The black-clad fighter is face down, motionless, partly buried in the sand.  I nudge him with my foot, then kick him hard.  Nothing.

I move on to the white-suited navigator, about 20 feet away.  He's on his side with his back to me, so I don't see the blood covering the front of his uniform until I'm right up close.  It's dried, crusted.  He's been dead for hours.

I feel his neck for a pulse anyway, push his curly hair out of the way and force one of his eyes open.

"Tried that," says a hoarse voice from behind me.

I whirl around and the fighter's pushed himself up on his elbows, sand still stuck to his face and...eye patch?!

For FUCK sake!  OF ALL THE FUCKING PEOPLE WHO COULD HAVE SURVIVED!!!

He's pointing a gun at me.  I can't believe I didn't notice that first.  I must really be slipping.

I reach for mine, but of course it's gone.  I remember shooting until it ran empty, then using it as a club until it was torn away and part of my hand went with it.

"T-take..."

He coughs but doesn't look away or lower the gun.  "Take...water...out of the pack," he croaks.  "Full.  Slow."

He looks half dead.  I doubt he could even sit up.  If I can get to him without getting shot, it won't even count as a fight.  But that's too big an 'if.'  Why did I have to fucking promise Deimos I'd do my best to live?!  Little shit's DEAD and he's still a pain in the ass!

I pull a water bottle out of my pack.

"Bring...agh... Bring it...here.  Slowly."

OK.  All the better to kick that gun out of your hand, shithead.

I get within ten feet before he says, "Stop.  Toss it...t-to me."

Shit.  I guess he thought of that too.  I deliberately toss the bottle so it lands halfway between us.  Whatcha gonna do now, blinky?

He gives me a look that could make a glacier shiver.

"Back ugh...up. Sit by...Ethos.  Leave pack.  Go."

"I'm not leaving the pack, asshol--"

"GO!" he barks, aiming the gun at my face with both hands.

He won't do it.  He's too soft.  Probably.  Maybe.  I don't know.

Fuck.

I drop the pack and walk back towards the dead navigator.  When I reach him, Praxis is almost to the bottle, still aiming the gun at me.

"Sit.  Turn around.  St...stay there."

I do, easing the switchblade out of my boot as I cross my legs.

I can hear him crawling through the sand, then the rasp of a bottle opening.  Now's my chance!

I spin around, knife raised, but he's already got the gun back in position and his eye on me even as he gulps down the water.

We just watch each other for who knows how long, him draining the bottle while I slowly rise to my knees, planning my attack.

"Give me the knife."

"Fuck you," I snarl.

"Give me the knife and another bottle of water or I'll shoot you and take them."

And I realize I've been an idiot.  I stand up and walk straight toward him.

"If you were going to shoot me, you'd have done it the moment you saw me."

I can tell from his face I'm right.

"I wanted to give you a chance, jacka--"

I duck and launch myself the last few feet and I'm on him.  He has more strength left than I thought.  I slash at his face, open a hairline cut across his cheek as he knocks my hand away, catches it, and twists.  I hold onto the blade anyway, headbutt him in his big nose, kick at him and sink my teeth into his arm.  Then he jams my other, mutilated hand into the sand and everything goes searing white with agony.

When I can see again, my knife is gone and he's on top of me, pressing my back into the burning sand, one hand holding down my right wrist while the other holds what's left of my left hand up so he can inspect it.

I struggle, try to buck him off, try to bite him again, but he's got my head pinned down by the hair so I can't reach.  Then I see my hand and go still.

It's worse.  Much worse.  The wound down the side where my pinkie used to be is purple-black and oozing pus, the stump of my ring finger looks almost as bad, and the whole thing smells like week-old summer roadkill.

"I can fix this," he tells me.  "If you let me.  If you don't, you'll be dead from blood poisoning in two days.  If you're lucky.  Four or five if you're not.  It's not a good death."

The gun is in a holster at his hip.  He seems so interested in my fucked up hand that it's not hard to get my good one free, grab  the gun, and jam the muzzle into his chest.

"Get OFF me!" I order.

He looks down at me with an unreadable expression.

"Do you really want to kill me?"

I shove and kick until he's off.  He just sits next to me and stares while I keep the gun trained right on his one eye.

"Is this what you want, Cain?  You've said it enough times.  Well, here's your chance."

The fuck?  If he wanted to die, what was all that crap about getting water for!?

"No one will ever know.  You can blame it on the 'Terons if anyone even asks.  Or say I was dying anyway and it was a mercy kill."

He edges closer.

"Go on.  Pull the trigger."

Fine, I will!

In a moment.

When he stops looking at me.

When I stop feeling like a monster.

When I stop shaking like a little bitch.

"No?"

He reaches out, slowly, gently, puts his hand over mine, and pulls the trigger himself.

Click.

Empty.

"That's what I thought."

He hands me my knife back.

"Take the pack.  Start walking.  I'll catch up."

What the flying fuck just happened?!