<em>Bullets whizzed by his head for the tenth time that day, they had been chasing several rebels in the southern mountains of Afghanistan, their orders take no prisoners. He had already seen several of his brothers in arms fall and had vowed to kill each and every one of their prey. He stepped out from the rocky outcrop he had been using for cover, firing at the nearby position, killing at least one of them, when a bullet grooved a path running across his left bicep, it stung, but he was used to pain. <br/><br/>They fought for many more hours after this incident, the battle finally culminating in the deaths of the remaining rebels. They had set up camp for the night in one of the caves they had discovered and Shane ‘Mars’ Marshall had retired to a smaller cave to catch a few winks. </em><br/><br/>He awoke what seemed liked hours later in a dark and dingy room, his dog tags still around his neck, in a pair of dirty blue overalls. “What the fuck?” he exclaimed out loud, immediately reaching for the gun he always kept at his side only to find it absent. He crept off the bed, doing a quick sweep of the room, only to find no exits or windows. He found the washroom, not very impressed though better than the latrines he was used, grabbed some of the rations from the nearby table, ripping them open, he began eating. “Damn, these are worse than usual,” he looked for an expiration date, but no luck.<br/><br/>Pissed, he kicked one of the crates across the room, the wood scraping against the floor, he had hoped this was some type of trick, but now realized the gravity of his situation. He looked down at the number, “543967” and wondered its significance as he pushed a crate against the wall, taking a seat.