Reclamation rings out with every shot. Little by little, with the delicacy of an archeologist’s brush we take back our city, our rifles lining the ridges. The sand puffs delicately into the air to fall another day with every pull of my trigger. My team, though, fires with a purpose aiming for those that will fall today, must fall today – or we will fall tomorrow. Soldering and cementing our inevitable victory in this glass furnace we press forward from the ridge. Raw and red, the ground blisters in the heat and it will only get worse for those who enter this crucible. We churn them and burn them. Our will alone forces them to abscond; snatching the lives they owe us as they scurry back from the dunes. For centuries these sands have been red with our blood, baked into the walls that rise as a backdrop to our conquest, but the mortar that sustains us is one of desperation. We burn bright, fused as one, and it is our undoing. Fireteam - they call us a fireteam for we are that volatile element that gives life and takes it away. Today we do no more than take it from all. As the sand shifts their tide turns. Our inevitable rise has been too fast and down we slip, sliding on the blood we have spilt. We have eaten through the fuel that sustains us where once we walked with impunity. Down into the desolation we have stridden only to find our demise. Our guns fall silent as they sputter and choke to a stop. The kiln is quiet before the door shuts on us, yet we know it will be glorious and golden for we are a fireteam and it is here that we were made Legend.