Sunday, January 19th, 2014 (Presumably) - ??? - Secret Underground Bunker Thing (Or What's Left of it) - Secret Town, Mexico

I'm getting real tired of these near death experiences.

My eyes open momentarily, and I'm struck with the blinding white light that fills the room the Organizer and I were in when the bomb went off, the sound of footsteps pounding on the metal floor punching my ear drums in their figurative faces. Mumbled gibberish accompanies the audio assault, slipping in almost undetected underneath the rhythmic stomping. My head lazily falls backward, until it's being fully supported by the wall behind me and my heavy, drooping eyelids fall closed once more and I fade deeper into unconsciousness once more. The sound of gunfire replaces the stomps, or more accurate likely, drowns out the footsteps. The gibberish is no more.

I'm just hoping for some peace and quiet. Too bad that happening is about as probable as me getting struck by lightning in this underground death trap.

My eyes open again, the light severely less potent than it was moments prior. Though still blurry, I can see the vague approximations of what appear to be men in full body armor, face blocking helmets included, fanning through the smoke. The one nearest me says something in warbled, meaningless syllables. I should be able to understand him, but he sounds like he's speaking a foreign language. For all I know, he could be.

I struggle, placing my palms against the ground, before pushing up off the ground. On unsteady feet and shaky knees I stand, about ready to fall over at any second. The lack of coordination wins and I fall backwards, against the wall. I'm about to slide back down to where I was before, but then a hand reaches out through the clearing smoke.

Without hesitation, I grab it. Not a good idea, but it was my only shot at not falling against the wall again.

The owner of the hand pulls me closer. I don't recognize the person standing before me, hand clamped around mine. It's probably the fact that whoever it is has a helmet on and said helmet is covering their entire face. Yeah, that makes sense. Totally.

"Are you L-" the hand's owner asks. It's a distinctly masculine voice.

"Yes," I say without the slightest hint of hesitation crossing my mind. He releases his grasp on my hand and I pull it back to my side. He reaches to his side and from a holster on his hip hands me a pistol that I don't recognize. This is odd, seeing as though I've seemingly gripped every pistol known to man and have seen the ones I haven't. Something's up here.

Wait, are my old memories mixing with my new ones?

Next thing I know, it'll be revealed that I'm some reality altering douchebag with shape shifting abilities. Nah, that's a little too far fetched, even for me.

"Can you shoot?"

"Yes."

A series of bangs erupts from the other side of the wall. The man in front of me ducks, holding his head and I halfheartedly do the same, pointing the barrel of this new side arm up towards the ceiling.

"I meant; are you good to? Last thing I need is arming you coming back to bite me in the ass."

"You mean shoot you in the ass?" Now the flurry of gunfire passes by the doorway, without a sound. I'm still out of it.

"Now's no time for jokes."

"I don't even know what's going on! I don't know what time it is!"

He slaps me hard in the face, which seems to do wonders for getting my mind back on track. The fire I saw before fading into unconsciousness is still there, eating through the metal walls as well as you could expect. The metal's starting to boil, either that or it's my eyes. Could be both for all I care.

"Come with me and I'll explain everything." He takes off, out of the room and across the narrow hall where sure enough, a knocked over trashcan serves as cover enough for a pair of armed men dressed in the same uniform as my savior. Currently, one is down, back to the rubber prism, trying to fix a jam in his gun while the other pokes his head up and fires a burst of rounds across the hall at a screaming, retreating crowd of scientists not unlike our own Doctor Disemboweled who likely got blown to bits in the initial explosion. Four of the seven go down with bullet wounds ranging from their shoulders to their knees. One tries to crawl away, but the same guard fires one more round that stops him dead in his tracks. Literally.

The one with the jam looks up to see his friend and I standing there like deer in the headlights of impending doom. "This is him?" he asks, almost slightly underwhelmed. Then again, I notice that I'm struggling to keep balance. That's definitely why, my ego tells me.

"Yeah, in the flesh."

"He's a little, smaller than I expected," General Genocide remarks.

"Don't you got more women and children to shoot, bitch?" I retort.

"I'll shoot you."

"Do it, ." I aim the pistol I received as a gift at his eyes before he can do the same with his rifle, but before I can pull the trigger, my savior stops me.

"No one is shooting anyone!" He pushes down on the top of my gun, until it's aimed at the ground and my arms are parallel to each other, perpendicular to the ground. "Ramirez, stop being a psycho."

"I was supposed to be guarding you."

"Yeah, and only little pussies need to defend people against a retreating mob of spooks."

"I don't like your attitude," he snaps.

"And unlike your coward ass, I will kill you if given the chance, creep."

"Focus, both of you."

I turn to my savior while keeping one eye on Ramirez. "On what?"

"Extraction. ETA: ten minutes."

"What?"

"Unlike some of us, I was paying attention to the mission."

"Yeah, we gotta get out of here. Sorry, you don't get to Robert Bales any more motherfuckers."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Make me."

The guy with the jammed rifle interjects. Literally, he stands in the middle of us and shoves his arms out to either side, blocking both of us physically. "You're on the same side. Cool it."

I scoff. "I am cool! Do you not hear how cool I am?" I ask, my voice straining in an attempt not to scream at the top of my lungs.

"Both of you, can it. We need to go." He spins around on one heel before taking off down the hall behind us. Reluctantly, I follow, allowing the other two to go ahead of me in case Ramirez decides to go postal. Or, I decide to shoot him in the back to give him the coward's death he so desperately deserves.

I raise my gun, and aim it at his back.

Sighing, I lower it and follow the pack down the hall, turning left. I know where we're going.

It's where the Organizer and I should've gone.

The helipad.

I don't know how it took me this long to guess that's what they meant by extraction, but oh well.