At a young age, helping people is often looked upon as a chore, a certain kind of lax punishment that doesn't truly offer a reward nor affect the world as a whole. It is a syndrome that is either left behind as the child grows, and as he grows, the feeling of assistance becoming prominent. Some even graduate further, becoming part of a system that knows that every deed done opens a window to the world, showing it hope, thankfulness, success, and care.

As a person in a hospital environment, the sense of helping the greater good is usually strong. Caring for the sick, comforting the dying, and strengthening the weak is always part of the job requirement. Only a select few of these personnel take their training to another step.

A combat medic in the military has almost the same job. Instead of a hospital, the operating room was a battlefield, the beeping of a heart monitor was like whizzing bullets, and technological tools few and far between. Lives were lost more frequently, and if they were saved, one hade to wonder at what cost; an arm, two legs, perhaps hearing and eyesight. Even so, a life is valuable in its own right, and if a soldier was alive but broken, it was as close to mission accomplished a medic would get.

Specialist Valorie Red was having one of those days. Although she wasn't out with the boys in the field, the hospital at Firebase Phoenix was still full of men, injured by a roadside bomb on a convoy last night. Two were completely whole, just mangled with broken limbs, unnecessary to be amputated. After casting them, both men were still in rather high spirits, wondering if they would get a leave of absence for their injury.

Two other men were rushed in; Valorie kept wondering why they hadn't found them earlier. It wasn't two bad here either. A corporal had lost his right ear, ripped off when he skidded along the ground from the blast. Patching him up was no difficulty, but the soldier was mesmerized by the gauze covering the hole in his head. The young private, who had been helping in, clutching at his hand, looked up with pleading eyes to Valorie. He had lost three fingers, taken shrapnel to the shoulder and arms, and had a slab of raw skin on his cheek. With deft fingers and with the help of morphine, Valorie plucked out the pieces and disinfected them, stitched up his hand, and soothed the skin on his cheek. He tried to smile, but with the face injury, it came out strained and didn't seem entirely true. Valorie took no offense, knowing he was not angry at her.

The morgue reeked of new blood as Valorie entered it. On a stretcher, alone, was a Pfc. Arno, a soldier who was dead on arrival to the base. The medics on the Blackhawk had done everything they could have, Valorie noticed as she scanned down the report. He had been the driver of the Humvee, right on the side where the bomb had gone off. The report said he was killed by blunt trauma to the head, and if that hadn't killed him immediately, he would have bled out from the cut in his jugular, made by flying shards of window shield glass. Valorie sighed, closing the soldier's eyes and removing his dog tags. She zipped the body bag up and turned, allowing the soldier to fight his final battle in peace.

Exiting the morgue, Valorie shut off all the lights and allowed the darkness of death to lull the eternally silent heroes into a final slumber. She blinked in the light from the field hospital's small windows, relishing the warmth it provided, thankful she was still able to feel it. Jogging down the hall, passing several rooms with soldiers, Valorie made for the exit to wait for an incoming squad. Squinting in the Afghan sun, she watched the incoming helicopter land, wondering if it was more injured. She snapped to attention when General Shepherd emerged, flanked by two lietenants, all of them bent over from the air pressure of the Blackhawk's wings. He sent a nod to Valorie before moving off to the Pit with his entourage, walking quickly and with purpose. Once he passed, Valorie relaxed. The cockpit of the Blackhawk opened and out stepped the pilot, giving a smile and a cheery wave.

"YOU HAVE TO SHUT IT OFF!" screamed Valorie, frantically waving her arms. The blades were still whirring, cutting through the air at a high speed. The pilot made a face before looking up, blanching, and jumping back into the cockpit. With an aggravated sigh, the helicopter shut down, cooling down from its flight over the desert.

"Lost your mind already, Noah? You've only known me nine years!" called Valorie. Captain Noah Lennox exited the machine chuckling, waving to his copilot as they departed. Slinging his helmet under his arm, he walked over to Valorie and ruffled her hair, which was already looking like a nest for a wild animal.

Captain Noah Lennox was tall, over six feet, with dark hair and eyes. A lacrosse player in high school, Noah was built like an athlete and could withstand a physical beating well. He was a few months older than Valorie and both had graduated in the year 2012. She sometimes wondered how he had moved up the ranks faster than her, but a quick analysis always left her with two reasons.

High school was just okay for Valorie and Noah. Both had many of the same classes, and were naturally very close. It disappeared as both went their separate ways after school, Valorie to enter immediately in her medical studies and Noah to travel leisurely around the world. Valorie had always thought as their entrance into the military as somewhat ironic. War, in essence, tears everything apart. Families, homelands, nations; rarely does it leave life alone. It thrives on bloodshed and misery, relishing in anguish. When the Russians became a threat, both Valorie and Noah knew they had to do something. By a stroke of pure luck, the friends found themselves placed in the same regiment. Noah had moved up the chain of command quickly, adept at flying a helicopter and wielding a firearm. Valorie moved much more slowly, preferring to save lives rather than snuff them out.

"How you doing, Ratchet? How many of them did you save today?" Noah asked, slinging a friendly arm over her shoulder. Valorie smiled at the nickname, accepted his hug and then shrugged out of his grasp. Noah looked at her, full on in the face, assessed her appearance and frowned. "You look tired, dude."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Valorie insisted, waving a hand to dismiss the statement. Lies; she hadn't been sleeping well at all lately. "What about you, Ironhide? Is it exciting being Shepherd's personal slave?"

Laughing at his own nickname from a movie they had loved in high school, Noah smiled and shrugged. The sarcasm in his reply was hard to mask. "Ah, you know. Travel the world, meet new people, blow them up. Always exciting."

Noah insisted Valorie should take a break from the hospital, and when she declined, Noah pulled the higher rank card on her. He instructed her to go down into the Pit and provide medical assistance if anyone got hurt. At the Pit, the pair separated, Noah joining General Shepherd in the observatory. Valorie flipped off the captain when he turned around. She declined offers to play basketball and tromped down the steps to the holding pen. Corporal Dunn sat on one of the ammo crates, working on his pistol. He glanced up at Valorie as she settled herself against the wall. Dunn gestured for her to sit on the crate, but Valorie declined. She knew if she sat down, she wouldn't be able to get back up from fatigue.

"Come to run the Pit, Specialist?" Dunn asked, and Valorie raised an eye at the formalities. Then she remembered that Shepherd was up watching them, and she risked a glance up. The stoic face of the hardened general was scrutinizing the course with an appraising eye. Noah caught her looking and waggled his eyebrows at her, which cause Valorie to snort in laughter and turn her head away, looking back at Dunn.

"No sir; I ran it earlier," She replied, trying to ignore the wooden beams pressing against her back. Her legs stung from being overworked, but it was something Valorie dealt with everyday. In the medic's world, rarely was there time for a break.

"Oh really?" Dunn seemed genuinely surprised. It was known that Valorie practically lived in the hospital. Sergeant Foley got worried when he didn't see her for two days once. "What was your time?"

"52.16 seconds," recited Valorie, noting how the corporal winced. Definitely wasn't her greatest time, but wasn't the worst one on base either. Valorie was slow because she took a second to look at her targets and decipher whether they were a civilian or enemy. Valorie rolled her eyes when Dunn whistled lowly under his breath. "Oh, enough. My apologies that I am not a badass in a ski mask or a mad guy with a mohawk."

Dunn was in the middle of a laugh when Pfc. Joseph Allen came into the Pit. He was young, probably just past recruiting age. It astounded Valorie how he advanced so far in eight months when it had taken her a year and a half to reach his rank. Allen was about an inch shorter than Valorie, but Valorie was rather tall to begin with, with bright confident blue eyes. A helmet was fastened under his chin and he walked with a slight swagger. He was polite, however, giving both the specialist and corporal a salute before turning his full attention on Dunn.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Allen asked, staring right at the corporal.

"I didn't ask for you, kid. Shepherd did. Wants to see you run the Pit; do good, and you make his Prima Donna squad, if that's your thing," Dunn shrugged, getting to his feet. He motioned to Valorie with his rifle. "Specialist Red will take care of you if you break a nail."

"Just don't shoot your foot," Valorie suggested. She had seen it done before. Allen smiled, readying himself at the gate. At the buzzer it swung open and he darted, gunshots ringing as they hit targets and buzzers blaring. Dunn shouted orders to the young private, while Shepherd watched with an appraising eye.

Thirty seconds later, Allen returned sweaty, panting and smiling. When he heard his time of 39.02 seconds, he whooped, fist pumping the air and jumping up. On his landing he winced, shifting the weight immediately to his left ankle.

"What happened?" Valorie asked, already kneeling at his leg, probing his ankle. Allen looked at Dunn, eyes wide; he didn't think anyone would notice his discomfort.

"Just tell her, man; she'll dissect you if you don't," Dunn said, giving Valorie a slap on the back.

"That only happened once," murmured Valorie, who was becoming engrossed with the project at hand. She found the spot where it was tender, knowing she had it when Allen flinched. "Here, correct?"

"Y-yeah…" Allen watched as Valorie pulled out an ace bandage from a pouch around her waist. Expertly, she untied his boots, dragged the shoe off gently, pulled down his sock and rolled up his pant leg. Observing the ankle, it didn't look like a serious sprain.

"Go easy on it, Allen. It will be sore for a while, but nothing too painful. It will get worse under stress, however. If it gets worse, let me know," Valorie concluded, wrapping the ace bandage tight. She handed Allen his boot, making sure he was fine before turning to Dunn. She stood, brushing the sand off her pants. "That ledge is too high; I'm telling you for the last time, Dunn."

"Whatever," he grumbled. Valorie wanted to ram her fist into his jaw. That ledge in the Pit was the cause of so many sprains and cuts that took time away from more serious issues. Valorie turned her back on Dunn, pressing her face into her hands and exhaling, allowing her anger to drift away with the carbon dioxide.

Valorie made Allen walk back and forth twice to confirm the sprain was not serious before leaving the Pit. Shepherd and his entourage had left the observatory, clustered now around a table while idle soldiers mingled around them. Noah, across from Shepherd, caught Valorie's eyes and frowned, shaking his head.

She had no time to understand what he meant, nor did she need to as two Humvees screeched into camp. Out toppled the passenger, seriously injured and barely breathing. A soldier immediately felt for a pulse, and Valorie felt her feet start to pound against the dirt in their direction. The wounded turned his lidded eyes on her, seemed to recognize her, and reached for her desperately. Vaguely she heard the alarm blaring in the background and the roar of helicopter blades as Blackhawks and Pave Lows took off, stirring up dust that was trampled beneath the feet of soldiers rushing to their battalions.

Noah caught up the sprinting Valorie and yanked her back, almost throwing her on the ground. Into her arms he shoved her Kevlar vest, various pouches of medical supplies, a radio and an M4A1. Valorie blinked up at him.

"Shepherd wants you in the field today, let's go!" He shouted, leading her by her arm over to a waiting Humvee.

"But…but…" Valorie stared at the dying man, how his eyes noticed her being taken away, how they welled up in tears as he realized he was expiring, how his last chance of life was leaving him. His hand reaching for her dropped and the soldier giving him CPR cursed. Noah sighed when he felt Valorie stop cooperating.

"Remember what we said about distancing, Val?" he asked her. She shook her head and shoved her helmet onto it, rather roughly.

"I know, I know," Valorie stressed, pulling on her vest and slipping grenades into them. "I can't let it get to me. But I could have saved him."

"Think of how many you'll save on the field today. Valorie, it's been four years. You know you can't save them all. Understood?" Noah demanded, watching Valorie with a sharp gaze. When she nodded her reluctant agreement, he dropped the glare and smiled. "'Atta girl."

The captain climbed up the Humvee to man the turret while Valorie hopped in the passenger seat, taking notice of the two privates in the Humvee and one private first class.

"Where we going, private?" asked Valorie, slamming the door shut. The Humvee immediately fell into the formation and began to roll across the desert sands.

"Red zone, ma'am," came the clipped reply, and Valorie left it at that. In the rearview mirror she could see the other two privates, biting nails and eyes flicking around. By their young appearance and tense posture, they were most likely new to the Rangers and just past recruiting age.

"Nervous, gentlemen?" she asked, watching them through the mirror with dark eyes. Both jumped at the sound of her voice. From above, Noah chuckled.

"No ma'am," the two privates chorused, nerves evident in their voices. Valorie rolled her eyes at the lie and turned to face them fully. Noah gave out another laugh.

"Don't worry kids; Mama Red's gonna get you home alive," he affirmed. The two boys looked to Valorie for confirmation.

"I will get you home in one piece as close as possible. All you have to do is stay alive. I can't beat death." Valorie had a flash of the dead eyes of the soldier back at camp, but shook it out of her mind. She brought her arm around, forming a fist. "Do we have a deal?"

With new confidence, both privates bumped Valorie's fist with their own, seemingly becoming less nervous. Noah gave her thumbs up, and ever the driver cracked a smile. Valorie asked for their names, and she memorized their facial structure as they introduced themselves. Pvt. Spring and Pvt. Iris were both worried to jump into the firefight.

"We're stopping," the driver announced, slowing down the Humvee. Noah dropped back inside the vehicle, squatting down on his haunches.

"Alright, remember to check your corners and watch for RPGs. Any militia may not be fired upon unless we are fired upon, clear?" Everyone nodded. "When Specialist Red tells you to cover her, do it. If she goes down, we all go down. Got it?"

They all nodded once more. Valorie fingered her combat medic armband, trying to cover up the target. "Good. We go in together and come out together. Hooah?"

"HOOAH!"

"Alright, we're Oscar Mike! Let's go!" Noah followed Pvt. Iris out his door, booking it down the steps of the destroyed bridge. Valorie swung open her own door, following Noah with Pvt. Spring on her heels. She scanned the other battalions, seeing no one injured yet, before hopping into the firefight. Her M4A1 didn't have much of a sight, nor did it have a grenadier attachment, so Valorie focused her firepower on the other side of the broken bridge.

She hated this part. The gun sprung to life in her hands, jumping every time it fired death. It contradicted Valorie in every way possible, but she couldn't be cut down. Lives of the injured were here responsibility. A dead medic would not help anyone.