Season Two

Episode Nine: Enemy Territory

By Kittsbud

Part One

Vietnam, Unnamed Province

Ryan Grayson moved through the thick underbrush, his ears pricking at every slight sound that permeated the darkness. His mind filtered out the ominous and frequent cricket chirps and other intermingling jungle noises, only focusing on anything that could be the unseen enemy.

This was Grayson’s second tour in Nam, and out of the current group he was the most seasoned. Almost every other man in the platoon was a raw recruit, and that included the lieutenant that seemed to be glued to his side.

Grayson paused, signaling with a hand movement for his men to stop. He hunkered down in the gloom, eyes darting from bush to bush for signs of the Viet Cong.

Something was wrong here. Ever since he’d jumped from the Huey at their LZ Grayson had known it. The co-ordinates he’d been given didn’t match the mission he’d been briefed for earlier in the day.

The friggin’ chopper pilot been smokin’ too much damn weed again…

But Grayson knew the pilot well. He knew Larry Emerson would never put men’s lives at risk that way. No, this was something else. Something that was far more personal.

Grayson leaned his M16 carefully on his knee as he squatted, keeping a finger poised on the trigger. “Something’s wrong here, LT,” he addressed the terrified officer at his side. “I don’t know where the hell we are, but this isn’t what we were briefed for…”

Lt. Grant felt his hands begin to shake. Officer school hadn’t prepared him for the horrors of this war – nothing had. This was his first real patrol, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t already witnessed some of the ghastly injuries men returned from the field with – if they returned at all.

Grant took a breath and fumbled in his breast pocket, tugging out a map of the area in a plastic protective covering. He looked at it, squinting to see the area he’d marked in red when their C.O. had briefed them. “There’s no ridge here…”

Grayson huffed. “Tell me something I don’t freakin’ know…” When Grant scowled back he locked eyes with the officer. Grant wanted to play soldier. Hell, maybe he was some relative of the famous civil war General, but one thing he was not, was in control. “Sir,” Grayson feigned respect. “We’re way out of our depth here. We should head back to our LZ and call the choppers back in. Pop some smoke before our asses get fried…”

Grant pushed the map into the strap that had been tucked over the brow of his helmet and shook his head. He would prove who was in command, no matter how scared he was, no matter how much his hands shook. “Captain Mitchum made it quite clear how important this mission is, and I fully intend to finish the reconnaissance before we head back. What’s the matter, Sergeant? Getting jittery?”

Grayson ignored the jibe. He’d seen enough rookie officers fry to know that Grant wouldn’t last long in the field, and besides, right now there was much more on his mind.

This patrol was wrong, all wrong, and it wasn’t the idiot in charge that was going to screw it up – it was Grayson’s conscience. I should never have opened my mouth; at least, not until it was all out in the open…

“Riggs, take point, double time it!” Grant gestured for one of the new men to head up the patrol, ignoring any caution that Grayson may have used, or suggested.

The young soldier nodded and began scurrying ahead of the group, his eyes and mind focused on proving himself to his C.O.

“Riggs! DOWN!” Grayson decided to push aside his lieutenant’s orders, knowing they would get men killed – his men killed. “Down, dammit!” His last cry was loud and guttural, ignoring the usual code of silence he hammered into all rookies.

Riggs’ boots skidded in the soft loam as he faltered, unsure just who to listen to. His right foot edged sideways just a thousandth of an inch as he turned, and the movement was enough. The army issue boot caught on a heavily camouflaged section of wire that had been spread across the dirt path.


Riggs’ body erupted outwards in a shower of meat and blood that had once been a naive nineteen year old. Red ooze splattered the remaining troops, tiny strips of flesh and tissue raining down on the men like a bloody version of the Fourth of July.

“Shit!” Grayson pushed his lieutenant to the ground with a harsh shove and rolled until a nearby bush gave him refuge. “Take cover!” The friggin’ Gooks will have heard the explosion. They’ll be on us any second…

Young men who should have been home with their parents or studying in some high class college began to dive for the underbrush that might save their lives.

Gunfire blasted from the tree line, short staccato bursts illuminating the darkness as each round was discharged.

The enemy had found them; but then tonight, for Grayson, there were two kinds of enemy.

The soldier brought his rifle to his shoulder, carefully aiming for the bright bursts of light that showed him where the Vietnamese were hiding. He tugged back on the trigger letting his M16 empty all thirty rounds before ramming in another clip. We shouldn’t even be here…

As youngsters fell around him, their bodies torn to shreds by enemy fire, all that Grayson could think of was revenge. He wasn’t a violent man by nature, and yet when he’d been dragged into this Godforsaken war he had embraced it. He had made it his mission in life to save as many kids’ souls out here as he possibly could. Most of the teens in his unit came from his home town or the surrounding area, he felt like he knew them, owed them his allegiance. And for what? To be betrayed by a monster who never gave a damn…

An explosion rocked the ground to Grayson’s right, and as he turned he realized Grant had taken a direct hit from a mortar shell. Only a charred crater remained where the officer had been hunkered behind a fallen tree trunk. Coward was hiding…but then, he’s not the only coward out here…

The Sergeant grabbed his last clip from the belt that hung loose across his chest, jamming it into the M16. With his free hand, he yanked a grenade from the same belt, pulling the pin with his front teeth so roughly he chipped two.

He was one, and the enemy was legion, but Grayson wasn’t going down without a fight. There was no question that he would die here along with the rest of his men. No question that the platoon would be annihilated. But still, the soldier clung on to one gnawing thought as he made a wild full frontal assault at the Vietnamese.

The Viet Cong weren’t responsible for the extermination of the platoon; they hadn’t sent almost fifty grunts, a fairly useless lieutenant, and three sergeants to their doom: someone else ultimately had.

And if there was a way back, just like his Momma had insisted since he was a kid, then Ryan Grayson would find it. Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…

And someone, some day, would pay.

* * * *

Oxford, Nebraska
Present Day

Katherine McBride waited patiently for the overhead traffic lights to turn green. She was tired - eager to get home for the night after a late shift, and if she had been sure the local Sheriff wasn’t around, she may just have run the light.

The thing was, Burt Caldwell always seemed to be around when you least expected it, and the forty-something-year-old cop had a crush on Kat the size of the local golf course – which considering Oxford’s tiny proportions was pretty big.

“Just gotta wait a little longer to crash into bed…” Kat tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, suddenly feeling vulnerable in the dark on her own. She was a nurse at the local medical center, and normally driving home in the early hours didn’t bother her. Hell, she was used to the dark, to the long hours, to the gore she was sometimes presented with during her shifts.

Tonight, though, she shivered involuntarily and inhaled with relief when the lights finally changed. Getting spooked by a traffic light from hell, now there’s a first!

Kat took a left and accelerated harder than usual, her foot almost slipping to the floor in her haste to find sanctuary from the ominous darkness of the Nebraska night. She wanted to get home to the safety of her bedroom, where her trusty Beretta was waiting in a bedside drawer.

The nurse took another deep breath and let her eyes stray to her car’s clock. The Beetle’s dashboard glared back at her, the luminous fascia showing it was 2.25 a.m. Just five more minutes and I’ll be parking down the driveway laughing at my own paranoia…

Kat glanced back up and her lips instantly shaped to form a wide “O” as shock and surprise took a hold of her senses.

Someone, or something was in the road in front of her little VW, and there was no room to brake or veer - no time to look into the eyes of the thing she was about to hit. Still, Kat rammed both feet down on her car’s brake pedal, all her weight, her strength willing the Beetle to stop in an impossible distance. She saw a flash of green and the bright glint of something metallic. Then, whatever had been in front of her car was gone.

Kat closed her eyes, trying to calm her own panicked breathing before climbing from her vehicle. I hit someone! I must have, and yet…I didn’t feel anything.

Living in the country had taught Katherine a lesson early on. You hit an animal, even a rabbit, and you’d feel the impact through the whole car. But I had to have hit them!

Kat forced her eyes open and yanked at the VW’s door handle, knowing if someone lay injured she was their lifeline until an ambulance arrived. As the door creaked open and she stepped out on to the blacktop, her knees almost buckled beneath her.

Whatever, whoever her car had encountered now stood a few feet away, staring towards the center of town as if Kat didn’t exist. He wore a dated Rangers uniform that had seen better days, and a relatively clean M16 hung from a shoulder strap.

Maybe he’s going to a fancy dress party?

But before the soldier even turned, Kat knew different. He had walked right through her car, and unless he was the next Houdini that made him something Kat didn’t even believe in. No such thing as ghosts. No such thing as ghosts. Kat mentally repeated the mantra until she thought her brain would burst from the effort, but the raggedly dressed soldier remained in front of her like a stone sentinel.

Kat wanted her legs to back up so that she could retreat into her car and drive home. Maybe if her muscles had actually followed her brain’s orders she could have pretended the little roadside reverie had never happened. The thing was, as much as she wanted to leave, the bedraggled soldier was mesmerizing.

“Who are you..?” The nurse cocked her head a little, her voice cracking with pent up tension and fear. She needed to understand what she was seeing, needed answers. Was he here for her? Hell, was he even really here? Too many shifts, too many hours…I must be losing it…

Finally, the soldier turned and Kat caught a glimpse of his uniform more clearly in the moonlight. There were stripes on his arms that signified he was a sergeant, and along the right side of his brow an old, but very visible scar ran a good two inches in length.

Blues eyes locked with Kat’s but didn’t linger on her dainty frame. Instead, Grayson looked beyond her to something behind the Beetle she drove. He made a gesture with his hand and then caught his M16’s strap, tugging it up and slipping his finger into the trigger guard.

Kat’s heart missed a beat and she tasted the rank flavor of bile rising from her throat. He’s going to kill me…

Grayson ignored the terrified woman’s blank stare and wide pupils, his attention still focused on something beyond the nurse.

Kat blinked and finally dragged enough inner courage from somewhere to turn and see what the phantom was watching so intently. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see for fear the sight may be worse than something from her clinic’s E.R. but still, the compulsion took over her.

Beyond Kat’s car was an intersection, and beyond that a vast expanse of corn that stretched as far as the eye could see. At least two feet above ground, a fine mist had appeared, hovering, lurking; hiding the undead.

As she watched, the strange glowing fog began to form into shapes, each one kitted out in a uniform and carrying some form of weaponry. The long dead Rangers moved as they formed from the vapor, coalescing into one group, one platoon, one ethereal presence.

Kat’s lips quivered, but this time, try as she may, she couldn’t make her throat form any words, not even a scream to let the world know she was alive and very terrified.

Eventually, the rogue platoon joined their leader, ignoring the nurse as if it was she who was the fleshless spirit. The men formed either side Grayson as if they were creating a skirmish line, and with one gesture from the sergeant they pushed forward, the bizarre mist still following them like an aircraft’s jet trails.

Kat let out a breath, No such thing as ghosts, no such thing, but Grayson knew otherwise.

The lead spirit paused mid-step as if hearing Kat’s inner chant. He spun expertly around, keeping his rifle pointed to the ground, and then smiled – a wide, toothless, fleshless grin as his face reverted to that of a rotting cadaver.

Finally, Kat’s nerves gave way and she screamed, continuing her pitiful, hoarse yelps until Sheriff Caldwell found her cowering in the roadway almost thirty minutes later.

* * * *

Casper, Wyoming
Downtown Bar

Dean took a look at the empty shot glass and then let it slide from his fingers onto the bar. The glass clattered onto the pitted wooden surface and joined a multitude of its empty brethren.


Dean huffed. The drained, innocent looking receptacles were a reflection of him. The demon was gone, eradicated by its bastard father, but at what price? What good was it that he was free if it meant losing his brother?

The question made a burning sensation well in his throat and he glanced up, smiling wickedly at the pretty young barmaid. “Hit me again, sweetheart…” He pushed one of the glasses forward with his forefinger, noticing the way his hand swayed as he made the gesture. Hmmn…maybe I should grab a stool…

“Dean, don’t you think you’ve had enough already?” The voice was Sam’s, questioning, worrying – knowing the cause of his sibling’s melancholy behavior. “We should head back to the motel. I’ve found something interesting…”

Dean failed to turn, instead running a shaky hand through the front of his hair. Sam knew he was drunk, hell, Dean knew he was drunk, but that didn’t change anything. The thoughts running through his head were there every waking hour, nagging, biting, and churning far more than Haris’ spawn even had. The whiskey wasn’t going to change that, either. In fact, he wondered why he was even pouring it down his throat like water, because all it was going to give him was a four alarm headache later.

Sam was going to die. Hell, Sam was going to die for Dean, just like Melissa had. And, as usual, he was helpless.

The hunter’s eyes locked with the girl behind the bar. It was obvious she didn’t want to serve him anymore. Was that fear he saw on her face? He blinked, realizing for the first time that the girl actually looked a lot like Melissa. Or maybe it was just his inebriated mind playing tricks?

“Dean…” Sam pushed again, and this time his staggering brother turned to face him.

“You don’t get it, do you? Everyone around me dies, Sammy. I’m like some friggin’ pariah or something. I couldn’t save Melissa…I can’t save you…”

Sam’s eyes darted to the grimy bar floor. Maybe he didn’t need saving. Maybe this was his destiny. Either way, he’d been through this very same conversation so many times over the last few weeks that he didn’t want to continue it again – especially not in front of a bar full of strangers.

Dean had been through a lot, endured a lot. Sam’s deal with Haris and then Melissa dying at the hands of the Wampus Cat had been the last straw that had finally broken his brother, but there was no changing the past. What had happened was already set in stone, including the deal he would soon have to pay up on.

“Melissa wasn’t your fault. If she hadn’t summoned that thing…killed those kids…” It was a weak response, but there was simply nothing more to give.

“And I suppose the deal you made wasn’t my fault either?” Dean’s face was blotched with red as he struggled to keep down his temper. It was bad enough Sam had kept the deal from him for so long, but for his little brother to keep brushing it off, wanting to hunt, wanting to act like it had never happened – that, Dean couldn’t take.

“It was tearing you apart, killing you from the inside like some demonic cancer. Would you have stood by and watched if it had been me? Would you?” Sam’s voice raised an octave and he abruptly realized some of the bar customers were staring at them.

At least Dean in his drunken state had an excuse to shout and be rowdy, but all Sam had sipped all night was an iced Coke that had soon become warm in the heat of the inn.

Dean swallowed hard and looked away, caught in his own trap. Dean would die for Sam, of that there was no doubt. It was just impossible to accept that his brother would soon be giving up body and soul because he’d gotten careless. “My sorry ass isn’t worth saving. You should have taken the necklace off and let Haris’ kid take me. Anything rather than make a deal with that yellow-eyed bastard…” He wobbled a little, the room around him suddenly deciding to take a quick spin. “Demons lie, Sammy…”

A tiny smile crept across Sam’s features, just for a second. “So do hunters,” he murmured, thinking of how he had removed the necklace only long enough for Haris to extricate his child instead of handing it over to the yellow-eyed monster.

Dean’s brow furrowed and he slumped onto the bench seat next to Sam, eyes gradually trying to focus on the file in front of his brother. “Sammy, forget this hunting crap. We gotta find a way outta that deal. Maybe we should call dad…” The hunter hiccupped, putting the back of his hand to his mouth as he brought up a mouthful of an earlier meal. “I knew I shouldn’t have had that second burrito…”

“No.” Sam ignored the sickly complexion that was creeping over his brother and tapped the manila file on the table. “No dad,” he concluded. “But I do think we should look into this. I don’t know…I just have this feeling.”

“Feeling as in ‘let’s make a deal with a demon?’ Huh, Sammy? Cos, I ain’t liking where your feelings take you lately…” The elder hunter eased back until he was leaning heavily against the rear of the torn seat he’d perched on and his eyes fluttered with sudden fatigue. “You gonna spill or do I gotta try and figure out which of the three folders I’m looking at is the real one?” Dean belched and grinned, his earlier anger dissipating as the liquor took hold and his vision blurred.

“Oxford, Nebraska,” Sam offered up, relief creeping into his expression as he realized his very drunken brother was relenting on his anger. “Locals have seen a ghost platoon walking the streets at night. Multiple hauntings are rare, Dean…”

“Platoon?” Dean’s brow creased and he eased forward with a grunt to look at the now open folder. “Says here the sightings are since some dudes’ bodies were found in Vietnam and brought home for burial?” He squinted, realizing that no matter how hard he tried to focus, the printed words were not going to stop swimming like sharks before his eyes. The more Sammy filled him in, the better, or he may just get sea sick, or more likely whiskey sick.

“From what I’ve found, most of the guys in the unit were from around Oxford. It’s a tiny town - pretty amazing they all ended up together…” Sam’s gaze drifted as if he had suddenly gone back in time. Had the men been drafted, or had they joined up? He could almost see them in his mind in uniform as they were shipped overseas to a war that could never be won. Just like mine and Dean’s war…

“Pretty amazing they all came back together too, Sammy.” Dean leaned back again, unsure how long he could make coherent conversation without diving for the nearby bathroom. “You sure this isn’t some prank or local scare because someone read in the paper the bodies had been found?”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so. None of the people who’ve seen the platoon are the type to get flustered quickly. The last one, Katherine McBride, was a nurse from the local clinic. Definitely not the type to panic. I think we have a real mystery here…”

Or you’re clutching at straws – anything to keep your mind of the stupid deal you made, Dean thought, a sudden burst of annoyance pushing through his alcoholic stupor. “So, why do you think a bunch of guys who died in Vietnam would haunt there own town, Mr. Know It All?”

“I…I don’t know,” Sam admitted, his gaze moving back to the folder. “Like I said, I just feel something…drawn there somehow…”

“Jeez, I knew using the name Beckett back in Raleigh was a mistake. Now you think you gotta leap into every gig as if you’re there for a reason, save the day and leap out again.” Dean rolled his eyes and felt his stomach churn. Whoa, definitely shouldn’t have had the burrito…

He stumbled to his feet and tottered momentarily before gaining his balance by holding out both arms to steady his swaying body. “Gotta pee, dude,” he muttered uncertainly, unwilling to admit he was probably going to be sick. Tough guys don’t puke…

Sam watched as Dean floundered across the room and vanished quickly into the bathroom. It didn’t take much to guess that he probably wouldn’t make it out again under his own steam. While he was sleeping off the excesses, Sam could head the car towards Oxford and hope his brother accepted the gig without further question when he awoke.

I can’t just sit around and wait for Haris…I can’t…

While Sam was on the road, working, killing evil, he could at least push aside the stark truth of his future – the reality that soon he would have no future.

“Maybe this will just be a quick salt and burn,” he said to no one in particular as he picked up the Impala’s keys from where Dean had dropped them. But then, for the Winchesters, when was anything that simple?

* * * *

Cold air blew in from the open window, blasting Dean in the face until he felt almost awake – almost. Even as he slouched in the Impala’s passenger seat, he had to wonder just how much whiskey it had taken to knock him out this way. He could normally drink the best hunters under the table - apart from his father and Joe Bearwalker, and walk away without so much as a headache.

The four-alarm hangover that had been plaguing him for the past hundred miles was telling him he had drank a hell of a lot more than usual. Or maybe Sammy slipped me something. Wouldn’t be the first damn time…

Except, Dean knew there was no reason for Sam to drug him again. No, the hangover, the guilt was all his own. He’d downed the whiskey to mask his problems, to hide the inevitable of what was going to happen to his brother, sooner rather than later, because of me!

“Dean?” Sam looked over and was relieved to see the elder hunter finally awake. He hated to see his brother this way – hated knowing that maybe he had only a few shorts weeks of seeing his brother at all. Can’t think like that…

“Yeah, I’m awake, Sasquatch.” Dean stretched, feeling a kink in his neck where he’d lain at an angle against the door. “How long did I sleep?”

“Long enough…” Sam slowed, pulling the Impala onto a small verge at the side of the road. There were no street lights, only corn fields as far as the eye could see. “We’re just outside Oxford. I tried to find us a motel, but the place is tiny and it’s late. Maybe we should head for the next town and find somewhere there?”

Dean shook his head. He’d had enough sleep, enough nightmares for one day. “Not worth the trip.” He yawned, finally becoming fully alert. “May as well check out where our nurse chick saw The A Team. When we’re done we can sleep in the car till morning.”

Sam nodded, letting his eyes fall on the corn wafting in the evening breeze. “Dean, back at the bar…” He shifted uneasily on the Chevy’s bench seat, unsure how to approach the downward spiral in his brother’s behavior without causing yet another argument.

“Dude, forget about it. I just needed to down a few after Melissa, okay?” Lies. He needed the drink, needed to hide behind the thin veil of refuge it gave. Except I didn’t hide. I went to the john and made a call you’re not gonna like, Sammy.

In retrospect, maybe he wasn’t going to like what he’d done back in Casper, either. Whiskey could make a man do a lot, but running for help, hell, that wasn’t something Dean Winchester did very often.

Sam looked at his brother, but the mirthful glint had gone from Dean’s eyes just as surely as it had when the demon had been on board. It was hard to tell what he was thinking anymore, hard to know if he would make it if Haris carried on with the deal and took Sam as payment. And he will…

“Will you quit looking at me like that? I’m starting to get worried here…” Dean’s mouth edged into a smirk, but the snark that usually flowed in torrents had merely been a thin trickle of late.

It was the first time Sam had ever known his brother this way, and it scared him. He’s likely to do something stupid if anything happens to me…

“Sammy, I don’t think we need to go looking for our mystery platoon…” Dean sat up straighter in his seat and stared almost vacantly from the Impala’s side window. “Dude, Children of the Corn has nothing on this picture…”

Sam’s brows rose and his pupils widened as he looked across to the still-blowing sheaves that danced under the moonlight’s all-encompassing glow. From their center, something was stirring, something that walked – no hovered – over a thin stratum of fog.

“It’s the ghost platoon…”

Dean bobbed his head, lowering his window to get a better view. “Yeah, not exactly Rambo material if it takes a whole bunch to come back and get a few scares…”

“I still don’t get the why. Why haunt their hometown? Nobody here could have caused their deaths all those thousands of miles away. It was a war, Dean.” Sam’s gaze followed the ghostly troop as they moved closer, weaving in and out of the corn as if they still had physical form. “Maybe they don’t know they’re dead?”

“Ya think? Cos, dude, they gotta have noticed there are no freakin’ gooks around here.” The hunter paused, realizing he wasn’t even funny. “There’s something we’re missing. Something big. You sure your freaky vision thing isn’t telling you anything. I mean, you said you were drawn here, right?”

“Nothing, Dean, but I think we’re about to get a chance to find out.” Sam nodded and he winced, nodding towards the outside of the car. The platoon had changed direction and the full width of their patrol had begun to encircle the Impala.

A figure wearing sergeant’s stripes stood at their head, his bright red-flecked eyes fixated on Sam, as if he knew the hunter from a past life.

Dean’s expression changed and his brow knitted in concern. “Dude, is there something I’m missing here? ’Cause that freak is looking at you as if he wants to make you his bitch.”

Sam shook his head, but couldn’t find any words to explain the dead soldier’s fascination with him. “Maybe he senses my gift?”

“Maybe,” Dean agreed, pushing open the creaking Chevy’s door with a grunt. “Or maybe he’s one of Haris’ legions of dead minions come to collect your sorry ass…” The hunter headed for the trunk, ignoring the fact that the ghostly sergeant was moving closer.

“It’s not my birthday.” Sam joined his brother and accepted the pump action shot gun he was given without question.

“Yeah, well how long is it gonna take to seep into that thick Stanford skull of yours that demons friggin’ lie? Sammy, he could collect anytime…maybe he lured you here for just that. Maybe this whole friggin platoon’s mission is a little soul collection for that bastard.”

No, he can’t take me yet. It’s all part of the master plan. I just don’t know what that plan is. Sam inhaled. “This isn’t about Haris, trust me.”

Dean cracked the barrel of his own weapon and slid in two rock salt-filled shells. The slight clicking sound as they slipped into place was comforting, even though he was surrounded by almost fifty dead men. “Might wanna tell that to the red-eyed dude with the barrel of his M16 pointed at your head…”

Sam’s eyes flicked upwards in time to see the sergeant’s face transform from human to some maggot-filled husk. But even then, the eyes glowed a fiery red that seemed to spark and flare in the stark light from the moon.

“…the children and on the grandchildren to the third and fourth generations…”

The sound appeared to emanate from the soldier, but there were no lips to form the words, only a bony-white jaw that struggled to open and close without any muscle tissue to move it.

Sam couldn’t take his eyes from the sight, couldn’t dive behind the relative safety of the Impala, even though the spirit had singled him out and had an M16 aimed at his skull.

“Sammy, DOWN!” Dean heaved his shotgun up ready to fire, but Sam didn’t move. He had been brought here for a reason, and if that reason was death, then it was time he embraced it. No more running, no more back alley deals.

The young hunter outstretched his arms. “If you’ve come for me, then take me…”


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