2042_POST-WW3 - GIRLS' FRONTLINE FANFICTION.

INSIDERS_15: UNINTENDED_DAMAGES_.

"Unintended Damage"

May 14th, 2041

War does terrible things to people. It doesn't just wear you down physically—it eats at your soul. Every day, you see things you weren't meant to see. People torn apart, lives shattered, futures erased. And sometimes, it's the people who were never meant to be part of it that get caught in the crossfire.

I remember May 14th vividly, though part of me wishes I didn't. We had been tasked with escorting a group of war correspondents to Ustynivka. They were journalists, men and women in vests marked with big, bold letters: "PRESS." I remember thinking how naive it seemed—like those words could protect them from the reality of the battlefield. Like a label could stop a bullet.

We moved through the ruined streets, dust kicking up around our boots as the vehicles crawled along. I was in the lead, my new MAR-556 slung across my chest, eyes scanning the buildings, the alleys, every shadow that could be hiding a threat. Ustynivka wasn't a safe place, not by a long shot. We had cleared it days before, but insurgents had a way of slipping back in, like rats finding their way into the cracks.

The war correspondents rode in the trucks behind us, eager to document the aftermath of the battle. I didn't pay much attention to them—they were just another part of the war machine, scribbling down stories while the rest of us did the dirty work.

But then everything changed.

We were about halfway to the center of Ustynivka when it happened. The first shot echoed through the air, followed by a burst of gunfire from up ahead. I saw one of the Marcus International PMC soldiers go down, a red spray erupting from his chest as he crumpled to the ground. Chaos followed. My instincts kicked in, and I hit the dirt, scanning for the shooter.

"Sniper!" someone yelled.

I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, adrenaline flooding my veins. I raised my rifle, eyes locked on the distant rooftop where I'd seen the glint of a scope.

Then, another shot rang out, this time closer—too close. I turned just in time to see one of the war correspondents stumble backward, his helmet marked with "PRESS", blood spraying from his chest as he collapsed into the dirt. The others scattered, screaming for cover, but I didn't hear them. All I saw was the man lying there, motionless, his blood staining the ground.

Without thinking, I sprinted toward him, my boots pounding against the cracked pavement as bullets zipped past my head. I didn't care about the sniper anymore. I didn't care about anything except getting to that reporter. He was just a civilian, caught in the middle of something he should never have been part of.

I skidded to a stop beside him, dropping to my knees. His eyes were wide, his mouth moving like he was trying to speak, but no words came out. Blood soaked his vest, seeping through the cracks in his armor, pooling beneath him. I grabbed him by the collar, dragging him back toward cover, my muscles burning as I pulled his dead weight across the ground.

The shots kept coming. I could hear them—sharp cracks in the distance, the distinct sound of 7.62x54mmR rounds being fired from an SVD sniper rifle. I knew we were exposed, knew it was only a matter of time before another round found us. But I couldn't leave him there. I wouldn't.

"Hang on, damn it," I muttered through gritted teeth, pulling him harder, faster. His helmet fell off, bouncing across the pavement, the letters "PRESS" now smeared with blood. I didn't know if he was still alive. I didn't want to think about it.

We were almost to cover when I felt it. A sharp, burning pain in my side, like someone had driven a red-hot spike through my ribs. I stumbled, my vision blurring for a moment as the world tilted sideways. My hand flew to my side, coming away slick with blood.

"Fuck," I hissed, the pain spreading like fire through my body. But I didn't stop. I couldn't. The reporter needed me.

I pulled him the last few feet to safety, collapsing behind a pile of rubble, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The pain was blinding now, every breath sending a fresh wave of agony through my chest. I looked down at the reporter. His eyes were closed. He wasn't moving.

"Shit, shit, shit," I muttered, pressing my hand to his chest, trying to stop the bleeding. But it was too much. There was too much blood. My hands were covered in it, sticky and warm, like I was trying to hold back the ocean with a paper cup.

The PMC medics arrived minutes later, but it felt like hours. They dragged me away from the reporter, their hands pulling me to the ground as they shouted orders I couldn't hear. My vision was going dark, the edges of the world fading into black as the pain dulled into something distant, something far away.

I remember someone calling my name. Gromov, maybe. Or Alexander. I couldn't tell. Everything was blurring together. The faces around me, the sounds of gunfire, the distant shouts of the medics—they all faded into a dull hum, like I was sinking into the earth, drowning in a sea of darkness.

"You're going to be fine, Petrovich," someone said, their voice muffled, like they were speaking through a wall of water. I wanted to believe them, but I could feel it slipping away. The ground beneath me was cold, the sky above turning a strange shade of gray.

I thought about AK-74M. I thought about her eyes, her voice, the way she had told me I wasn't alone. I wanted to see her again. I wanted to tell her... something. But the words wouldn't come. They were lost somewhere in the haze, swallowed by the darkness creeping in around me.

And then everything went black.

I don't remember much after that. Just fragments. The feeling of being lifted, carried. The distant sound of rotors, the whine of an engine. The world spinning around me as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

I don't know how long I was out. Days, maybe. Weeks. All I know is that when I woke up, I wasn't dead. Not yet. But I wasn't the same either.

The reporter hadn't made it. The PMC medics had tried, but the shot had been fatal. He died there, in the dirt, a bullet meant for someone else cutting his life short. A 7.62x54mmR round, fired by an IFF sniper, had ended his story before he had the chance to write it.

War isn't fair. It doesn't care who you are, what you've done, or what you believe in. It swallows everything whole—soldiers, civilians, journalists—without a second thought.

And me? I was still here. Barely. But the cost... the cost was something I wasn't sure I could bear.

When I finally opened my eyes in the field hospital, the first thing I saw was AK-74M. She was sitting beside my bed, her expression calm but her eyes filled with something I hadn't seen before—worry. She didn't say anything at first, just sat there, watching me.

"I thought you were gone," she finally whispered, her voice quieter than I'd ever heard it.

"Not yet," I croaked, my throat dry, my body aching in ways I couldn't describe.

She smiled, but it was a sad smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. "You saved him, Borislav. You tried."

I looked away, staring at the ceiling. "But I didn't, did I? He died. And for what? A story that'll never be written?"

"You're alive," she said, her voice firm now. "That's what matters."

But it didn't feel like it mattered. Not anymore. Not after everything we'd lost. Not after everything I'd seen.

As I lay there in that hospital bed, the weight of it all pressing down on me, I realized something. The war wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about finding a reason to keep fighting. Finding something—anything—worth holding onto.

And maybe, just maybe, I'd found it.