"He's the man on the front lines... He's the one who will take a bullet for his valentine... He's the one in harm's way for the good of others... And he's the one who's going to die for his cause... He's the martyr..."
-Hachrio's "Soldier Side"

He checked his chamber for a cartridge. Nothing. In one swift motion, he switched the magazines on his C8 rifle, the bolt slamming forward with a soft "Thud", the momentum carrying the weapon forward a bit. He took a small breath and peeked out around the corner, the hail of bullets seemingly never ending... This fog of war, never seeming as if it would lift. Clicking the fire selector to "Semi" acting as the platoon's "designated marksman", he would pick off targets, one by one, while his squad mates would carry out their designated roles.

Stepping out from behind the corner, as to get a clear shot, He methodically squeezed the trigger, careful to take precise aim. Bang. Bang. Bang. Click. Wait... Click?! Hachiro immediately ducked behind the low wall that all but covered his shins standing. He cycled the bolt manually once, stood, aimed, squeezed the trigger, and the hammer merely let out a mute "click". He was in the middle of a firefight, weapon malfunctioning, bullets whizzing over his head mere inches above. Small-arms fire slamming into the half-foot thick wall keeping him alive, and the one thing that had seen him through thick and thin conked out at the last second. Shit. He had three options. One, take someone's weapon and leave them up the creek without a paddle, Get the fuck out of there, or resort to his side arm. Well, Hachiro may be a hard-ass husky, but he wouldn't take someone's rifle without due and absolute necessity, with no other options. His pistol? A .50 Calibre Desert eagle with an 8 ½ barrel and with that behind him, with a shitload of ammo, running was no option.

He stood up, and everything seemed to be in slow motion. Brass flying by his face so slow he could read the armory marks. Bullets so slow he could count the rifling grooves. He counted the targets. 5 left. He aimed down his minimalistic sights and fired. 4 left. Again. 3 left. The private next to him shot. 2 left. A grenade exploded. 1 dead, one injured. Hachiro had seen him fall, but was unsure of the kill. He was about to hop the wall when he saw the gun barrel rise into the window. By the time he had registered what the hell was happening, he was being spun around by a 7.62 bullet slamming into his chest, ripping his left lung half to shreds. By sheer and simple luck, the last shot he fired ricocheted off of a wall, killing his target. 

The husky collapsed to the ground, blood trickling from his chest, a somewhat ragged hole through his lung. He grabbed his chest and pressed hard onto the wound, trying desperately to stop the blood flowing from his chest. Everything around him blurred into random lines and smudges, every sound compounding into an incessant whine in his ears, every touch, unfelt through a numb body. The last thing he remembered was his body dropping onto the stretcher and being airlifted out of the city.