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Jan. 6th, 2009 12:00 pm
John regains consciousness in a tumble of noise and memory. There's sand between his teeth, the slick twist of morphine in his veins, and the whump-whump-whump of chopper blades is tangled so deep with his instincts, with the steel and shrapnel taste of risk, that all he can think is heat and danger as he tries to pull the oxygen mask away from his face. Someone stops him, firm hands holding down his own, and he tries to make a face out of the indiscriminate military blur that surrounds him.