They spent the majority of the drive talking about Henry Rollins.

It started with his role in "Johnny Mnemonic" but soon encompassed "The Spoken Word" and his music. Jamie Compton was one of the few people that West would ever call a friend.

They were both serving as "military advisors"; in a year, that label would be unnecessary as the US began a "police action". One of them gathered information on insurgent action, the other was a trained sniper.

Military advisors.

It was pure chance that re-united them, "battle buddies" from Army OSUT, spending eleven months of being treated like shit together. At the end, Jamie's prowess with a rifle had fast-tracked him to Benning for SOC Sniper training. West had gone to Panama for Pathfinder School.

That same prowess had caught more than the Army's eye: it had also caught a new KingMaker's. As they wrote and called when able, keeping track of one another, a Gambit was being considered. Would Jamie Awaken a Mastigos? An affinity for spacial relationships that was uncanny was one trademark. Or an Obrimos? Intrinsically understanding kinetics and the force vectors that affected an object was another.

It had taken weeks, both in planning and subtle nudges of Fate's tapestry to orchestrate. And here they were.

The KingMaker saw the Sybil's sign; half-shadows of fluttering wings like carrion crows, and he motioned to the car. They operated in a hazy, indistinct morass of international diplomacy and local jurisdiction, but had the authority to bird dog for the locals. A cheap red dome light was switched on, and the small car obediently pulled to the side.

"One of my assets," West said casually. "Go give him a scare and I'll be right behind." He said it with a laugh, and the same mischievous grin that had hallmarked some of their pranks in training.

"Hua," Jamie replied with a matching grin. "I'll give him the Rollins crazy eye!" He glared at West with the arched eyebrow half-turned manic intensity that Rollins had trademarked, and got out.

West ran his fingers through his hair, his heart was pounding, and his senses on edge as he pushed his pawn to the eighth rank.

He watched his friend approach, and lean over the driver's window.

Watched as the impact of bullets lifted Jamie off of his feet before throwing him to the ground.

Watched the car speed away.

Cold sweat and nausea warred within as he ran to his fallen friend. The blood was everywhere; ruddy mud in the tan dirt, black stains on the camouflage, crimson sprays on pale skin, pink bubbles welling up from shaking lips.

He waited for it to happen, for an Awakening, even as he tried to staunch the bleeding and pleaded with Jamie. It wasn't supposed to be like this. This wasn't supposed to happen. Confused, glazed eyes rolled around to find his, and brows furrowed. A spray of blood wet West's face as the other man coughed to speak.

"You knew."

West tried to deny it even as the other man struggled to ask why, tried to deny it as his friend died.

He held the body as he screamed out in rage and denial, railed at the Fates who had spawned him.

Months later, when he met Severn at the airport, he understood. He hadn't forgiven but he understood. He understood failure.

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