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Miss Ana Files 002. Blame"Why didn't he save him? Why was his back turned to Dom?"
I blamed Sam Hana for Dom's death. I asked myself why Dom was the one who had to die. Why was Dom the one who took those bullets and not Sam. It was a long recovery process for me. I was the one who had to tell Dom's parents about his untimely demise. Not Nate, not Hettie or Callen. Me his fiancée. His one true love had to tell his own parents that he died saving someone else.
Dom admired Sam. Kind of like the 'brotherly bond' that two brothers have. Dom tried so hard to impress Sam that he couldn't sleep at night sometimes. He would leave the house the next morning on nothing but coffee.
I am so angry with Sam. I barely speak to him at work unless we are on a case. In that instance, I address him as sir, or yes Mister Hana. Nate can tell that I am very upset with Sam, but at this point I don't care. I don't care about anyone's feelings but my own.
I guess I am the one harming myself. People don't get it. They don
Miss Ana Files 001. What?"What can you say about him?"
That was asked of me two days ago when I was asked about Dominic Vale. He was known as 'Dom' to all of us here at NCIS. We are a special op's team based out of Los Angeles and me I am the rookie. I was transferred here from the DC NCIS. Though I never understood what McGee saw in me I guess that was the good part about staying quiet and a loner.
I am Ana Marie Hunt, but most call me 'Miss Ana'. I am one of those nerdy kinds of people who don't really like to associate with much. I love to be at a computer and I love computer forensics. Which is why I joined NCIS. When I joined the DC team, I knew Catlin Todd. She was murdered and I politely asked for a transfer as I couldn't handle the situation. The Director kindly granted my request and here I am in LA. Now we lost Dom and I don't think I can bear it.
I got to know Dom on a more personal level the most. I didn't take a shine to him at first, mainly due to his education status. I thought he
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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