• Coming back to the Hammerstein base after scouting Rumelange, Private Matthew Johnson sat alone on two empty crates. Mark Hanson’s death wasn’t easy to take in, but he decided his only option was to move on best as he could. He sat there and watched the other soldiers, some playing basketball, others dissing each other while the audience provoked. “Johnson!” Sergeant John Baker called out. Johnson turned his head and saw Baker jogging towards him, sweat soaking his collar and underarms. “You hear about the competition Colonel Marshall is hosting?”
    “Competition? What for?” Johnson had been through enough for himself, and he frowned at the thought that he was about to be forced to compete.
    “Colonel’s been asked by one of his superiors to choose a man to send to a Spec Ops team. He chose me for whatever his reasons were, and said I had to choose my opponent that I think could do just as good a job as me.” He closed an eye as the sun began to blind him, then offered his hand.
    Johnson reluctantly shook it and hopped off the crates. “What makes you think this poor boy is good to any Spec Ops team?” he smiled. He figured a good challenge was just the thing to clear his mind and began to walk with Baker towards the Desert Fight, a circular, meagerly put together tent where soldiers could free spar with their hands and feet or safe weaponry.
    “Well, I figured this poor boy who’s accepting the challenge anyway would be good at picking out important details from everything else. Since you’re a damn good sniper. I’ve been meaning to ask, are you a PIG or a HOG?”
    “I’ve racked up a large kill count, but I have yet to come across an enemy sniper with me in his crosshairs, so that’d make me a PIG. And since we’re in the mood for asking questions, do you know what the Spec Ops team is looking for specifically?”
    Baker grinned and laughed at the sternness of the question. “You see, it’s that attitude that led me to choose you. Colonel told me they’re doing operations to try and find undeniable proof that the Euros took down our space shuttle, since they’re denying they had no control of their ballistics satellite. Anyway, gear up, Johnson. You and I are gonna put on one hell of a show for the Colonel.” Johnson smirked and stepped inside the Desert Fight tent and they both put on helmets, mouth guards, and padded armor for their hands, elbows, knees, feet, and chests.
    They stepped through the opposite opening into the Snake’s Grip, the area for fighting where only a rubber replacement of a cage stood between the fighters and the audience. “All right, you two, you’re going for three points using any moves you got stored in those fragile brains of yours,” Marshall said, tapping his head to mock the helmets. “Keep it clean too. If one of you goes down, go for the point, but no beat downs. Begin!” he yelled, and Baker and Johnson took up guard immediately. Baker threw a combo of kicks towards Johnson then grabbed at readied for a headbutt, but Johnson countered with a knee attack to the stomach, stepped back slightly, and pulled off a backflip kick. The momentum knocked Baker’s helmet clean off, but Johnson landed flat on his stomach. He quickly recovered and advanced for a clean punch to the rib. He then helped Baker up and handed him back the helmet.
    “Crazy, s**t, dude,” Baker remarked in awe. He took up guard after reorienting himself.
    They fought for another ten long minutes, with Baker scoring two points, and Johnson scoring one more. They were sweating and panting, and they’re arms hung low, fighting to keep up the extra weight. Baker threw one more combo of kicks to disorient Johnson, but with one gamble counter, Johnson stepped forward, blocked the last kick and punched Baker square in the chest, knocking him off balance and on his back. He kneeled and executed the punch to the head for the winning point. He laid back under the heavy pads, panting as Baker groaned from the final blow. The spectators had grown four times the beginning number with many struggling to see the match. Everyone cheered Johnson’s name in unison and the competitors slowly removed their heaviest armor while dragging their feet back into storage room. They lazily shoved the pads back into the bags and Baker patted Johnson on the shoulder. “You, sir,” he panted, “are one true BAMF.”
    Johnson pulled off a smirk. “Likewise, Sarge. Looks like this is good-bye.”
    Baker shook his head. “Nah, I’ll be spectating from now on. This was just the first round. Marshall needs to see how good you are with other scenarios. It’s not good-bye yet, but until then, I wish you the best of luck, you son of a b***h. Your next challenge is tomorrow in the Trench. So rest up.” Baker got up and left, groaning all the while. Johnson rested for twenty minutes, then slowly exited the Desert Fight tent. The sun was beginning to set and Johnson watched it as he wondered if helping unmask a conspiracy in the European government will be worth the sacrifice.