Author's Note: Remember that PTSD tag?

Anthony sat quietly in the dimly lit barracks set up near the edge of Kuo Kuana, the soft hum of the evening carrying a sense of calm. He leaned back against the wooden wall, staring at his hands, scarred and calloused from years of combat. The fight with Sienna had stirred something in him—memories he thought he'd buried. Memories of a battle that had forever marked him.

The Second Korean War.

Flashback: Near Pyongyang, North Korea – 2035

It had been five years since that day, but the sounds, the smells, and the chaos of it all were still vivid in Anthony's mind. His platoon had been deployed to a small village just outside the North Korean capital. Intelligence had suggested the area was clear, but the ambush came like a bolt of lightning.

The first explosion ripped through their convoy, flipping the lead Humvee and sending Marines scrambling for cover. Gunfire erupted from every direction, tracer rounds lighting up the night like deadly fireflies. The Lieutenant had been standing next to Anthony, shouting orders, when a sniper's bullet pierced his helmet, dropping him instantly.

"LT's down!" someone screamed, panic rising like a tide.

Sergeant Morales, a grizzled veteran with a voice like gravel, took charge immediately. "Close-quarters! Prepare for combat! Fix bayonets if you have to!"

Anthony's heart pounded as he gripped his rifle tighter, his breath fogging the inside of his helmet. The ambush had forced them into the narrow alleys and mud-brick homes of the village, where the fighting devolved into a brutal melee. There was no time for hesitation, no room for error.

Anthony kicked down the door of a small house, his rifle at the ready. Inside, the air was thick with dust and smoke, the faint cries of civilians mixing with the sounds of the battle outside. He barely had time to register the figure lunging at him before he reacted, slamming the butt of his rifle into the attacker's face.

The North Korean soldier staggered back, blood streaming from his broken nose, but he didn't go down. The man lunged again, screaming something Anthony couldn't understand, and the two collided in a violent grapple. Anthony's rifle was knocked aside, and the fight turned primal.

The soldier's hands clawed at Anthony's throat, but Anthony was stronger, his training taking over. He shifted his weight, twisting the man's arm behind his back and slamming him against the wall. The soldier struggled, cursing and spitting, until Anthony's hands found his neck.

It wasn't calculated—it was instinct. Survival. Anthony squeezed, his muscles taut with adrenaline and fury. The man's struggles weakened, his eyes wide with fear, until finally, he went limp. Anthony let him fall to the floor, his chest heaving as he stared down at the lifeless body.

Outside, the battle raged on. Anthony rearmed himself and rejoined his platoon, who were locked in a desperate struggle to hold their ground. The mud streets of the village were a chaotic blur of gunfire, screams, and blood. He remembered seeing Morales go down, riddled with bullets as he covered the retreat of another squad. He remembered the raw strength it took to drag one of his wounded comrades into cover while bullets tore through the walls around them.

Every corner of the village became a battleground. Anthony fought with everything he had—rifle, bayonet, fists, anything to keep himself and his brothers alive. He could still feel the weight of each punch, the crunch of bone beneath his boots, the screams of the dying.

By the time reinforcements arrived, the village was a smoking ruin, and Anthony's platoon was barely holding on. Out of thirty men, only twelve walked out. The rest were either dead or too wounded to move.

Back to the Present

Anthony's hands clenched into fists as the memory faded, his jaw tight. The fight with Sienna had been a controlled display of skill, but the Second Korean War had been chaos. Brutal, bloody chaos. It was the kind of combat that stayed with you, etched into your mind like a scar.

"Ant?" Fernandes's voice broke through the haze, pulling him back to the present. His friend stood at the doorway, concern etched on his face. "You good, man? You've been sitting there for a while."

Anthony blinked, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking."

Fernandes stepped inside, grabbing a chair and sitting across from him. "About the war?"

Anthony nodded, his expression grim. "Pyongyang. That ambush. Morales..."

Fernandes leaned back, exhaling softly. "That was a rough one. Hell, all of Korea was rough. But we made it out. And we're here now."

Anthony managed a faint smile, though his eyes were still distant. "Yeah. Here we are."

Fernandes clapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, man. Whatever's eating at you, don't let it win. You're still the same badass who kept us alive back there. And now? You've got a whole new fight to focus on."

Anthony nodded slowly, letting the weight of his memories settle. He couldn't change the past, but he could keep moving forward. For now, that was enough.

Later on, David sat on the steps of the makeshift barracks in Kuo Kuana, gazing into the dim twilight. The night was still, the village settling down after another long day. In his hands, he turned a small coin over and over—a habit he'd picked up during the war. The coin wasn't special, just a memento of his time in Korea, but it held a weight far heavier than its physical form. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to a memory he tried not to revisit.

Flashback: Near Kaesong, North Korea – 2035

It had been during one of the pushes northward, not far from the DMZ. David's platoon, reinforced by a squad of ROK Marines, had been patrolling the outskirts of a small village. The day was eerily quiet, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. They were passing by what looked like an abandoned elementary school when the first shots rang out.

"Contact!" someone yelled, and the platoon scrambled for cover as rounds snapped past them, striking walls and scattering dirt. The shots were coming from the school building, its shattered windows giving it the appearance of a ghostly fortress.

David, Anthony, and a few ROK Marines were ordered to flank the building, using the cover of an overgrown hedge to approach unseen. The plan was simple: neutralize the shooters and secure the building. But as they drew closer, something about the situation didn't feel right to David. The gunfire was erratic, lacking the precision and discipline they'd come to expect from hardened North Korean fighters.

When they reached the side entrance, Anthony kicked the door in, and they moved in with practiced precision, clearing the hallways one room at a time. The building was eerily quiet now, save for the faint scuffling of footsteps deeper inside.

Then they found the shooters.

David froze as he stepped into what must have once been a classroom. There, crouched behind overturned desks and aiming battered rifles, were children—no older than 10 or 12. Their faces were dirty and gaunt, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and hatred. They were kids, but they were also fighters, their tiny hands gripping weapons that were far too large for them.

"What the fuck..." David muttered, lowering his rifle slightly.

The children turned their weapons on the Marines, but no shots came. The clicks of empty chambers filled the room as the kids realized they were out of ammunition. Some of them panicked, scrambling to reload, while others froze, staring defiantly at the Marines and ROKMC.

One of the children, a boy with hollow cheeks and a defiant glare, screamed something in Korean. David couldn't understand the words, but the venom in the boy's voice was unmistakable.

"He's calling us devils," one of the ROK Marines translated, his voice grim. "'Devil Americans' and 'traitorous Southerners.'"

David's stomach churned. He'd heard the stories about North Korea's indoctrination—how the regime filled its citizens' minds with propaganda about the evils of America and its allies. But this... this was different. This was children, brainwashed to the point that they'd take up arms against trained soldiers.

"Hold fire," Anthony said firmly, stepping forward. "They're just kids."

One of the children screamed again, throwing their rifle to the floor and hurling a string of curses in Korean. Another grabbed a chair and launched it toward the Marines, though it fell far short. Others simply glared, their hatred radiating from them like a physical force.

David felt a lump rise in his throat. These weren't combatants—they were victims, products of a twisted system that had robbed them of their childhoods and turned them into weapons.

One of the younger ROK Marines stepped forward, his face hard. "What do we do with them?"

Anthony looked at David, his jaw tight. "Disarm them. Non-lethal. Flashbangs if they resist."

David nodded, pulling a flashbang from his vest. He felt a pang of guilt as he primed the grenade, tossing it into the center of the room. The explosion was deafening, the flash blinding, and the children screamed, covering their ears and eyes.

When the troops moved in, the children didn't resist much. Their weapons were confiscated, and they were herded into a corner of the room. Some of them cried, their fear breaking through the facade of bravado. Others continued to glare, their hatred undimmed even as they trembled.

One of the older boys, his voice hoarse, spat at David's boots and shouted something else in Korean.

The ROK Marine from earlier translated, his tone bitter. "He says his father died fighting the 'devil Americans.' That we'll all burn in hell."

David stared at the boy, his chest tight. He couldn't bring himself to respond. What could he say to someone so consumed by hatred, hatred they'd been taught before they even understood what it meant?

Back to the Present

The memory faded, but the weight in David's chest remained. He stared at the coin in his hand, the faint echoes of the children's screams and curses still ringing in his ears. That day had been one of the hardest of his life, not because of the danger, but because of the sheer tragedy of it all.

"Hey," Anthony's voice broke through his thoughts. David looked up to see his friend leaning against the doorframe, his expression knowing. "You good?"

David nodded slowly, slipping the coin back into his pocket. "Yeah... just remembering."

Anthony stepped closer, his tone softer. "The school?"

"Yeah," David replied, his voice quiet. "I didn't believe the stories about the brainwashing. Thought it was just propaganda of our own. But seeing those kids... the hate in their eyes..."

Anthony sat down next to him, resting his forearms on his knees. "We did what we could, man. Saved their lives, at least."

David let out a bitter laugh. "Saved them from what? They probably hated us even more after that."

Anthony was silent for a moment before replying, "Maybe. But maybe one of them remembers it differently. Maybe one of them realized we didn't kill them. That we didn't want to."

David sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know, man. It still feels like we lost something that day."

Anthony nodded, his own expression heavy. "Yeah. War does that."

The two men sat in silence for a while, the weight of their shared memories hanging between them. The present was different, but the scars of the past were still fresh, a reminder of the battles they'd fought—and the ones they carried with them every day.

The late-night air in Kuo Kuana was cool and quiet as Anthony and David sat on the steps of their barracks, lost in thought. The silence was heavy, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional murmur of Marines or Faunus moving about. Neither man spoke for a long time, their shared memories forming an unspoken bond.

Finally, David exhaled sharply, leaning back and staring at the stars. "You ever think about Pyongyang? The end?"

Anthony didn't respond immediately, but his jaw tightened. He reached for the canteen at his side, taking a long sip before speaking. "Yeah. All the time."

Flashback: Pyongyang, North Korea – 2035

The capital city was chaos. Buildings stood like charred skeletons against the blood-red sky, flames licking at their edges. The streets were choked with rubble, twisted metal, and bodies. The air was thick with smoke and something more sinister—a chemical haze that clung to everything, eating away at life itself.

Anthony and David moved with their platoon through the hellish streets, their hazmat suits and gas masks the only things keeping them alive. The suits were stifling, the air inside stale and oppressive, but they didn't dare remove them. A biohazardous bomb had been deployed weeks earlier, saturating the city with toxins that killed within seconds if exposed.

Through the fogged visors of their masks, they saw horrors they would never forget. Fellow Marines, soldiers from NATO countries, and even ROK Marines fell to enemy fire or worse—had their suits punctured. Those who were exposed screamed in agony, their bodies convulsing as the toxins took hold. Death came quickly but not mercifully.

"Keep moving!" their sergeant bellowed over the comms, his voice distorted by the mask. "Stay sharp! We're close to the target!"

The target was the infamous Kim family estate, where the dictator and his inner circle were holed up, guarded by what was left of North Korea's elite forces. It was to be the final push—capture or eliminate the leadership, end the war, and reunify Korea.

The estate loomed ahead, its gates blasted open by airstrikes. Anthony and David moved with their platoon and a squad of ROK Marines, their weapons raised as they entered the compound. Inside, the fighting intensified. North Korea's elite special forces engaged them in brutal close-quarters combat, their black uniforms blending with the shadows.

But it quickly became apparent that these so-called elite soldiers were unprepared for the reality of war. They moved like they were in a training simulation, relying on textbook maneuvers that fell apart under the raw, chaotic violence of actual combat.

Anthony drove his rifle butt into the face of one soldier, the man crumpling instantly. David fired three precise shots into another who lunged at him with a knife. The North Koreans fought hard but without the desperation of men who had truly known battle.

Room by room, the US and ROK Marines cleared the estate, their movements swift and decisive. The halls were lined with opulence—gold-framed portraits of the Kim family, luxurious furniture, and marble floors now slick with blood.

Finally, they breached the central chamber.

The room was filled with the remaining members of the Kim family and their top generals. The dictator himself, Kim Yong-un, stood at the center, flanked by his relatives and advisors. His face was pale, but his expression was defiant, his gaze burning with hatred as the Marines stormed in.

"Get on the ground!" Anthony roared, his rifle trained on the group. "Now!"

The Kims hesitated for a moment, but when one of the generals made a move for a hidden weapon, David fired a warning shot into the air. The deafening crack echoed through the chamber, and the group quickly complied, dropping to their knees.

Within minutes, they were disarmed, bound, and lined up against the wall. The remaining elite guards were either dead or subdued, and the estate was secure. Anthony and David stood guard as a team of ROK Marines dragged the dictator and his family into the open courtyard, where the war's end would be solidified.

A small group of journalists had accompanied the assault, documenting the final moments of the war. One of them, a young woman with a camera slung over her shoulder, stepped forward, her voice shaky but resolute. "Mr. Kim," she said, addressing the dictator, "do you have any final words?"

The dictator glared at her, his lips curling into a sneer. Despite his situation, he managed to summon the last vestiges of his defiance. Spitting at her face, he snarled in broken English, "Go fuck yourself."

The journalist didn't flinch. She wiped her face with a calm that surprised everyone and replied, "I'll take that as your last words."

The Marines didn't waste time. With a nod from their commanding officer, the execution began. A volley of gunfire rang out, silencing the dictator, his family, and the remaining generals. The courtyard fell silent, save for the faint crackle of distant fires.

David and Anthony stood side by side, their rifles still raised, as the realization of what they'd just done sank in. The war was over. The reunification of Korea was no longer a dream but a reality.

Back to the Present

David exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands together as if trying to shake off the memory. "I'll never forget that bastard's face. Even in the end, he thought he was untouchable."

Anthony nodded, his expression grim. "Yeah. But it wasn't just him. It was his whole system. Generations of brainwashing and cruelty. We didn't just kill him—we ended all of it."

David leaned back, his gaze distant. "But at what cost? Seeing our guys drop like that... the gas, the chaos... I don't know if it was worth it."

Anthony was silent for a moment before replying, "It was worth it. Doesn't mean it didn't come with a price."

The two men sat in silence, the weight of their shared past settling heavily over them. The war had shaped them, scarred them, and though it was long over, its echoes still lingered, a constant reminder of the cost of victory.