Someone once said that any luck is good luck, and it is a longstanding belief that good luck is subjective. To some people, though, good luck only exists to others. Those people whom they encounter and are changed for the better or saved from a horribly unpleasant circumstance. He knew that was his lot, and for some reason, he had long since accepted it. This was just one of those instances.

He had come across the impromptu skirmish Just across the trenches, West of Foxtrot Outpost. Some poor soldiers had the misfortune of being found by a Xanx Hive. The huge, volatile Insectoids, rather like huge red spiders, attacked anything without remorse. Command never said if they'd found out where the creatures had come from, and he had no real desire to visit a place that created giant insects.

A scream caught his attention, and his head swiveled rather like a tank turret, and he fixed his gaze on a young man who was pulling his trigger in vain at the huge creature that loomed over him. A thick spittle dripped from it's mandibles, and he already knew he would regret his actions. No time to complain, she hated when he stopped to consider, and his legs burst into a run. The armor was heavy, and the rain had been hard, so the going was slow. Too slow, he thought, and reached deep inside himself to pull something out. He never knew how he did it, but his legs pumped harder.

He was a big man, but not compared to something like what he impacted. The difference was in the momentum. She loved it hard, he reminded himself, especially when the air was cold. His shoulder was probably dislocated, but he didn't have time to care, and the suit pumped morphine into him to dull the pain. He could see the crack in its body. She told him once that she admired how gentle he was, the way he couldn't even kill a spider. He forced his fingers into the crack, and the Xanx bellowed its queer scream, and he forced the wound open. "Sorry Buddy." he said to himself, and jammed a grenade into the hole.

His hand remained firmly jammed in the creatures flank.

She was telling him something. Something funny. He could tell it was funny because she was laughing. He smiled back to her, and she hugged his arm tightly, her golden hair draped haphazardly over her shoulders. She leaned up on the balls of her feat, and whispered into his ear. "Bad luck, huh?"

He woke with a start, and felt a terrible, horrible throbbing in his head. His hand moved instinctively to rub at the pain, and his hand hit something hard and metalic. "Pocking 'ell..." he grumbled, rolling over and pushing himself up. The survivors, the Private he had saved, and two corporals, stood nearby talking amongst themselves. He forced himself to his feet with a loud groan, and realized rather quickly that his left arm was no longer attached. The realization came when he nearly toppled over. The Three men ran quickly to his side to help him, but he brushed them off.

"s-sir?" the Private asked, staring at him goggle eyed. This was probably his first time in the field, and by the gunk covering most of the privates gear, it likely should have been his last.

"Yes?" he responded, looking about casually. His arm seemed to be completely missing this time.

"W-what should we do now?" he asked, looking nervously to the two corperals beside him. He was probably talked into this.

"I'll escort you back to Foreas base and you'll probably be assigned something else. Your Mission will be reassigned. I need a new arm apparently." His Jovial demeanor about the lost appendage seemed to unnerve the three men. She always loved his sense of humor. Without another word, he salute the three men, and started north. With any luck there wouldn't be another skirmish.

Not all luck is good, but it's not all bad either.