spot, headed for the nearest location where one of his men had been.

Brock was coming at him, charging forward like a boar breaking through thick briar. He was shouting….Jason knew this because Brock ignored his out-stretched hand, veered sharply and bee-lined off to the right. So, someone must have answered his shout.

Maybe the dog.

No…no, they hadn't brought the dog. Right? Cerberus was back at the base of command with Blackburn. Jason frowned, winced when his head protested the mere facial contortion, swung around to follow Brock.

Brock hopped over a mound of rock and dirt, slid down the other side, began to dig. Jason joined him. Brock was talking, Jason could actually see his mouth move, his night vision goggles remained intact and in place, but he couldn't hear a word - only sounds that sounded remarkably like the response that came from Charlie Brown's off-the-screen teacher.

Hearing damage?
Trauma?
Stress?
Half his head gone?

They freed Sonny, who despite numerous cuts and scrapes and one profusely bleeding wound, was otherwise whole and hale. Brock was pulling a strip of cloth from his fanny pack as Jason patted the Texan down. When Jason nodded all was good, he'd found no further injuries on Sonny, Brock ignored his yelp of outrage and pain, tied the cloth securely and tightly over his left bicep. With a pat on his shoulder and a nod to his boss, Brock was off and moving.

Sonny slapped Jason on the back, moved after him, left Jason to bring up the rear.

Brock collected teammates as they scoured the area. First Sonny, then Metal. Vic, Ray. Then Trent.

And just guess who remained missing.

Jason, deprived of one of his main senses, felt like it had taken over an hour to gather his men together, see for himself that they were alive and whole - minus some skin, some blood, but no limbs, no loss of life. In fact, it had been less than five minutes and three of those had been spent yelling and calling and searching where Clay should have been.

"HERE!" yelled someone but Jason didn't hear, didn't rush with the others, didn't duck the chunk of debris that clipped him in the shoulder, knocked him off balance.

Dazed, he stumbled, went to his knees. Metal grabbed his arm, dragged him to his feet and pulled him away. He resisted but his balance was off, his legs wouldn't obey the commands he was sending them and he went with Metal who led him to a mostly intact building that would provide shelter and protection.

"Stay down." Metal ordered. He didn't want to argue or physically restrain his boss, but he did. He held tight and kept him down when he stupidly and stubbornly, repeatedly tried to leave. He didn't stop or settle down until his men came in, carrying Clay, and dragging Sonny.

Flashlights were turned on, the floor was kicked clean, Clay was put down, flat on his back. Sonny was howling because Trent had his fingers in whatever wound was bleeding the most. There was nothing slow, careful, gentle or delicate when it came to field medicine.

"SONOFABITCH!" Sonny roared. "FUCK THAT HURTS!" He sat still but couldn't be still. Ray hugged him from behind, holding him down while Trent probed. "DAMMIT TRENT!"

Trent ignored him. A tourniquet was applied, a bottle was opened. Sonny's hand was grabbed, his arm extended, held still. Scissors cut his sleeve from wrist to armpit. Liquid splashed over the open wound. Sonny hissed, cursed, thumped his heels against the floor but otherwise held still.

"Do you HAVE to do that?" Sonny groused, fingers curled into a tight, proper fist. "JESUS!"

Trent rubbed and dabbed, poured more, tore a package open with his teeth, swabbed the wound, poured the rest of the bottle. Seconds later, Sonny was stapled, taped, wrapped and forgotten as Trent turned his attention to Clay.

"Hell!" Sonny worked on making his breath even. "I'm not gonna forget that." But he went ignored, by everyone.

"You're fine." Trent blew him off. "Just a scratch."

"What we got?" Ray squatted down on Clay's other side as Trent felt for broken bones. Poked, prodded, patted, palpated, pushed, pulled, pinched. "You good?" Trent nodded, so Ray pointed to Jason. Trent responded by tapping his ear. Ray got it, gave the medic a thumbs up.

Temporarily deaf was all. Jason still had his balance, had no trouble walking. Would turn his head in directions of loud sounds. Far as Trent was concerned, their boss was fine.

Trent pulled a pen light, checked Clay's eyes, counted his pulse, best as he could.

Pupils reactive to light.
Breathing unrestricted.
Heart rate normal.
He wasn't bleeding.
Hadn't been shot.
Had no visible wounds, no sign on any internal bleeding.

Clay didn't normally 'just faint', but he'd just recovered from a combination of cold/flu and he hadn't slept well on the flight over, so Trent cracked open a vial of 'smelling salts', moved away as far as he could, stretched out, waved the bottle beneath Clay's nose, reared back when the blonde flailed, striking out at anyone within distance.

And that was Vic. Who took a fist to the face. Because the rest of Bravo knew better than to remain too close to their 'rookie' sniper when Trent was waking him up via ammonia.

Trent cracked a grin, slapped Vic on the back hard enough to knock him forward.

"Take note." He cautioned. "Be aware of your surroundings."

"The hell you talking about?" Vic fingered his split lip. Great, it would swell and everyone would joke that he'd gotten a fat lip by a dude flat on his back.

"Guess you didn't notice no one was close enough to him to get hit." Metal intoned. "Except you."

Vic cursed, moved away, shrugged off Brock's attempt to look at his mouth, ignored his question about lose teeth. Being the newest member on any team - sucked, but he'd encountered shit on Bravo he'd never experienced anywhere else.

"What the hell happened?" Sonny asked. He was on his feet, patrolling, looking, peeking, listening. Like Metal, he was armed and if anything moved, it would be shot.

They all paused and listened, Trent held Clay down by a knee on his shoulder, put a finger against the blonde's lips who was waking up and gaining his senses, his bearings. He understood his medic's gesture, didn't even attempt to sit up.

There was no sound of rapid gun fire. No shots were even being fired. No sounds of vehicles. Just panicked voices, crying children, screaming women, shouting men. No shouts of: 'find them' or 'kill them'.

"Clay?" Ray asked. "What can you make out?"

Clay stirred, raised his knees, planted his heels, tried to sit up. Trent didn't let him. Metal, Brock and Sonny were openly standing in the door or peering out windows. Nothing and no one were coming at them. It was like no one even cared they were there – or knew.

"Explosion at a factory." Clay coughed, wiped his hand across his mouth. "Water?" He was handed a bottle with his preferred pop-up tab. "It was…..there were third-shift workers inside." He swallowed, listened, winced at the noise outside. "Building collapsed, took others nearby with it." He paused, drank some more. "Buildings aren't too sturdy over here. People are trapped."

"And factories over here employ children." Ray said grimly.

"Third shift?" Vic questioned.

"Not America." Brock reminded him.

"Clay, your head hurt?" Trent watching him closely, trusting his teammates to cover their safety, hadn't missed the wince or the half-open eyes. "Jason, sit down."

"He can't hear you."

"Metal," Trent motioned.

"Got'im." Metal 'assisted' his boss back to the rickety chair he'd been sitting on. "Diversion for Haseem to flee, you think?" He questioned, Ray nodded, Brock shrugged.

"If he was even here." Vic added.

"Doesn't matter." Clay tried again to sit up, this time Trent eased the pressure from his leg, let him come up on his elbows. "People were hurt, trapped."

"Sit up slow." Trent warned. "Dizzy?"

"No. I'm good."

Trent removed his knee, let Clay sit up. "Anything? Who am I?"

Clay shook his head. "I'm good Trent. No pain, no nausea." He patiently sat, let Trent do another exam. "Okay, bit of pain….mostly from noise."

"Who's he?" Trent pointed to Vic, the newest member to the team, Clay's least favorite teammate and the man everyone knew the least.

"Lopez." He accepted Brock's hand and rose to his feet. "We should help."

"Help?" Vic repeated. "Help who? Why? This isn't our problem."

"Because they're innocent people caught up in violence that has nothing to do with them." Sonny shot back.

"Yeah, not you." Trent said. "You and Jason are going back to the base infirmary."

"It's just a scratch." Sonny blew the medic off. "You did me up, I'm good."

"Not up for discussion." Ray took Trent's side. "Clay, you sure you're good?" He turned to Trent without waiting for Clay to answer. "Trent? He good?"

"He's good." Trent nodded. "No sign of a concussion, no lump on his head, no evidence of trauma. He feels dizzy or pukes, he'll tell me, right Spenser?"

"Right, sure."

"He was unconscious." Ray reminded everyone.

"Meh." Trent hoisted his medical backpack. "I'll be here, he'll come tell me, his shit goes sideways."

Jason nodded his permission, though Ray had no idea if Jason even knew what he was agreeing to...oh wait, no he did. Metal was writing on a notepad, so Ray had to accept his team was staying.

Air support came first.
Then ground.
Sonny and Jason were returned to base via chopper.
The rest of Bravo remained to figure out what happened and to lend help where they could.

()()()

"Blackburn?" Covered in soot, ash, dust and blood, Ray jogged down the hallway, slowed to a sedate pace when he saw his team's commander chatting with a doctor, calmly sipping coffee. Eric wasn't frantic, wasn't pacing. His hair wasn't disheveled from pushing his hands through it, he wasn't tapping a foot, his hands weren't on his hips.

He was calm, relaxed, neither tense nor anxious. All must be good. Still, seeing his team's Lt. Commander in the hallway had thrown him for a loop. One didn't normally see Blackburn idly chatting up a doctor unless something was wrong or someone was seriously hurt. Like, life-altering hurt.

"Perry." Eric, tipping his cardboard container of coffee-flavored water in the direction of Ray, greeted. "They're not chasing you, they want to help you."

"What?" Ray came to a halt. Not the greeting he was expecting. "Uh, yeah. Any update?" He now noticed the trailing two infirmary workers. "Oh, sorry."

"What are you doing here?" Eric asked, accepted the rifle Ray handed him, then the backpack, the sidearm, the knife. "You bring someone in? Spenser? Sonny said he was knocked unconscious."

"Where else would I go?" He gave Eric his extra round clips. "Sonny and Jason were brought here. Any word?" He paused, patted his many pockets. "Spenser's still onsite. He's good."

"Sonny's awake, getting stitched up, CT confirms no damage to blood vessels or muscle."

Ray swallowed, was patting his pockets, somewhat distracted. Yeah, Trent had said as much. Still, hearing it from a doctor after x-rays and a scan, was closure. "Jason?"

"He reacts to loud noises, responds to pain. Not too happy being separated from his team."

Ray blew his breath out, unaware he'd been holding it. "So, both gonna be okay?" That explained why Blackburn was at the infirmary. Not because one of his men were seriously injured, but because one of them had to be handled. 'Cause yeah, Spenser out of Jason's sight when their boss didn't know what happened, wouldn't go over well. Bravo One wouldn't be happy until he was reunited with his entire team.

"This op went sideways six ways to Sunday." Eric set his coffee on a nearby ledge, took whatever Ray handed to him. "Jason's going to be fine. His hearing is already returning. Where's everyone else?"

"Still in the field." Ray patted his hair, dust rose, everyone stepped back. "Village was hit." He clarified at Eric's blank look. "You know Trent, and he needs Clay so," he shrugged. "You know damn well Brock isn't going to leave either one of them."

"Not our problem." Those three, lose and unattended, running amuck in the village? Trouble would find them, guaranteed. Ray should have stayed with them, Eric understood his need to check on Jason, but….. "We're still gathering intel, collecting evidence, but once we knew you were all safe, it looks more and more like it was just a faulty gas line in an unstable building that was over-occupied. The power grid was maxed beyond..."

"People were hurt." Ray stated. "Metal stayed with them."

"Lopez?" Blackburn questioned, raised an eyebrow, his attention successfully diverted.

Ray looked over his shoulder, sighed. "Vic went to wash up." How the younger man could do that without getting an update on his injured teammates first was beyond him. He simply did not understand the man's priorities.

"You didn't order them to return with you?" Eric felt marginally better. Metal was responsible and usually level-headed and knowing he was in the village to keep an eye on those three, made Eric breathe just a little easier.

But not much.

"Oh yeah, yeah, I did. Worked real well." Ray confirmed. He'd been flipped off, ignored and patted on the head. "Okay, I'm ready. You good here?" He wore only his long-sleeved shirt and pants, every other article of clothing and equipment he'd worn or carried in, sat on the floor around Eric. Except the weapons, those Eric held.

"Go." Eric tilted his head in the direction of the two hospital workers who had trailed Ray. "Go get checked out."

Ray out of sight, Eric made a phone call and within minutes, someone had arrived to relieve him of everything Ray had left behind.

"Thanks Doc." Eric juggled various weapons, reached to shake the man's hand as the soldier who had responded to his call picked up Ray's vest and helmet from the floor. "I'll take Jason with me." He chuckled at the doctor's relieved expression. "Guess that means he's good to go?" The doctor nodded. "Ray will remain and make sure Sonny is returned to base and….." Vic strolled up. "Lopez," He frowned at the man whose appearance he felt should have been sooner. "Take a wrong turn?"

"What? No."

"Got lost? Didn't know where I was?"

"We were told….I don't….what?"

Eric shook his head. His ride was waiting. "I'm returning to base with your boss so Davis doesn't haven't to peel him off the ceiling on her own."

"What? She can't handle him?" Vic scoffed.

"Get checked out, then stay with Ray, wait for Sonny."

"Say what now?" Vic pivoted. "Can't I go back with you?" He was dirty, dusty and wanted a hot shower, clean clothes.

Eric paused, tossed his empty coffee up into a trash can, kept walking. "If you need to see a medical professional, tell the doctor."

()()()

Bravo was still at the village because Trent wasn't ready to go. No, it wasn't their job to stay and help, but medical aid was required and first responders were not that experienced nor were there that many of them.

While Clay had stayed with Trent to interpret, manage the injured and sort by who needed the most care, Metal and Brock had organized the residents clearing debris from collapsed buildings, looking for anyone trapped or just clearing a room in a building that was still sturdy enough to provide residents somewhere to take shelter. The explosion had occurred in one building, but the outward blast had caused damage to other structures as well. Such as a partially caved in roof or a buckled wall.

Time passed, no one knew how much or cared. The work seemed never-ending, the need for assistance great, but as hours passed and more volunteers and authorized personnel with machinery and equipment arrived, Bravo found with the extra help, the need for theirs had dwindled and they all, save Trent, were ready to pack it in and return to the base for hot showers and comforting food.

So Metal had been tasked with retrieving Trent, while Brock, tired and dirty, his hands scraped, bruised and bleeding, sat waiting for them on an overturned crate, Clay sprawled on his back in the dirt at his feet, watching the cut on the heel of his thumb bleed through yet another layer of bandages.

Ooooh, Trent wasn't going to be happy. He'd wanted Brock to return with Ray and Vic, get it looked at, at the infirmary but Brock had refused, said he was fine, so Trent had burned the cut with a caustic stick – ruthlessly, mind you, and hadn't that felt great – applied Dermabond, a bandage, taped him up and told him to get out of his sight.

Huh, he'd thought by now, the multiple layers of tight bandages along with the earlier treatment would have stopped the bleeding, but it hadn't. He wasn't in pain, his thumb wasn't numb. He could move, but not bend it, the layers were too many but it still bled.

He decided to ignore it.

He sipped water from a bottle someone at some time had handed him but it tasted like cinder, was warm. No wonder Clay always wanted it ice cold. He moved slightly, ducked his head with a weak grin. Though a bottle of water was balanced on his belly, the kid wasn't drinking.

Clay was bouncing back from the flu, still fought fatigue, tired easily, but had been cleared to return to duty by Navy doctors. He hadn't run a fever or coughed up icky colored phlegm for five consecutive days now. Woot.

The team Doc, courtesy of heavy influence from Trent, Brock didn't doubt, had stressed: no hiking, no diving, no jumping, no swimming, no repelling, no climbing, no running.

He hadn't specified: no digging, no lifting, no carrying of heavy objects. HAHA! Or getting knocked unconscious by a falling building! HAHAHAHA!

Brock gave the blonde sniper a nudge with his toe in the hip, had his foot swatted away. Clay was fine, just taking a break – same as Brock. Just, unlike Brock, Clay always sought out someone he knew to be with, when he let his guard down.

Blackburn had sent men from the base to aid and assist and they'd relayed the information that Blackburn had returned to command with Jason, who was now able to hear, and Ray had followed with Sonny once the Texan had been released from care. Vic hadn't been mentioned and no one had spared a moment to ask.

"Gonna let Trent look at your hand?" Clay had his arm crossed over his eyes. He was exhausted and he ached in places he'd never ached before – like the back of his fucking knees. And that was saying something, considering his training.

Brock rolled his head along the wall he was slumped against, cast a dubious look at his traitorous thumb. "It's good."

Clay sat up, remained on his ass, splayed his legs. Ow. Doing squats with a weighted barbell on his shoulders had nothing on squatting and lifting concrete. "Bullshit."

"What?" Brock lifted his head, raised his hands, waggled his fingers. "My hand's fine, dumbass." He was quiet. "See?" he held it up, but even in the odd light, blood could be seen trickling towards his elbow. Clay smirked, toasted the air with the bottle of water. Brock frowned. "Oh."

Metal came back.

"On your feet." He ordered. "Let's go."

"Go? Go where?"

"Humvee Blackburn sent to retrieve us, is here. We're leaving, it's not an option. Move."

"Hell, we're ready to go." Clay winced, hunched to stretch his back. Man, he ached. Trent would tell him, were he to share his aches and pains with the medic, that it was because his body was still recovering from all the inactivity it'd been subjected to when he'd had the flu.

"Trent?"

"He's finishing setting a leg, he'll meet us at the Humvee, now let's go." Metal said impatiently, firmly. The damn medic had better meet them. If he had to go find him, Trent wouldn't like how he made it to the Humvee. Because either conscious and walking under his own power or unconscious and slung over a shoulder, the blasted medic would be leaving.

"Sounds a bit like Jason, don't you think?" Brock slid to his feet, gave Clay a hand up to his feet. He winced, hissed at the sting in his palm, the sudden flair of pain in his thumb when Clay grabbed hold and squeezed. He abruptly let go and Clay thudded to the ground with such a thud, his teeth clacked.

"HEY!" Clay protested. "Ow man, the hell?"

"You gotta squeeze so hard?"

Metal rolled his eyes, started off down the street. "End of the block, turn right." He called over his shoulder. "Three minutes. I gotta come back after your asses, I'm dragging you out by your ankles."

Brock flipped him off, left Clay sitting on the ground, moved off to retrieve the weapons and gear they'd stashed earlier. It was within sight, duh, there was a reason Brock had chosen to take his break where he had. Everything was still where they'd left it…including Clay's sniper rifle, because Brock had checked before sitting down to drink some water and it hadn't been out of his sight since.

If only he could have said the same about Clay.

He knew how to move quickly and quietly. Knew how to gather and collect and carry and stow and manage within seconds. Seconds. It had been seconds. Not even ten. It had been mere seconds.

He'd turned his back to collect their gear; shoulder his backpack. They both still wore their vests, their helmets were sitting near his bottle of water. He had just stooped down to collect their rifles, was slinging his over his shoulder, when….

Clay yelped.

Brock spun. A body lay unmoving in the dirt. Dust had been kicked up, obstructing his ability to see clearly. The sounds of shouting, crying and machinery that not two minutes ago had given him a headache, were now muted and distant, forgotten. Time slowed. Unable to see, convinced it was Clay, Brock's sole focus was getting to the body.

It was his ears that alerted him to the fact something else was wrong. The sounds of grunts, skin on skin, thuds of a punch being landed. How he knew that, knew it was a fist-fight despite the sounds of rescue workers, he didn't know or care, but he did and some part of his brain laughed, thanked God it had been Jason and not he, who had been rendered temporarily deaf.

Despite the darkness brightened only by distant lights, Brock was able to make out three figures fighting through the dim dusk and dust.

Clay.

Unable to bring his rifle around and arm it in time, Brock easily pulled his SIG. As soon as Clay managed to give him an advantage, he took aim. One shot, one dead, one to go.

Before Brock could get off another shot, the man who had been on the ground, kicked Clay's feet out from under him. He went down hard, and the two men ran, dragging the dead assailant with them.

What the hell was that about?

Brock didn't give chase. He rushed to his fallen teammate's side, skidded in on his knees, overshot, scrambled back. His hands felt Clay up and down as he repeatedly called his name, gave him a couple slaps across the face, shook him.

"Dammit Clay, come on!" Clay wasn't wearing his helmet either, Brock tugged his fingers through Clay's tangles, feeling for a lump or broken skin anywhere on his skull. "Hey, need you with me here."

Don't do this me, this can't be happening, not again, I took my eyes off you for five fucking seconds, why is it always you?

Brock produced a pocket-sized flashlight, balanced it between his teeth, saw his fingers were red. Blood. Where the hell had that come from? Not his. So..….

"CLAY?" Panic that he had successfully manage to squelch, kicked up. Clay was bleeding. Wasn't from his head. Had he been shot, stabbed? "Clay! Comeoncomeoncomeon…." A second, more thorough pat-down and his deft fingers found the rend in Clay's shirt sleeve. Stabbed. "Jesus..." He determined that stab wound was in the meaty flesh of Clay's upper arm and not life-threatening. Relief make his knees weak. Clay had deflected the attack and the heavy, unique material of his shirt had slowed the plunge of the knife, so only a superficial wound.

Clay groaned, stirring beneath the hands that patted him down.

Before Brock could calm him, activity around them exploded. People were suddenly there; running, stomping, pushing, shoving; yelling, shouting, screaming, ordering. Hands tried to separate Brock from Clay, stopped when Brock fought back. Questions were asked in the local language. Brock couldn't answer, because he didn't understand what was being said.

Then...a motor. Revved, coming fast. A Humvee. That didn't care about barriers, it barreled through the crowd, forced people to jump and flee to avoid being hit. It slid to an abrupt halt. Doors opened. His name was called. Clay's name. Metal was there. He was pushed back, couldn't get any closer. Someone who wasn't Metal gave orders. Metal didn't like that.

An ambulance. A gurney. Clay was picked up, strapped on it. Trent was there, yelling. He didn't get through.

Brock was swept along with the men carrying the gurney because Clay held tight to his hand. The last he saw of his teammates before the ambulance door was closed, was Trent picking up rifles and helmets and backpacks.

Metal was hopping mad.