The Golden Scar
The extraction point was four hours away, measured in strides through the mud, not in time. Elara counted her breaths to keep the tremor in her hands from becoming a shake that the sensors could detect. One. Two. Three. The mud sucked at her boots with a wet, sucking sound, heavy as wet wool. She checked her rifle. The bolt was jammed. She had to fix it before the next volley, or the algorithm...
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