If the grubs didn't do it soon, I was going to kill Sanders myself. Here we were inside the mother of all emergence holes, and this fucking joker still managed to prioritize juggling my last nerve. I knew as soon as the antics began that he was going to try and make it twice as hard for me to be able to see the sun again. My entire goal was to survive. I saw myself back on the surface, above these scaly subterranean savages and the needlessly petty behavior of some insecure Gear.

Not Sanders. He wanted to compete. This guy seemed to honestly think I stood in the way of him being recognized. In truth, I couldn't have given less of a damn about earning some kind of medal or being noticed by the COG brass. It was the wrong train of thought to have down here in the hollows. I wanted to live but Sanders was clearly on a path to destruction. It was just a matter of time before he did something stupid enough to get us both killed and no way was I sticking around for that.

A drone broke from cover, ducked low and sprinted over to the rockworm that was protecting me. In response, I squeezed the trigger of my Mk. 2 Lancer until a stream of bullets brought the creature to its knees. Perfect. I set my Lancer down for a second, then equipped an ink grenade and waited. When another drone ran out into the open to help his pal, I lobbed it and laughed as a black, poison smoke cloud enveloped them both. When the smoke cleared, I could see them sprawled out on the floor, unmoving.

"Ha! How'd that taste ya dumb sumbitches?"

I looked over at the grubs approaching Sanders on the left and couldn't believe it. This man was about to be overrun by boomers. Butchers to be exact. The giant cleavers they carried dripped with what I assumed to be the blood of some other Gears who had the misfortune of encountering them before we did. Sanders himself was crouched behind a stack of sandbags, fumbling with a Gnasher. It was priceless. This is exactly what I thought would happen. For the slightest of instants, I considered letting him dig himself out of this one. Guy spent all that energy telling me how to do my job, here was his chance to show me how it's done.

Our grindlift had landed pretty far down into the hollow. We were way below the rest of the COG and out of radio contact. Before Sanders and I could set out for higher ground, we got ambushed by Locust responders and had to fight through four consecutive waves of the bloodthirsty bastards. Felt more like eight waves, honestly. It took way longer than it needed to. I would methodically take down each individual grub attacking from my side with two goals in mind. Immediate goal? Clear a path. Ultimate goal? Make it back to the surface. Survive.

Any time I looked over at Sanders on the other hand, it didn't look like he wanted to survive or at least expend very much ammo. He was always either trying to keep his head down behind cover or shouting over at me to assist him, who I should and shouldn't kill, even what goddamned weapon I should be using for Pete's sake. I saw him return fire like twice. The better I did, the more he looked at his own situation in comparison and tried to find fault in me rather than himself. Can you believe that crap? What was stopping him from fighting as hard as I was? I could not fathom the nerve of this guy, getting pissed at me for not assisting him literally every time I reloaded when he was barely even assisting himself. All of his shortcomings were suddenly my fault. It was hard enough dealing with these Locust freaks without a mentally underdeveloped human being riding my back like I'm some kind of beast of burden.

That wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was the constant, needless, hypocritical backseat driving. Like when we (I) had to clear the second wave. Nothing but wretches seemed to be showing up and I found it tough trying to cut through their numbers with my Lancer, so instead of continuing to struggle like Sanders, I pullet out my Gnasher and had a much easier go of it.

So of course Sanders takes the time to pull his out and start yelling over at me, "Shotguns! Use your shotgun dumbass!"

Now, I love receiving helpful advice. Especially the life saving kind. However, I'm not the type of guy who particularly enjoys being advised to do something I'm already doing. It's blindingly frustrating even under the best of circumstances. When I've got Wretches leaping around trying to kill me and Sanders uses what little focus I have to listen to his callouts as an opportunity to claim my tactic as his own original idea and regurgitate it back to me in an unwarranted derogatory manner, it's enough to raise my blood pressure several notches all on its own. I didn't know if this idiot expected a cookie or a smack in the mouth.

As I stood watching the butchers close in on Sanders, I more seriously considered just making a break for it. These were the results of his own choices. Had he have just focused on clearing the Locust reinforcements on his side while I focused on clearing those on my side, this predicament would never have even come into existence. This was entirely avoidable but he wanted to let childish envy get the better of him. Whenever Sanders saw me clearing drones and boomers and wretches alike faster than he was, he'd try to change my tempo. Which is what got him in the fix he now found himself in. He told me to only focus on the drones and I obliged. I blazed through my extra servings faster than a homeless man at a five-star Thanksgiving dinner, but Sanders wasn't able to pick up the extra slack he'd taken on. I didn't have it in me to feel sorry for him. His stupid bullshit had backfired on him in the worst possible.

All that for what? To try and slow me down? Because he was intimidated by my efficiency? What was the logic in trying to pull me down to his level instead of rising up to mine? Hopelessness? Perhaps Sanders didn't truly believe that we could make it to the surface and simply didn't want to die alone down here. As in, if he wasn't going to make it, then I shouldn't be allowed to. Misery does love company. I however hadn't subscribed to such a bleak future being solid reality for me. This fool wanted to throw in the towel and that was fine, but I was going to rise from the depths and make it to the top. And there wasn't anyone down here, friend or foe, stop me. I couldn't let Sanders and hiss lack of ambition hold me back. I refuse to stay in a situation where my loyalty goes unappreciated.

I leapt over the rockworm and ran down the cleared passageway ahead of me as the crowd of butchers surrounded Sanders and chopped him to pieces.