[Location: Camp Fallujah, Iraq – December 22, 2008]
The battalion formation was mandatory.
Jay stood at attention in the dusty parade square, his uniform starched stiff for the first time in months, his boots polished to a dull shine. The desert wind bit through his sleeves, but he didn't shiver.
"Corporal Jason Price, front and center!"
His stomach twisted.
His stomach twisted.
D-Block elbowed him. "Look alive, hero."
Snark muttered under his breath, "Finally getting that participation trophy."
Jay stepped forward, his jaw set.
The colonel—a square-jawed lifer with a voice like gravel—pinned the Purple Heart to Jay's chest.
"For wounds sustained in combat, April 7, 2008."
The medal was cold against his ribs.
Jay didn't look down.
The colonel leaned in, voice low. "You know what we call these in the Corps, son?"
Jay knew. "The award you didn't apply for, sir."
The colonel smirked. "Damn right."
Behind him, Jay heard Reaper exhale through his nose—the closest he got to a laugh.
Next came the Navy and Marine Corps Achievement Medal with Combat "V".
"For exceptional leadership under fire during the defense of FOB Delta, September 28, 2008."
Jay's fingers twitched. That was the day his dad died.
The colonel's words blurred.
"...held the line against superior numbers..."
"...prevented enemy breach of the ammunition depot..."
"...in keeping with the highest traditions..."
Jay tuned back in just in time to hear:
"The United States thanks you for your service."
Jay almost laughed.
Thanks for what?
For Merwin's body in a bag?
For the mosque full of corpses?
For missing his father's funeral?
But he saluted. Sharp. Empty.
Back in the barracks, Jay stared at the medals in his palm.
The Purple Heart—a jagged piece of shrapnel had earned this.
The NAM-V—a night of killing strangers had earned this.
D-Block whistled. "Damn, Price. You're officially a war hero."
Jay tossed the medals onto his footlocker. "Heroes get parades. I got a hangover."
Snark smirked. "And what a hangover."
Reaper, leaning against his bunk, said nothing.
Later, when the others were gone, Jay picked the medals back up.
He didn't want them.
But he clipped them to his uniform anyway.
Not for pride.
Not for honor.
But because—
Merwin didn't get to.
His dad would've wanted him to.
Chloe might see a photo someday and know he didn't completely waste his life.
And maybe, just maybe—
Because the Corps had taken everything else. He wouldn't let it take this too.
******
[Location: Iraq → Afghanistan – February 2009]
The news came during morning chow.
"Pack your shit, boys," Sergeant Ruiz announced, slapping a stack of papers onto the rickety plywood table. "We're Afghanistan-bound."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"You goddamn kidding me?" Snark groaned, dropping his spork into his chili mac. "We just got used to this hellhole!"
D-Block, ever the optimist, grinned. "New war, new adventures!"
Jay just stared at his coffee. Another year. Another desert. Another round of burying friends.
Reaper, sitting beside him, didn't react—but his jaw tightened slightly. Even he was tired.
The flight was a C-17 Globemaster, packed with Marines, gear, and the ever-present stench of sweat and gun oil.
But for the first time in months… the squad almost felt like themselves again.
Four fresh faces had been folded into their platoon:
PFC Ricky "Rook" Alvarez – 19, baby-faced, and way too eager. Kept asking if they'd seen "real action."
LCpl Daniel "Grim" Patel – 23, former EMT, with a dark sense of humor and a habit of counting bullets like they were medication doses.
PFC Hector "Chico" Mendez – 20, a joker who could make anyone laugh, even Reaper (once).
LCpl Tom "Brick" Waller – 25, a quiet giant who'd washed out of Ranger School but could bench-press a Humvee.
"Christ," Snark muttered, watching Rook fumble with his rifle sling. "We're gonna die."
D-Block clapped the kid on the back. "Nah, we'll break 'em in right."
Jay, despite himself, smirked.
Somewhere over the Persian Gulf, a high-stakes poker game erupted (stakes: MRE Skittles and contraband energy drinks).
"Read 'em and weep, ladies," Chico crowed, slamming down a pair of kings.
"Bullshit," D-Block laughed, flipping over a full house.
Even Reaper played, his expression unreadable as he cleaned out Grim with a straight flush.
Jay, leaning against a pallet of ammo crates, watched them.
For the first time since Merwin died… it almost felt like a family again.
———
The moment the ramp dropped, the cold hit them like a slap.
"Oh fuck this," Snark wheezed, his breath fogging in the Afghan dawn. "I signed up for desert heat, not Siberia."
Jay adjusted his pack, scanning the rocky terrain. No sand here—just jagged mountains and mud-brick compounds.
A staff sergeant with a clipboard barked orders. "Welcome to the 'Stan, gentlemen. Try not to die before chow."
As they loaded into waiting Humvees, Jay felt his phone buzz in his pocket.
A text from an unknown number:
"You alive or what? – C"
Jay stared at it. Chloe.
Then, for the first time in six months… he called home.
Joyce answered on the second ring.
"Jay? Jay!" Her voice cracked. "Oh God, baby, are you okay?"
Jay swallowed. "Yeah, Mom. I'm good."
A pause. Then, quieter: "Chloe's here. She's… she's listening."
Another pause. Then—
"Hey, asshole." Chloe's voice was ice. But she was there.
Jay exhaled. "Hey, shitbird."
What followed was 20 minutes of stilted, painful, necessary conversation:
Joyce cried when he mentioned his promotion.
Chloe scoffed at the medals—but didn't hang up.
They told him about Arcadia Bay—how Joyce was working double shifts at the diner, how Chloe had blown off school three weeks straight.
He told them about Afghanistan—leaving out the parts with blood.
Then, quietly, Chloe asked: "You coming home ever?"
Jay looked at the mountains. "Yeah. Just… not yet."
Silence.
"Whatever," Chloe muttered. But she didn't slam the phone.
Joyce whispered, "We love you, Jay."
Jay closed his eyes. "Love you too."
The call ended.
******
[Location: Combat Outpost Shank, Helmand Province – March 8, 2009]
PFC Ricky "Rook" Alvarez was a social media addict.
This was well-known.
So when he pulled out his phone after a grueling three-day firefight and announced, "Yo, we're making a video," no one was surprised.
"The fuck we are," Snark muttered, flopping onto his cot like a dead fish.
"C'mon, man!" Rook grinned, already hitting record. "People back home gotta see this!"
The camera panned across the dimly lit sleeping quarters—a cramped, sandbag-reinforced conex box littered with gear, empty energy drinks, and a single, sad-looking "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" balloon (left over from Chico's 21st).
"Alright, check it—this is Helmand Province, Afghanistan," Rook narrated, his voice buzzing with adrenaline. "We just got back from getting lit the fuck up, but we're all good. Say hi, losers!"
D-Block – Immediately flexed for the camera, shirtless, showing off a shrapnel scar like it was a trophy. "Y'all see this? Taliban gave me a free tattoo!"
Snark – Flipped off the lens. "This is dumb. War is dumb. You're dumb." (He was smiling, though.)
Chico – Popped into frame wearing heart-shaped sunglasses he'd "borrowed" from a care package. "Shoutout to my fans—all three of you!"
Grim – Deadpanned into the camera. "If I die, delete my browser history."
Brick – Silently held up a handwritten sign: "MOM IF YOU SEE THIS I'M FINE STOP CRYING."
Reaper – Glared from the shadows. "Turn that shit off." (Rook wisely panned away.)
Jay – Leaned against the wall, arms crossed, Purple Heart and NAM-V glinting on his chest. At Rook's prompting, he sighed. "Hey, Chloe. Tell Mom I'm not dead yet."
Rook zoomed in on Jay's medals. "Y'all see this? My team leader is a certified badass!"
Jay rolled his eyes. "Put the phone down, Rook."
"Nah, we trending after this!"
Against all odds, Rook's video blew the hell up.
Posted March 8, 2009
Caption: "DAY IN THE LIFE OF YOUR FAVORITE MARINES (yes we're alive)"
Tags: Every squad member he could find on Facebook.
Within 24 hours:
D-Block shared it: "WE OUT HERE LOOKIN' FINE"
Snark shared it: "I was coerced."
Chico shared it: "heart emoji* heart emoji heart emoji"*
Even Reaper (who barely used Facebook) shared it with no caption.
Jay hesitated. Then, late that night, he hit "Share."
———
[Back in Arcadia Bay]
Joyce watched the video three times in a row, crying by the end. She left a comment: "We're so proud of you, Jay. Please stay safe. Love, Mom"
Then she called Chloe downstairs to watch it.
Chloe rolled her eyes when Joyce showed her—but she watched it twice. She didn't comment.
Somehow, Victoria—who'd never even met Jay—found the video through Max's repost. She commented:
"Uh, who's the hot silent guy with the knife? Asking for a friend."
Reaper never saw it. (Thank God.)
———
The next morning, their platoon sergeant stormed into the conex, holding up his phone.
"WHICH ONE OF YOU DUMBASSES POSTED A VIDEO FROM A COMBAT ZONE?!"
Rook, wisely, hid behind Brick.
Jay, Snark, and Reaper exchanged glances.
"Worth it," Snark muttered.
Jay, for the first time in months, actually laughed.