The city was empty, at first. It was dirty and dilapidated and barren, and it felt unlivable. Purposeless.

So why was he here?

Chris squinted up at the clear sky. The gentle blues and beating sun felt eerily off-putting, like they were out of place here. Not that those feelings made any sense. Since when was good weather a bad thing?

He walked down narrow streets that were barely more than dirt and rocks. Most places were hardly wide enough for a vehicle to squeeze through. The few windows that weren't boarded up opened up into messy homes that looked like they'd been overturned in a rush to leave. Chris's heart rate kicked up fearfully.

Sound slowly filtered back in, rocking the ground under Chris's boots with the volume of it all. Gun... gunshots? And explosions. Shouting, screaming, running. All of it filled his ears so suddenly is was painful. And still the city was deserted, nothing to be seen.

He kept walking. He was shaking, even though he had no way to know what the sounds really meant. There was no explanation for what he was experiencing.

The further he went, the more he was sure he was seeing things. Out of the corner of his eye he'd catch a glimpse of a soldier, or a man, or a woman. Children. He spun quickly, chasing the ghost of a vision, but it was gone every time. Until it wasn't.

Like the sound, one moment the city was empty, and the next it was filled to burst. Soldiers running with measured stomps, their guns held high and ready. Residents running. Everywhere. Children - oh god the children. Chris's stomach churned as he watched them, scared, lost, abandoned. Run down in the chaos of it all.

This was what death was. It was chaos and pain. It was these people, littering the ground, sacrificed in the mass hysteria of war. Not exclusive to war, but flawlessly exemplified in it. Death. God, he remembered death. How had he ever forgotten? Life was so short, fleeting. Easily snuffed out.

There was a woman, wailing loudly over the bleeding body of a teenager. He rushed to her aid, crouching down low and checking the kid for his pulse. There was none. He tried to calm the mom but she kept screaming, flailing, scratching at him. She spat insults, tore at his uniform.

Oh god. He was wearing a uniform. He remembered now, that he was a part of the men ruining this city. There were enemy troops here, they were supposed to take them out. That's all they were supposed to do. This wasn't the mission.

There was another gunshot, so close it was practically behind his ear, and the woman crumpled.

Chris woke with a gasp, struggling to sit up straight in his bed. He kicked his blankets away, checking his body all over though he wasn't sure if he thought he might be wounded, or just still in those uniforms.

He turned and looked across the barely lit room to the bed against the opposite wall. He almost scrambled out of bed to check that Lydia was still breathing, still alive, but then she let out a god awful snore and shifted.

Chris laughed quietly out of relief as he watched her starfish to every corner of her bed. He could see drool trailing down her cheek even from here, and it was a wonder he'd manage to sleep through her snoring like a tractor.

Slowly he laid back down, pulling his blanket up to his chin. He didn't want to close his eyes though. He was afraid of what he'd dream of this time.

It haunted him even with his eyes open, though. Somehow, he'd forgotten death. Back when they'd been fighting Medea and all the other horsemen, he was pretty sure. But why? How?

He felt nauseous, remembering it now. Forgetting had been a blessing, and now that it was gone he was left with nothing but the rush of the fear returning. He could die. He probably would die, working for the hunters.

He was going to die.

He groaned, fitfully kicking his legs as he tried to get comfortable and forget again. Death persisted, though. It wasn't going to let him forget again so soon.