Splinter Cell - FanFiction: The Day they took Sam's Voice away...

About Three Months before the Blacklist began...

He was supposed to be out. After what happened in Washington, he had more than earned an out. He was supposed to be gone, retired, away. He was supposed to be with his daughter.Washington, the attack, Grim's team of "Replacement Sams", he was supposed to be done with it. But "it" wasn't done with him, it seemed.

And so here he was, hanging from a pipe in a shadowy corner near the ceiling of a formerly abandoned warehouse, and his left leg just started to cramp up on him. Crap. He really was getting too old for this shit.

It had been one these terrible coincidences usually reserved for video game tie-in novels. An overheard conversation, some suspicious behavior, and suddenly all of Sam's instincts had screamed for him to do something - and so he did. A part of him had been glad to know he hadn't lost his edge. That same part was cowering in shame ever since he had realized that his suspected terrorist plot was nothing more than a small local drug-lab. And although he would never admit it, he was eternally grateful to Grim for not mentioning it, or bailing out on the "mission".

He had contacted Grim - albeit with some reservations - shortly after spotting the "Cell". Their behavior had indicated that something was about to happen, and Sam had forced himself to swallow his pride, and called the woman who had been his friend and handler, who had probably more than once saved his life on a mission with crucial Intel. The last time they saw each other she had shot him. (Granted, she'd had good reasons. And a few days before he had slapped her around a bit, but she had asked for that. Literally.) Still, now he didn't know what she was to him.

Grim, on the other hand, was as professional as always, and more than willing to use Sam once more if it helped prevent a terrorist attack.
"Sam, is there a problem?" she'd said when she picked up. She hadn't even asked who it was.
Hey Grim. Nice to hear your voice, too. How have you been? Faked someone's daughter's death, lately? But who was he kidding. He wouldn't say that. She knew what it would take for him to call her, and time might be of the essence.
"Hey Grim. Nice to hear your voice, too. How have you been? Faked someone's daughter's death, lately?" he said. Well, what do you know? Old dog, new tricks.
"Sam. Is there a problem?" Grim's voice was almost as cold as before, albeit with a hint of annoyance. Sam took a completely childish amount of satisfaction from that.
After he had filled her in, she said: "I can have a Satellite with IR on your location in 30 minutes, a SWAT Team in 35, but from what you have told me, I recommend you go in now."
"I'm not armed." Sam said.
"You have your left arm, and your right arm. I believe you are "armed" enough."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Silence. Then:
"I will stay with you on comms and provide Intel support."

And so she had, trying to get a make on Sam's terrorists, then, when Sam had tracked them to their hideout, providing him with a blue-print layout of the warehouse on his phone and several different paths of entry (a fire escape, a drainage pipe, a window, and he was in). All the while she had been her usual, professional self, even when "terrorism" was revealed to be "small-time meth-cooking" (she did cancel the Infra-Red satellite request, however). It had been Kobin who first named her to Sam as the "Ice Queen", and it might have been one of the most astute things that despicable little creep had ever said.

Thinking of the man who had bragged about killing Sam's daughter, even if just for show, made Sam want to hurt things. "People-Things". And almost as if on cue, one of the drug dealers, a kid no older than 25, a baby, really (my God, had he grown old) went into the corner to take a leak.  Sam's corner. The guy was going to regret that.

"Baby" was dressed in baggy pants, a hoodie, and the obligatory "gangsta"-accessory of a shiny, new Glock in his waistband. What had initially confused Sam into thinking "terrorists" was that Baby, as well as his three Compadres ("Uno", "Dos" and "Tres", each right now "cooking" at one of the three stations in the center of the room with those ridiculous gas-masks on), had a decidedly Middle-Eastern look about them. From the way they talked, though - "Bitch"-this, "Fuck"-that, and all - they were at least second or third generation Americans. As if further support of that theory had been necessary, Baby steadfastly refused to stop texting on his Smart-Phone while "doing his business" one-handed.

Ignoring the cramp in his leg, Sam carefully reversed his position on the pipe - head down, now, with his back to the pipe - then slowly inched towards his unsuspecting prey. It put tremendous pressure on his legs and thighs, but it left his arms free, so he ignored the discomfort. He was going to be sore in any way. He also was definitely out of shape, and that fact irked him to no end.
Closer and closer he got, the shadows masking his dark form from a few casual glances, until Baby happened to look straight up - and straight at him. Sam let go with his legs, sliding down fast the final two yards, then clamped down hard, stopping with Baby`s head within easy reach. A hard punch behind Baby's right ear, and the drug dealer's legs gave out. Releasing and then pushing off with his own legs, Sam somersaulted silently to the ground, managing to catch both Baby and his cellphone before either could crash to the floor and give away his presence. Baby opened his eyes, stunned, but still conscious. Tough little bastard. Sam hit him again, ending consciousness and breaking Baby's nose in the process. He deserved it. Sam had gotten pee on his boots.
For a few seconds he waited, tense, ready to spring into action, Baby's Glock now in his hands. They might be kids, but they had guns, and if they left him no other option he would put them out. But nothing happened. His little takedown drew no reaction. He had to smile. He still had it.

Suddenly, there was something happening, a commotion near the cooking stations, where Uno, Dos and Tres had been busy making new product in the wide-open center of the warehouse. A few frantic shouts, then even more frantic footsteps. Had Sam been detected after all? But no, the steps were running away from him, towards the main entrance, and no sooner had he thought that, than he heard the doors banging open.
"Sam, what's going on?" There was an edge of concern in Grim's voice now. Who knew she cared?
"Something spooked them," Sam growled, speaking for the first time since he had entered the place. "Three of them are running, I-"
Then he spotted it: a broken flask, an overturned Bunsen-burner, bubbling chemicals - and running, panicking Meth-Cookers. He turned, grabbed Baby's limp body and made for the nearest window.
"It's going to bl-"
Some immeasurable force hit him from behind, lifted him up off his feet. The world, or maybe a window, burst into a million pieces. Someone was pouring fire down his throat and his lungs.
Then there was darkness.

There were voices down in that darkness. Faces. The Dead. Men he'd killed, and others whose deaths he couldn't prevent. Doug Shetland, a man who used to be his friend, whom Sam had shot on a rooftop long ago. John Hodge, Killed In Action at Sam's side. Lambert... Lambert, the one who hurt and had hurt him the most. Sarah. Grim. People he didn't know.

Stop. No. Sarah wasn't dead. Nor Grim. What was this? Light. People. People talking.
He tried to focus.
Grim talking. A male voice, a strange voice, answering.

"... was some scarring to... Well, you'll see. We did what we could."
More light, darkness fading. Words he understood, but their meaning didn't register.
"Scarring? What kind of scarring?" Grim's voice again, real concern there. Concern about what?
Then the words did register. Concern about him. And Sam clawed at the darkness, willing his eyes to open, fearing what he might see.
"He's waking up. He's waking up."
It was Grim, her face close to his. Her skin so soft, her hair shiny red silk, and her, so cold, so pretty, a diamond in ice.  Okay. That was not right. He had to stop that crap, right now. He blinked, hard, took a ragged breath. It hurt, and he welcomed the pain, the focus it brought. They must have pumped him full of drugs and pain-killers. He had to watch his mouth.
"Sam? Sam!" Grim was talking to him again, her lips moving, those lips, and Goddammit! he had to focus! He fixed his eyes on her. He tried to nod. It didn't work.
"You`re in a hospital. The Meth-Lab exploded. Do you remember?"
 A flash of light, flying through the air, hitting something hard, flames. He wasn't sure he remembered, wasn't sure he wanted to, but his body sure as hell did.
"You dragged out that kid and you've been caught in the blast. You've been in and out of it for a few days now, but the doctor says you'll be fine." More concern, now, in her voice, on her face, and it was contagious.
"But... the, the... Okay, just... the Doctor's going to remove the bandages from your face, now. Okay?"
Sam tried the nod again, and this time he actually managed to move his head. It hurt, but it helped wake him up, feeling returning to his limbs. An explosion. He'd been caught in an explosion. Hesitantly, he started moving fingers, toes, arms and legs, indescribably relieved to feel everything there and responding.
A new face stepped into view, a man in a lab coat, spectacles, a bow tie.
"Please, do not move now." the Doctor said.
Slowly, carefully, as if at any moment he expected to find pieces of flesh falling off, the Doctor peeled off the bandages. Sam's eyes were fixed on Grim the whole time. Her face would tell him how bad it was. There was hope. Then concern. Then something he never hoped to see in her face, to see in any woman's face: barely concealed horror.
Sam tried to talk, take the initiative, anything to stop feeling this helpless, but his throat felt like it had been strewn with rusty, old razor-blades. The doctor reached out and gave him a small plastic beaker of water, the kind old people use. Sam could barely hold it with both hands. But the cool liquid felt like rain on desert sand, and for a second there, he was in bliss.
Then Grim started talking, calm, composed Grim, talking to him soothingly. He had never been more scared in his life.
"Sam, I- I`m sorry, it's... " She sighed, struggling with or for the words. "I won't lie to you, Sam. It's- it's bad. Your face, it's... it's just like before."
And then she smirked. Grim. A crack in the ice. And Sam decided right then that he might actually grow to like her again. He didn't relish that he had to get blown up for it to happen, but "every silver lining", and so on.
Another snicker, this one louder and less cordial, drew Sam's attention. The man, the kid, stood in a corner, casually leaning against the wall, but his attitude pretty much owned the whole damn hospital. Black, military bearing, late 20s, early 30s, fit. The way he carried himself tried to scream "lethality", but Sam could take him, he knew that. And as soon as he remembered how to move his legs, he would go over there and wipe that smile off his face. Any time, now. Oh, who was he kidding?
Sam grunted wryly, fighting hard not to laugh himself - he knew well that laughing always hurt. He tried talking again, and although still rough, he managed to bring out a few words.
"Yeah, yeah, make fun of the injured-"
Then he stopped. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Grim was staring at him. She had heard it, too.
"What the hell is wrong with my voice?!" His voice. Was this his voice?
Grim's concern suddenly seemed very real.
"What the hell is wrong with his voice?! Doc?"
Sam's eyes fixed on the Doctor, as the man took a tentative step forward, cleared his throat, suddenly somewhat nervous. Sam's eyes will do that.
"Well, both the ventricular and aryepiglottic folds were-" he started.
Grim's face showed slight annoyance at the Doctor's use of medical jargon, but she remained quiet. Sam on the other hand, turned one rough word into a threat.
"Doc."
The Doctor sighed heavily. "You... practically inhaled burning liquid. Which, as most doctors will tell you, is `bad´". He did those air-quotes with his hands when he said "Bad". Sam hated people who did the air-quotes.
"Doc." A death-threat, now. Violent and slow.
Fidgeting, the Doctor started talking, trying to sound indignant, but with more than just a little bit of "apologetic" and "please don't kill me" in his voice. "You burnt your vocal chords. As I said, there was some scarring. We had to... improvise. "
Improvise. "You changed my voice?!" Of course they had, he could hear it well enough.
"We... saved your voice."
Sam felt like hurting things, again.
"You changed my voice." Not a question, now.
"We did what we-"
"You 'Michael Long'-ed my voice!" Sam growled, the anger immediately silencing the blabbering doctor. The anger felt familiar, and now Sam was most definitely awake.
"What with the who, now?" It was the black kid, still trying - and failing - to sound cool and aloof.
Before Sam could vent a bit of his anger at the kid, the Doctor once more tried to defend something he should by any right be proud of having achieved in the first place. "We-"
But Grim laid a hand on his arm, silencing him just as effectively, but a lot more gently, than Sam had. Then she looked at Sam, and he saw something else in her face he didn't like: compassion.
"Sam," she said. "It's... it's not that bad." And yet her voice made it sound pretty damn bad, indeed. "We... we can get used to it... " A pause. Then, quieter, "Eventually..."
"You 'Michael Long'-ed my voice..." that strange voice said again, and it took him a moment to realize it was his voice, his voice like a stranger in his head.
"Who's 'Michael Long'?", the black kid asked. My God, how young was he? Who was he to even be in here?
"Oh, you know." said the voice that might be Sam. "Michael Long, Michael Knight, The Foundation for-" The look that kid gave him then, between confused and amused, fired Sam's anger up again. "Goddammit. Hasselhoff!"
The black kid turned to the Doctor, speaking quietly, but intentionally loud enough for Sam to hear.
"Doc, did he get hit on the head really hard?"
"Oh, shut up." Sam tried to growl, but his voice didn't seem to work that way anymore. It sounded really... young. "And stop making me feel old."
"I don't see how I can..." That grin again. Oh, how Sam wanted to wipe it off the kid's face with something heavy. "I mean, that actually is one of those rare things that are literally biologically impossible."
The fact the kid was even here, meant he was in Grim's confidence. He was important enough to be here. And Sam figured he owed Grim both for the extraction and the medical care. She`d probably even foot the bill.  He considered being grateful and diplomatic for almost a full second. For Sam, that was a very long time.
"Listen up, kiddo-", he said, and the way he said that last word immediately made the little guy square up and bristle. Sam smiled.
Then the Doctor stepped in, and Sam had to respect the man's courage to put himself between two so obviously dangerous men. Or maybe he was just stupid. With smart people, that's hard to tell, sometimes.
"Alright." the Doctor said, regaining a little authority. "The patient needs rest."
Sam didn't think so. "The patient needs a blunt object to teach today's youth an object lesson in respect." he growled, and was inwardly glad that despite the higher pitch, it sounded menacing enough. He hoped.
The Kid of course, didn't back down, either. "Who are you again?" he asked, taunting Sam. "Your face is familiar, but the voice is all wrong..."
"That's enough, both of you!" And there she was again, the Ice Queen, asserting her authority. "Sam, you do need rest. Briggs? You will shut up. Doc?" she said, turning to the Doctor. "Take good care of him." Sam had a few choice words on his lips about who'd need taking care, but bit them back when she added: "He's still needed." Yes, he might really start to like her again.
She squeezed Sam's hand, with a smile, then she and the Kid - Briggs, his name was Briggs, Sam had to remember that. Grim and Briggs left, and then the Doctor began talking about treatment options and rehab, but Sam wasn't listening. He suddenly felt very tired.

He was getting old. He knew it would happen, had thought he would welcome it happening. He thought he had wanted to be out, but if he was honest with himself, retirement was driving him crazy. There was nothing in the world like being out there on the razor's edge between life and death. And if there`s one thing he had learned on that latest "mission", it was that he missed the weight of his tri-focals on his head. The real ones. Not that Sonar-Thing.
But was he still sharp enough? It wasn't like he had just put up a stellar performance. After all, here he was, an old man in a hospital bed. Or was he? He wasn't that old. Harrison Ford had made that horrible Indiana Jones 4 (that scene with the fridge really didn't make any sense), and he was what, then? 66? And let's not forget Sean Connery ("My right thumb. Left one's much too powerful for you." Classic.)
Maybe he could shape up again. Maybe hit up Victor for a job. Maybe do some consulting. Maybe...

This short story is fan-fiction. It was written for fun and enjoyment, and, as such, is not exactly part of the official "Canon". To find out what happens next, go play Splinter Cell: Blacklist.


All Characters and Trademarks are owned by their respective owners.

For all your PS4 or Xbox One needs, especially the European needs, head over to Amazon UK - best deals in Europe (mostly). For TV or Movie Streaming needs, as well. Yes, I do buy there myself. Exclusively. Unless I find a better deal, elsewhere... 

Fireflies of World War II

A long-a$$ f*cking time ago, in a town called Kickapoo, there was a TV show that blazed like a fiery comet in the night - until it was snuffed by ungrateful fans and terrible support by its network home.

Firefly was Joss Whedon's unique vision of science fiction, and probably the very best science fiction series since The Next Generation. If you're into Sci-Fi at all, and don't mind the kind of smart humor that is Whedon's trademark, you owe it to yourself to watch the Firefly TV-Series and the following movie "Serenity". Those that know will agree. Those that don't know need to change that.

About two years ago, I tried to apply as a writer to an online MMORPG focused on the tank warfare of World War II. One of the application requirements was a WWII tank short story, and during my research into the subject I came upon a variation of the venerable Sherman Tank - nicknamed "The Firefly".

I never finished my application. Instead I wrote a piece of Firefly Fan Fiction, with a somewhat familiar crew in somewhat unfamiliar circumstances...

„We cannot get out,” the dark voice said, ominously. “A shadow lurks in the dark. We cannot get out. They are com-“
“I swear, by all that is holy,” said another voice, less ominous, but impressively irritated, “should those words escape your mouth one more time, I will personally stuff your entire being into the breech, fire you towards the Jerries and take my chances with a court martial.”
“I would like to think you’d receive a medal”, said a third voice, this one belonging to Trooper “Chaplain” Book, the crew’s loader.
“Not unless he dies, I won’t”, complained Sgt. Malachi Reynolds, his words still heavy with irritation. “He survives, they’ll probably take me to The Hague. Crimes of War against the Germans, and all.”
“Now why would I do that?” asked the owner of the first voice in a slightly teasing tone.
“Do what now?” asked Reynolds.
“Survive.” said Trooper Wilbur Washburne.
“Just to spite me. Now shut up. There’s shadows lurking in the dark.” Despite his gruff voice, Reynolds’s mouth was grinning beneath the binoculars as he scanned the countryside for German tanks. Washburne, annoying wise cracks notwithstanding, was arguably one of the best drivers of the War, and Reynolds was, for the most part, lucky to have him. Unfortunately, their Firefly Tank was in no condition to drive. Even worse, Washburne had been right. They could indeed not get out.

It had been one of those things that shouldn’t happen in real life. 15 hours ago, their troop came under artillery fire. Encased in their hull-down position with earthen berms on all sides, they were not free to maneuver, and it had cost them. One shell came close enough that the ensuing explosion knocked off one of their tracks. Only seconds later another shell hit directly from above, impacting just aft of the main hatch. It was a dud. And still it did enough damage to take them out of the fight. It was a dud, it struck like the fist of God and by rights they should all be dead. Yet, locked in his tank with three other male human beings of questionable body hygiene for almost 15 hours now, Reynolds debated if he should indeed be grateful.

On impact, the shell had bent the entry hatch beyond repair, then continued downwards and embedded itself in the bustle, the armored box that had, until recently, housed the tank’s radio equipment on the back of the turret. They were immobilized, trapped and cut off from communications. And when the dust had settled, they found out they were alone. The rest of their troop had by now moved into their new positions further south, near a small French village overlooking (French) Interstate 158, and with intermittent fire still coming from the German Artillery, nobody would come looking for them for quite some time. It had been too long already.

“Mr. Cobb. There’s an awful amount of quietness emitting from your station.” Reynolds remarked, still surveying their surroundings.
“Ain’t nothin’ to shoot, ain’t nothin’ to talk about.” Trooper FC Cobb, the crew’s gunner, replied darkly. Cobb, maybe not the brightest crayon in the box but easily the most colorful; was one hell of a marksman, but he wasn’t prone to conversing about the finer things in life. As Cobb liked to say: ”Too hard to talk over the shootin’.”
“He just warms my heart. Doesn’t he just warm your heart?” The soft voice of Washburn came from the driver’s seat with an audible smirk. It was followed by the unmistakable sound of a Zippo lighter opening.
“Could light you up, too.” Cobb’s voice was a menacing growl.
“I believe it is the Lord’s light that guides and warms us from within. It should be quite enough.” Chaplain Book interjected, diffusing the situation smoothly by mentioning the Almighty. Nobody argued with the Big Shepard. Book was a black man, and as such uncommon in tanks, but to Reynolds and his crew that didn’t matter. He was on the crew. He had fought and bled with his crew, and not one of them would hesitate to give their lives for Book. To his crew, the only color of importance was the red of their blood and the green of their uniform. Well, it had started out as green. By now it was more of a brownish color.

“Not to question the Almighty’s warm touch, but how about we launch some good ol’ fashioned mortal fire into the oncoming Hunnish Hordes?” Reynolds’s eyes twinkled as he turned away from the binoculars. He shrugged, with a grin. “Just in case…”
The atmosphere inside the tank changed in an instant. Gone was the laconic manner, replaced by cold efficiency. Well, except for Washburn, who still had nothing he could do and simply started muttering darkly in his driver’s seat.
“Target: Six, no Seven. Look like Tigers. Some Panzers and Artillery, too. Coming up from the south on 158.” Reynolds said, again looking through the binoculars.
Cobb swiveled the main turret until it pointed to the south-west. “I see ‘em. Range?”
“I’d say… 2600 yards?” replied Reynolds.
“I’d say so, too.” agreed Cobb.
“Long shot. Think you can do it?”
“Vera can do it.” Cobb said confidently, fondly patting the tank’s inside hull. Weapons of death and destruction were one of the few things Cobb openly showed affection for. That, and the women he preferred, the ones that don’t mind not being asked their name or not being kissed on the mouth.

“And yet it was you I was asking.” Reynolds voice was calm, his eyes locked onto the distant column of approaching German tanks. The question was not one of trivia. The effective range of the Firefly’s 17 pounder 3-inch main cannon against the thickly armored Tiger tanks was measured in hundreds of yards. This would be the better part of two miles, and only a perfect hit at the joint of turret and body would even have a chance of penetrating.
“Vera can do it.” Cobb repeated, his emphasis on the name he had given their tank’s main gun, indicating that she was the only questionable part of their intended long-range attack.
“Then who are we to stand in her way. Loader, load one.”
Book turned, took one of the Armour Piercing, Capped, Ballistic Capped (APCBC) shells from the rack and held it in his hands for a moment. “May the Lord guide you on your path.” he softly whispered to the shell, then jammed it into the breech to his right. “Loaded One, ready.”
“I’ll just sit here and do nothing then.” Washburne said dejectedly.
“And do it amazingly well despite the lack of qualification.” said Reynolds, still staring through the binoculars. He was waiting. If he remembered the designated alternate locations correctly, the German tanks would pass right in front of their fellow A and C squadrons, now concealed within the forest overlooking the road. Their commander would wait until the Germans had come well within firing range before opening up. It would do no good for Reynolds to spoil the surprise.

When it happened, it happened fast. A and C squadrons opened fire and the German tanks vanished behind a thick veil of smoke, earth and dust.
“Permission to Kill, Sergeant?” Cobb growled eagerly.
“Why, so nice of you to ask. Kill away, Mr. Cobb.”
What followed were almost 15 minutes of one-sided excitement. Relegated to the essential role of artillery – although Cobb’s proficiency with the gun made it more of a sniper rifle – it fell to Book to load, Cobb to shoot and Reynolds to call out targets, while Washburne sat in his seat, and tried to read the loose-leafed fantasy manuscript he had bought from some Brit writer during their short stay in England several months ago and could not stop quoting from.

The only exciting moment came when one of the Tigers tried to lead the German elements into a flanking attack. The Tiger’s commander evaded the incoming attacks with astounding skill, deftly hiding behind smoking wrecks, then popping out to fire a few deathly accurate shots, all the while leading the remains of his force closer towards the exposed Allied flank.
“Mr. Cobb?” for the first time Reynolds’s voice had an edge of concern to it.
“I have him.”
“Loaded, ready. Righteous.” Book had a way with words.
“Speed about 15 miles, going north, north-east. Range… 2400 yards.” Reynolds called out, his experienced eyes quickly evaluating the situation.
The tank bucked, the enormous muzzle flash briefly blinding the entire crew. The shell left the muzzle at a velocity of almost 4000 feet per second, travelling in a shallow path from the elevated barrel towards a spot a scant fifteen yards in front of the moving Tiger Tank. 1.8 seconds later, the shell had traversed over 2419 yards and hit the Tiger, who in the same time had covered just these fifteen yards, right in the weak spot beneath the turret. It plunged through the 60mm thick armor with ease, exploding inside the tight compartments and shredding the German soldiers in fire and shrapnel.
“I have him,” Cobb said again, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. Weapons and Women.

With their leader vanquished, the rest of the German forces fell into disarray and quickly followed his example of horrible death. Even their counterattack later in the day lacked the clear determination and skill of that one tank commander, who might have turned the tide of the battle if not for Cobb’s magnificent shot.

After all was said and done, Cobb claimed six kills, five of those the dreaded Tiger tanks. He was credited with none. Apparently, the German commander leading the flanking attempt was an infamous tanker ace with over 90 kills, and it was decided at a higher level that the prestige of the kill would fall to some half-blind gunner in A squadron – who happened to be the son of a cousin of some senator or other – and not to the gunner of the outlaw crew that accepted a black man as one of their own, claiming to have made the shot from a ridiculous distance. But Reynolds didn’t mind. It wasn’t his way. He had not come into this godforsaken country to become a hero. He had come to fight a war, against the purest evil the world had seen in his lifetime. That was the plan. And it was a good plan. Also, he knew that Cobb would most definitely not let it go, and he could only imagine the pain that politically connected young gunner was about to be subjected to.

But that was still days away. For now, Reynolds and his crew were still trapped inside their tank, with nothing to do but wait for someone to find and rescue them. Cobb had wanted to send some shells into the French village, arguing that would surely get some attention, but in the light of them being here to actually help those poor Frenchmen, Reynolds thought it counterproductive. And so they waited.

“The hatch is shut,” said Washburne in that same dark and ominous voice. “It was made by those who smell dead, and there it will keep them. The hatch is shut…”

For more of Joss Whedon's fabulous creations, check out "Dr.Horrible's Sing-a-Long Blog", "Dollhouse" and his legendary run on Marvel's "Astonishing X-Men". Oh, and that "Avengers" movie was pretty good, too.