The Wistful Petal
The helicopter banked hard, the rotor wash flattening the dry grass into a shivering sea. I was not afraid. Fear is a luxury for those who have choices. I had my orders. I had the map. I had the weight of the rifle against my shoulder, a familiar anchor in the void. Below us, the valley stretched out, a patchwork of rusted earth and brittle sage. It was beautiful in the way a wound is...
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