One Tin Soldier
There was a sudden silence, but he didn't hear it. He shook his head; the tingling inside didn't dissipate. His eyes still swept the area, seeking the better concealment spots. What he saw no longer posed a threat, and he lowered his arm.
The cordite strong in his nostrils, he rubbed at his nose with a hand. Against his cheek, the metal of his Glock was hot from use. He stared for many long moments at the weapon in his hand; a finger stroked the blue-black of its barrel. His palm still gripped the stock tightly, the ridges of its handle comforting. He would have to take it apart that night, clean it well and pack it away again.
He turned and took several steps before he found himself on his knees. A stone bit into his hand, and odor of the moisture soaking the ground rose to meet him. One deep breath and another, he closed his eyes and fought to keep the bile down; another breath. His knees stung and he knew there'd be no way to remove the stains from his jeans.
A hand landed on his back, soothing and strong. Another plucked his weapon from his hand.
"It's okay, Heero." The voice familiar in an almost haunting way.
He opened his eyes and raised his face. He watched as those capable hands disassembled the Glock into pieces, tossing each one over a shoulder. With a fatalistic gleam, he realized the magazine no longer held its supply of rounds. Just a minute longer...
"It's over. No more." A thumb wiped at the wetness on his cheek he hadn't known was there. He only nodded and closed his eyes again.
Over, until the next time.