In the foreground of a wide salt pan lay a quartet of Warthogs, each one loaded and ready to sortie. Lorens approaches his aircraft to inspect the pylons as is routine, but something is a little different about the ordnance his flight is carrying today. All of the bombs have a name stenciled on the side.
"They're the names of our dead," his wingmate elaborates, "All good men and women, many of them civilians. Today, we're going to pay those bastard imps back in full."
Lorens runs his fingers across the letters.
"Make 'em proud, Lars. Do it for them."
For them.
A hand reaches out and rests on his. And then another. And another.
For them.
A writhing mass of hands and limbs weighs down on Lorens, pulling him into the ground. He gasps and cries out for help. Trying to break free, he looks down to see what is binding him: a sea of dead the men and women he killed, their faces and bodies mutilated beyond recognition.
Lorens eventually arrives at the mess hall, albeit in a daze. He shuffles along the food line and wordlessly joins his squadmates and Raiden with a bagel and a cup of coffee.