Doff’s lens cap is somewhere in the mud back there. Shrapnel nicked his ear fin, and now blood’s trickling into his ear. Moony magic buzzes in his teeth.
A flash of color: that idiot overdressed news writer who talked himself into the embed last minute. He’s running all-out like there's moonies right behind him. He’s ten feet away. Five. Two, and Doff reaches out and hauls him down behind Doff’s hillock. “Don’t you know there’s snipers out there?”
“You got to me first, didn’t you?” the guy says, gasping hard, grinning smug as a tuna.
He’s got pretty eyes. Fuck.